The Stripper Doesn't Really Like You

It’s a common misconception that women are the sex living in a dream world. Sure, some women enjoy reading cheesy romance novels (myself not included), and even more enjoy a good romantic comedy (guilty as charged on this one)---but men live in WAY more of a fantasy world than women can even conceive.

I will say one sentence:

All men think they’re James Bond.

Even men know this is true. They will laugh, but they laugh because it’s true.

I once worked for a restaurant manager whose “secret” code on the company computer was “007”.

Yes. I rolled my eyes.

Nice enough fellow, but short, bad skin, no real personality, closeted homosexual---yet, in his fantasy world he was still “Bond. James Bond.”

And pickpockets, take note: the easiest way to steal a bunch of wallets is to go into a men’s locker room and try turning the combination locks to 0-0-7.

You can thank me later.

Why this sudden fascination with the male fantasy world, you might ask?

Well, the other day, I was hit on by a NYC Street Sweeper.

Again.

Yes, more than one middle-aged man doing court-mandated community service, wearing a red jumpsuit and pushing a garbage can has seen me standing on the sidewalk and felt the urge to put down his broom and say, “Hey, gorgeous. You got beautiful blue eyes. What are you doing? On a coffee break? Damn, you look fine.”

Well, let me put down my Starbucks and tell your parole officer not to wait up.

I don’t care how lively your fantasy world is---if you’re wearing a red jumpsuit, you might as well pack away the penis.

Not “Bond. James Bond.”

More like “Out. Out on bond.”

So, I am here to write a one-time-only advice column for men. Amongst my circle alone, I know quite a few men who could use a dose of female reality---and yes, women are WAY more realistic than men.

The current psychological profile of the sexes declares that men are problem solvers while women like to talk about their problems.

Sure, men may be more problem-solving, in general---but they’re trying to solve the wrong problems. Like how to get the winning bid for a Star Ship Enterprise model on eBay when the real problem is that they don’t have a job. Sure, we’re still discussing our problems with our girlfriends while you’re waiting for the postman to arrive…but at least we’re on the right track.

It’s The Tortoise and the Hare of the sexes.

Not to claim that women always win the race… But while you’re busy making the Theme From Goldfinger your primary ringtone, we’re washing your tidy whities, picking up the dandruff shampoo you’re too embarrassed to buy, and trying to figure out a tactful way to get you to improve your aim into the toilet.

So, here are just a few of my observations and opinions on the male fantasy world.

First off---Are you REALLY a secret foreign agent? No? Okay. Remember that. Let’s move on.

I don’t care how much you felt like you “really connected” with the stripper when she was giving you a lap dance. I don’t care if she laughed at your jokes or listened sympathetically about how your last relationship broke up. You may have recently lost five pounds, gave Rogaine a shot, and felt like you were really “on top of your game” that night---but she just wants your MONEY. If you started shoving love poems instead of dollar bills in her G-String, she would dump you quicker than your ex did. And trust me, the stripper won’t need “closure”.

Are you Brad Pitt? George Clooney? Blair Underwood? The current James Bond, Daniel Craig? Or even remotely close to opening a campaign office to nominate you for People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive? No? Then chances are, a Supermodel is NOT going to fuck you. Remember The Seven Year Itch? At the end of the movie, did he get Marilyn Monroe? I rest my case.

Do you even OWN a tux? And no, James Bond does NOT rent one from The Men’s Warehouse. Chances are, at this very moment, the only disguises in your OO7 Wardrobe are the sweaters and big shirts that disguise your ever-expanding waistline. “Too much bread last night” my ass. Thank your lucky stars that women aren’t as shallow as men, enjoy your Reuben, and stop thinking that wearing your old college sweatshirt makes you look like a college-aged student.

Two words. Air guitar.

Porn is not real. The women are paid. Good money. Most of them need the money to fund their drug habit. That’s why they’re not working as a waitress at Dennys. The Grand Slam Breakfast goes for around $5.99. A fifteen percent tip on that is about ninety cents. And with heroin, only the first one’s free. And, while we’re on the subject---There’s a reason you can’t SEE phone sex operators. Stop fantasizing that they look like Catherine Zeta-Jones. They don't. Ever seen an attractive radio personality? Try 1-900-Howard Stern. That's who's waiting for your call.

Paintball is not war. It’s more like hide-and-seek. Your paintball victory on Sunday afternoon will never be covered by The History Channel. It’s not The Normandy Invasion. Just a bunch of boneheads with beer.

Your favorite team may have won The Superbowl or The World Series---but you did NOTHING to facilitate this. NOTHING!!! I don’t care how many games you attended or watched or how much you wore the jersey or how loudly you cheered---you deserve NO credit for this. And unless you had a bet down, the outcome will not affect your life in any way. Are you wearing a Superbowl Ring? End of discussion.

Costumes are for Halloween. Period. Look in your closet. How many costumes do you own? None? Really? Are you sure? Are you a cowboy? Then why do you own cowboy boots? Do you even know how to ride a horse? Are you a soldier? Then what’s with the fatigues? Are you a rap star? Then buy some pants that fucking fit you. Golf shoes. Football jerseys. Whatever Michael Jordon endorses. How many “costumes” do you have for sports you don’t even play? A black leather jacket does not make you James Dean any more than a brown bomber jacket makes you a World War II Ace. Yes, we think the photos of you running around in your Superman cape when you were six years-old are adorable. But you’re a grown man now. Get rid of the Spiderman sheets.

And finally---Okay, how do I say this? Recently, I was watching one of my favorite shows on the BBC How Clean Is Your House? The premise is, a person with a dirty house calls hosts Kim and Aggie to come in and clean their house. Every episode is accompanied with the 50-something pair of British ladies screaming and eeeking over the dirty filth they’re been subjected to. This particular episode featured “rock star” Leon who was way over fifty, completely bald, requisite British bad teeth, and in a predicament where his house was so filthy, his bandmates were refusing to practice in his basement. Leon was (SURPRISE!) single. Admitted that it was getting difficult to bring the “girls” back to his house after gigs and attributed his mess to being busy with “bookings”. When Aggie tried to show him how he could easily clean a copper candlestick with salt, he replied that his normal use for salt was for “tequila shooters”. His home was infested with flesh-eating blowflies and not only were his bed sheets so filthy they were hard as a rock---but next to his bedside, were dried up, crusty hankies!!!---the ladies decided that British stoicism and BBC censors would let that one go. Meanwhile, Leon’s main concern was getting his place in shape so he could bring groupies back to his flat! If you’re living with FLESH-EATING BLOWFLIES no amount of encores of you singing “Hang on Sloopy” at the Brice-Johnson wedding is going to convince even the loneliest bridesmaid to spend the night. James Bond did not have flesh-eating blowflies. Not even as a weapon. Clean your house.

I’m not out to change the world---I’m just offering you fellows a few friendly pieces of advice. You can take it or leave it. But if one day, you go to the gym and discover that your wallet is missing…

Don’t be shocked if I say, “Told you so.”