Men are pussies

The fun of blogging-- an excuse to procrastinate from the real work that should be done.

Just got back from a weekend away where I played the game, “How drunk can I get on someone else’s dime”, where even if you win, the hangover in the morning will remind you just how much you lost—you know, things like brain cells, the will to live, and dignity.

But it reaffirmed for me just what simple creatures men are—hint that you are in the mood for sex, throw in a bit of over-confidence, and you could get anything you want.

As exemplified when I walked up to a guy and told him, “Entertain me.”

He looks at me puzzled.

“Out of all the men in this club, I choose you to entertain me.”

“How should I do that?” He asks

“If you have to ask, then you aren’t worth my time.”

Now, I know it sounds counter-intuitive to be a bitch, but when she is dressed up in a short cocktail dress, stiletto heels, and manicured nails there is something that gets at a guy. Maybe it harkens back to the days when men were expected to be men, and just the mere thought of competition gets the repressed testosterone going—you know, the stuff that has been in hiding since the dawn of feminism and political correctness.

“Entertain me!” I say again. But this time, looking directly into his eyes.

And so he begins to tell me a story.

Like I give a shit about his life as a chav/pike.

“You know, usually men are far more interesting after a girl has a few drinks in her. I can see you never learned proper etiquette when dealing with a girl.”

He buys me a drink. I listen to him talk for about ten minutes, where I was onto my next mark.

Now, I know it sounds juvenile to play, and that is may be a reflection of the fact that I have this habit of basing my self-worth on the interesting (and not-so-interesting-but-very-hot) men that have found their way into my bed, but it’s nights like those that reaffirm the power of my sex. As a woman I am cognizant of the fact that I will never be ‘one of the guys’, and to tell you the truth, I really don’t want to be privy to discussions about music, movies where things blow up, and girlfriend difficulties. So, if I can’t be one of you, I might as well position your perception of me in direct opposition of what it means to be one of you. It’s the newness that makes me seem exotic and different.

And so I exploit.

Free drinks in exchange for a few kisses and a feel up of my breast? When champagne is used as the currency, I really don’t mind.