I'm Having More Fun Than You (7 page)

Some guys have complained to me that documenting stories like this, and in general revealing our tricks of the trade, both makes us look bad and destroys our competitive advantage. I disagree. On the contrary, I believe that the more informed a woman is, the more approachable she becomes. Besides, flirting really isn’t about trickery or subterfuge. Chicks aren’t stupid; they know what we’re doing for the most part. It’s all a carefully choreographed dance that girls choose to engage in willingly. After all, it takes two to play this game.

O
ne-night stands have traditionally been stigmatized as inappropriate sexual behavior. But as our generation gets married later and stays single longer, there are certain, well, needs that have to be met. Whether it’s an inebriated, emotionless encounter or a longer-term, casual hook-up, getting laid is no longer something to be ashamed of. In fact, when done with the right person (i.e., someone with more important things to do than worry about why you didn’t call the next day, or month) sex is something to be proud of—a stress-relieving experience between two consenting adults and an endless source of barroom tales for a guy to share with his friends. For happily single men and women approaching thirty, hooking up is less about one party taking advantage of the other, and more about a mutual desire to blow off some steam. This tacit agreement to give in to our basest instincts while pledging to remain unattached is the naked truce. From late-night booty texts to morning-after escapades, the quest to lay pipe then escape unscathed occupies the majority of our time and energy. Is it worth it? Is mindless and often unsatisfying sex better than no sex at all? Single people ponder these dilemmas with each other, though often the answer to these questions is simply another question: “Wanna get out of here?”

GREAT EXPECTATIONS

Since time immemorial, the phrase “Let’s go back to my place and watch a movie” has been code for “Let’s have sex within the next forty to fifty minutes.” To this day, my Netflix account is simply a list of films I’ve only seen half of. My pants come off and I’m like, “OK, send this one back to the top of the queue!” The first time a girl goes home with a guy, she’ll often try to be stern and lay down the law as to how far the hook-up is gonna go. One of my all-time favorite scenarios occurs when I’ve been hitting on a girl all night and throwing every piece of game I have at her. When I finally get her home, and we start hooking up, she pauses, looks at me, and whispers, “Just so you know, I’m not sleeping with you.” But instead of being dejected, I’m elated because now I know at least I’m getting a blow job.

When a guy and girl are casually hooking up, it is expected that each encounter should build on the previous one. If you let me dabble in your pants last time, I expect you to dabble in mine this time. One of the most confusing situations for a guy is when a girl who has previously gone down on him will now barely touch him. Our brains cannot process this reversal of fortune. The whole reason I called you was because I knew that, even in the worst-case scenario, I’d at least be getting head. Now you’re saying I should take you to dinner? I’m not following.

This same line of reasoning can be applied to sex once the relationship has made it that far. It’s all about momentum. The first go-round you often stick to standard missionary. The second time, girl-on-top gets thrown into the mix. The third stint introduces doggie, and so forth. Eventually you start anticipating your partner’s moves to the point where it almost becomes boring. This is called “marriage.”

The go-to excuse for women who want to put the brakes on a hook-up is, of course, menstruation. It’s like Kryptonite to my penis. A lot has been said about women faking orgasms. Eh, I’m not that impressed. To me, a woman’s true power lies in her ability to fake a period. If a girl wants to stop me dead in my tracks, all she has to do is say the
word
“period.” Plus, chicks can use the same excuse over and over again because we’re never going to call them out on it. I had a girl pull the P-card on me twice only three weeks apart. I started to think that either she didn’t want to sleep with me or I didn’t pay very good attention in high school health class.

BE PREPARED

For bachelors, preparedness begins at home. Impeccable personal hygiene is a must to ensure success with the ladies. Which is why I always trim downstairs. This area needs to be as well-groomed and welcoming as possible. In fact, I shave my boys with the same buzzer I use to shave my face. I’m not sure why women shudder when I admit this. What’s the big deal? Those are the two cleanest parts of my body. Personal grooming is a two-way street, however. Ladies, I don’t care what you read in
Cosmo
or saw on
Sex and the City.
When in doubt, trim. This is what sophisticated, single men prefer. I have never, ever heard a guy complain to me that a girl he hooked up with had too
little
hair down there. This ain’t 1968.

Music is another key component to a proper naked powwow—not only because it sets the mood but also because it muffles moans and thus discourages inhibition. Even if it’s not the music you listen to on a daily basis, skilled bachelors maintain dedicated playlists for the right occasions—set to shuffle and repeat all. For instance, I mostly listen to hip hop and Top 40, but the two most-played artists on my iTunes are Jack Johnson and John Legend. And I’ve never listened to either of them alone, clothed, or sober.

If I’m on tour or on vacation, I still remain diligent. I’ve learned that I often lose my hotel key, and the time it takes to request a replacement is ample time for a girl to get cold feet. When I check in, I always request a second key and leave it in an envelope at the front desk for a “friend”—that friend being drunk me five hours later. Also, though it seems counterintuitive, a suite or luxurious room is not always the best bet. Oftentimes I simply request the smallest room with one big bed. I call it the “nowhere to go but bang” option.

My personal favorite move is to go to the bathroom as soon as we get back to my place, take off my belt, and hide it in the bathtub. In my entire history of being sexually active, no girl has ever picked up on it. The brilliance of this is that it helps eliminate barriers to entry. If a girl is contemplating touching my junk, I don’t want any possible roadblocks standing in her way, belt included.

PROTECTION

Recently I was using the unisex bathroom in an office building when I noticed there was a twenty-five-cent tampon dispenser on the wall. Fair enough—chicks need that shit. But right next to it was a twenty-five-cent condom dispenser. I mean, I guess you can argue that both tampons and condoms can be needed in an emergency. But that really all depends on your definition of “emergency.”

Condoms are a very necessary evil, and I carry them whenever I leave the house after dusk. Discretion is always paramount, however. For instance, if I take a girl home from the bar, even if we go back to
her
place, it’s expected that
I’ll
have a condom. What respectable single guy wouldn’t? But it’s best not to reveal how respectable you are too soon. I was once at a cocktail party, hitting on the chick sitting next to me on the sofa. When I went to grab my phone out of my pocket, a condom fell out too. The girl looked at me with such disdain as the condom just sat between us for a moment, taunting me. I had little use for it that night.

I was going through security at LAX once and a TSA worker was reminding travelers to remove all coins, keys, and credit cards from their pockets. When it was my turn, the guy repeated his mantra, only this time he said, “Please remove all coins, keys, credit cards, and condoms from your pockets.” I did a double take. First of all, can condoms actually set off the metal detector? Second of all—and more importantly—do I just
look
like the kind of dude who carries condoms onto an airplane? Granted, that was the look I was going for, but I didn’t think I could pull it off. It was like being put on a watch list for the mile-high club.

Despite the bother of choosing, buying, and carrying condoms, I always practice safe sex. But I still hate it. I lose all sensation. I put a condom on and all of a sudden I’m in that Gatorade commercial. I’m like, “Is it in you?” And there’s nothing worse than
thinking
I’m fucking, only to look down to see that I’m actually penetrating the space between the girl’s ass and the mattress. Sometimes it just happens. I can’t tell, especially if they’re nice sheets. When I hook up with a girl and the next day my friend asks me how the sex was, I brag, “The thread count was fantastic.”

CLOTHES ENCOUNTERS

My buddy went home with this girl once, and when he tried to take her pants off, she said, “No, wait, you can’t. It’s a long story.” Ladies, if you don’t want us to take your pants off, don’t say “long story.” Believe me, you don’t want to let guys’ imaginations run wild. When my buddy told me what happened, I said to him, matter-of-factly, “Well, obviously she has a cock.” He started freaking out. I was like, “What other explanation could there be? Long story short, she has a penis.”

I’ve always hated getting naked with a girl. I love
being
naked with a girl, just not the effort it takes to get there. First of all, I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve never taken off a bra with one hand. Sorry, can’t do it. I’ve actually watched several YouTube videos on the subject. I still have no idea. If that wasn’t bad enough, these skinny jeans are now all the rage. They are the bane of my existence. They are impossible to get off without one, if not both participants breaking a sweat. What I’d like to see next season is girls’ jeans that rip off like basketball warm-ups. But I’ll settle for boot cut.

Nothing is more disappointing to me than seeing a girl’s thong on the floor. It’s just so insubstantial—I feel like I worked so hard to get that sucker off and what does it do as soon as it hits the floor? Curl up in a little ball like it’s frightened. It looks like one of those Shrinky Dinks we used to put in the oven when we were kids. A thong on the floor blends in and disappears like camouflage. The girl asks me if I see her underwear anywhere and I say, “I can’t find it. All I see is this candy wrapper.” She’s like, “No, that’s it.”

When I moved from New York to Los Angeles, I joked that I was coming to LA to further my comedy career and for the opportunity to touch fake breasts for the first time. Maybe I’m naïve, but to me, fake breasts fall into that same category as strange piercings and tattoos—if a girl’s got ’em, clearly she likes to get down. I mean, no chick with an eyebrow ring has ever said, “You can’t take my pants off. It’s a long story.” When I finally did touch my first pair of fake breasts, I was kind of disappointed. They were, like, little Cs. If you’re gonna get fake breasts, you should be walking around with weapons of mass destruction. Fuck little Cs, you should have triple Zs. Your breasts should be so big you’re living in the bell tower at Notre Dame, that’s how much of a hunchback you are.

I once hooked up with a girl who had her own eyes tattooed on the middle of her back. That’s right—the tattoo artist sketched her eyes, and then made a tattoo of them. But it wasn’t a tramp stamp—you could only see the tattoo if she was topless and had her back to you. I like to believe this girl got the tattoo for the sole purpose of creating the illusion that you’re looking into her eyes while banging her from behind—which of course defeats the whole purpose of doggie style.

HOOKED UP