[Editor’s Note: This is the first column by our resident hot babe, Chet Siegel. Enjoy!]
I turned down the first kiss offered to me. A very sweaty boy walked me home and said, “This is the part where my friend says I should shove my tongue down your throat to reaffirm my masculinity.” Until that moment, he’d seemed like a bright albeit sweaty boy. When he leaned in for the tongue-shoving, I realized I did not want to positively reinforce his douchey behavior. That was the day my standards were born. Not all passes are completed, fellas. Here are 10 reasons why.
I’m really full. You can’t expect me to split nachos, wings, fries, and a pitcher of cheap beer and then hook up with you. You don’t pound a burrito then go for a run. It’s just common sense.
Your balls aren’t clean. If I can smell your junk, I’m not gonna touch it. There’s an unmistakable tangy, mildewy ball smell your man parts acquire at the end of a long day or an even longer night. It happens, you’re human. Please shower. Then try again.
I forgot to take my birth control pill and I know we don’t have condoms. This is, of course, assuming we’ve both been tested and we’re a thing. Maybe I left my pills in my other purse, or at yoga, or I just forgot. We both know you’re not going to walk to the bodega and the pull out method is not as effective as anyone wants it to be. Do you want to go dutch on the morning after pill? Didn’t think so.
I just got a bikini wax. After a bikini wax, the sadistic waxing lady gives me a mirror to look at it and it scars me every time. It’s a Troma film down there. I need time to heal. Give me 24 hours and some hydrocortisone cream and then we’ll be good to go.
You’re drunk and I’m not. Sad fact – 90% of hetero hookups end with a male orgasm. If you’re drunk, this can take hours. And not in the indulgent Sunday-afternoon-and-my-roommate’s-in-Boston kind of way. When we hookup and you’re drunk, I wake up chaffed and frustrated the next morning.
I just got off the phone with my dad. Give it an hour or so. It puts a mental block on things for a bit.
You went straight for my genitals. Sometimes this works, but most of the time it’s just jarring. Try at least one other move before you grab at my chocha.
We just watched a really screwed up movie. Perhaps it was that Terry Gilliam film where a little girl lives alone with a dead, decomposing Jeff Bridges. Maybe it was a particularly harrowing Vice documentary about preteen warlords. Whatever it was, it killed my libido.
I don’t like you.Your iPhone lock screen is Kate Upton and you called our waitress, “babesauce.” You said “ex-squeeze-me” when you burped. You don’t know who the Secretary of State is and you’re not hot enough for me to let it slide. I’m gonna have to pass.
BECAUSE YOU SAID YOU’RE TIRED! Admit it. How many times have I tried to get something going and you’ve pretended to be asleep? How often have you silenced a booty call? Or said you had a headache when in reality you jerked yourself dry earlier that day? You’re just as bad as I am.