Posts Tagged ‘singlefeid’

Thanks to a friend’s suggestion, I’m going to try out something new here at Singlefied.  Every Friday, I will post a question and I encourage everyone to comment/discuss.  It’s a chance for me to shut the hell up and hear what you all have to say.  But of course next week, I will give my 2 cents.

This week’s question is: Would you let a hot girl get away with being bitchy, simply because she’s hot?

It is no secret that attractive girls can get away with a lot – my hot friend Yvonne never has to stand in line for anything, and my gorgeous friend Brianne was totally under qualified for a job but was hired because she had a good client-facing face.  But societal perks aside, do good looking girls also get away with being bitches?  More importantly, do you excuse bitchy behavior as long as she looks like Megan Fox?

Thanks to PK for the awesome graph!

Written By: Dick Lambert

We have spent some time together now and I think I owe it to you, my readers, to tell you a little bit about me. You can learn a lot from someone’s success but you can learn a lot about someone by their failure also. Yes, it’s true even Dick fails from time to time and here is one of those times.

I lived with two women in a fantastic rented house. My one roommate Erin was a bartender and my other roommate Susan was a college student. The setup was awesome because Erin could hook me up at a bar and Susan exposed all her friends to the power of Dick. One day, I rode my motorcycle to Erin’s bar and as I pulled in, some douchebag in a Porsche pulled out without looking, almost clipping my motorcycle. I entered the bar a little frazzled and saw Erin serving two women. One of them was absolutely stunning – Leyla. I won’t even waste your time and mine with details about her other unremarkable friend.

Leyla was an arresting Eastern European, taller then me without my motorcycle boots on; flawless complexion, a healthy sculptured ass, a gravity defying perky rack, stunning almost supernatural eyes, and that wonderful aloof frosty way about her that I so adore in Eastern European women.  A weakness of mine is Eastern European women, as they are either dumb as a bag of hammers or Physics 172 smart. Leyla was Physics 172 smart.

I sat down next to Leyla’s friend and said hello to Erin. Erin placed my drink in front of me without me ordering anything. Leyla’s unremarkable friend said the only thing I would listen to, “Leyla, you should break up with that asshole.”  I quickly chimed in, “Especially if he drives a gray Porsche, that idiot almost hit me.” Leyla’s boyfriend was indeed that guy. The evening goes on and I supply them both with a steady amount of drinks from Erin. I learn that Leyla’s boyfriend is better looking than me and owns a few dry cleaners, but is a complete tool.  A few times when Leyla speaks, I feign that I can’t hear her so she draws in closer. I quickly figure out that Leyla is very smart so we start talking physics. Now, with any subject you will run into someone who either is enamored by the classical school of thought or dazzled by the possibilities of new school thinking. Leyla mentions a new book on String Theory and I tell her that it is the physics book I have on my very nightstand. You should always have some trendy or classic books on your nightstand. I also tell her she should come validate my claim. The discussion continues into all sorts of theoretical astro physics and luckily I do read the books on my nightstand. I feign again that I can’t hear her and her friend gives up her spot so Leyla and I can continue our postulating on what happens to matter when it hits a black holes singularity.

I then get to the crucial round of drinks called the “send off drink.” Leyla didn’t drive here but her unremarkable friend did. The unremarkable friend has a hard stop on drinking after a certain number. The goal is to get her there after physically and conversationally isolating her. The magic number is usually four.  Bye bye unremarkable friend. Leyla sends her off and we continue our conversation, now peppered with plenty of witty innuendo and bar foreplay in the manner of meaningful but innocent touching.

Leyla reveals to me her magnificent tattoo of her dead pet iguana on her back. Leyla loved this iguana and they got on very well and thus she was crushed when he died. I touch the nape of her neck and run my hand down to the iguana immortalized on her otherwise unmarred marble skin. She shudders a little. I invite Leyla back to my place but now the cat is out of the bag that I live with two females, Erin and Susan. Leyla declines and we have a kiss before she gets into a taxi. The kiss is bitter sweet because even though she gave me her number, the chance is gone as her boyfriend will be the one to call her tomorrow.

Even amongst my own triumphs I still think about Leyla and her iguana tattoo. Look, I am just a regular looking guy who creates his own luck, has more balls than most, goes after what he wants, and sometimes still goes home alone.

Have you ever met someone who is so afraid of becoming a cliché stereotype that they do everything opposite of what society thinks they should do, in turn, becoming another cliché?  That person is the “Anti-Cliché’ Cliché, and us girls have come across quite a few of them in our dating journey.  Have we dated you?


You can play Halo, CoD and WoW…at the same time.  You were on your high school robotics team and dude, you were national champs!  Inventing a robot to jerk off for you was the best idea ever, put a whole new twist to “the stranger.”  Then you got accepted to MIT and thought showers in computer labs were the best things since being exempt from PE for going to Math Camp…until…you met girls.  Real. Live. Girls.  Then you realized girls liked guys who played sports.  So you decided to try sports.  You were too short for basketball.  Football was too rough.  Badminton was too nerdy, even for you.  So you settled on rock climbing.  Now you’re officially an athlete, ’cause you go to a climbing gym once (sometimes twice!) a week.  You’re hardcore about building your muscles.  This is your sport and this is how you’ll pick up chicks.

Why we will date you:

You got the quirky thing going for you and you will introduce us to a new sport.

Why we’ll stop dating you:

We realize quirky = nerdy.  ‘Cause have you seen the guys who indoor rock climb?  You were a lot cooler when you talked about robots and not your contrived workout routine.


You love grilling and eating outdoors.  You love high-fiving all your friends and calling them “bro.”  Most of your wardrobe used to be Abercrombie but now you’re graduating to Brooks Brothers.  You celebrate St. Patty’s Day like it’s Christmas.  And oh, speaking of Christmas, everyone loves your annual “Ugly Sweater” party!  All your friends are white and that’s the way you like it. Actually, you’re whiter than your white friends.  But dude, weren’t you born in India?  Sure, you didn’t want to do what every other Indian did by being a doctor, so you went into something more cool, like banking.

Why we’ll date you:

You are frat-tastic and your friends are a hoot!

Why we’ll stop dating you:

Your name isn’t really Tom, it’s Mukesh.  And you talk shit about your own kind.  You take too much pride in parading your friends around when all we really want to know is about you, and your upbringing.


You went to China…15 times…in the last year.  You speak better Mandarin than your dry cleaner.  You love showing off your apartment because it’s Feng Shui‘d out.  And yes, you’ve already discussed your preference for the Tang Dynasty over the Han Dynasty, but sure, tell it to me again.  Your last girlfriend was a fob but you prefer the term “authentic.”  All your friends are Asian because you feel a better connection, or “qi,” with them.  Sometimes you forget that you were born in Sheridan, Wyoming and went to Arizona State; but you swear the moment you met Cao Ying when you taught English in Beijing, you knew you felt “at home.”

Why we’ll date you:

You seem cultured, refined and knowledgeable about wordly things.

Why we’ll stop dating you:

You just have yellow fever.  Or jungle fever.  Or anything-but-white-fever.


You grew up in Connecticut and went to private school.  Deciding between Princeton and Yale was a tough call because mommy went to Princeton and daddy went to Yale.  You decided on Brown because it’s Need-Blind and Gramps went there.  There’s some sort of family business, you’re not too sure what it is, but you are sure you’ll be inheriting millions.  You think, “what’s a ‘trust fund baby’? Doesn’t everyone have a trust fund?!”  Money to you does grow trees but your family neglected you.  They thought they could buy your love but now you realize why you’re so emotionally fucked up.  As a big FU to the family crest, you decide you’re going to be a starving musician.  Or artist (using your iPad2 of course).  Because you need to find a soul.  You might even start wearing tight jeans and shop at, gawd forbid, American Apparel.  Muffy would flip over your nouveau hipster look!  And then to add to it, you’re going to live with “soulful” roommates like a spoken word poet, a human rights activist, and an aspiring mime (or crack head, you’re not too sure yet).  You’re anti establishments, corporations, and The Man!  But yeah, that trust fund does come in handy, especially since you’re against working.  Period.

Why we’ll date you:

You’re our project.  We want to fix you, protect you, and help you “find yourself.”

Why we’ll stop dating you:

You’re truly fucked up beyond words and your cold upbringing was not our fault.  You’ll never work hard to keep a girl because you’ve never had to work hard for anything in your life.  Even if you’re “starving,” your trust fund has hardly a dent and that family business can always be your back-up plan.

Next week?  The “Anti-Cliché” Cliché girls you should avoid.

Did you watch the royal wedding this morning?  I didn’t.  I was too busy consoling a friend on her recent divorce.  But I did watch some of the recaps online and started to possibly over analyze this whole thing.  Royal court aside, the entire world was watching Kate Middleton (Prince William, who?).  What did she wear?  How did she do her hair?  How in love did she look?  As millions of women watched the future Queen walk down the aisle, the consensus was:

She got picked for dodgeball.

Let me rewind for a minute.  A few weeks ago my friend had just gotten engaged to her boyfriend of 7 years.  At a girls brunch, we all hovered around her left hand and examined her bling from every angle possible.  Then I had a moment of…the nonsense stare.  You know what I mean?  When you stare at something for so long that it no longer makes sense anymore.  Let’s say if you looked at the word “word” for too long, it no longer had meaning to it.  Anyway, I had a nonsense stare moment with her ring because in my mind, I thought, “Why are we so excited about this intrusive piece of useless substance that rests randomly on her finger, waiting to snag on an expensive cashmere sweater?”

I had to voice my opinion and ended up discussing this for weeks.  In the end, it’s about a woman’s desire to belong to a man, to be claimed, to be picked.  Trust me, at first I thought maybe it’s for the bling, but even after posing the idea of an engagement stick, or engagement scrunchie, women would still be willing to wear it as a symbol of “Claimed.”

And what does this have to do with you and dating girls?  I think this clearly reveals one of the most unfulfilled needs of a single girl: the desire to be picked for dodgeball.   You know what feels good?  When you hold our hand.  When you put your arms around us.  When you introduce us to your friends.  When you request that we date you and only you.  Amidst the clusterfuck of nonsense dating games, all we really want to hear you say is: “I pick you for my team.”  So when you find that girl, confidently articulate this sentiment to her.

Disclaimer:  This is not an excuse for possessive and overly-jealous men who have control and trust issues.   We don’t want to be picked for that team.

After you hook up with a girl, don’t you wish you could secretly hear how she talks about you to her friends?  Lucky you because I’m about to give you an excerpt from a real conversation:

Julia: So…how was your date last night with Blake?

Diane: Oh it was nice, we met up at this bar downtown and we just caught up on his trip to Aspen.  Then we had sex.

Julia: Yeaaaah? Was it good?

Diane: It was fun, I mean, he’s biiiig.

Julia: Oh shit, like how big?

Diane: Like, I can jack him off with two hands and there’s still plenty of room left for a third hand, or my mouth.  But I didn’t blow him because he’s huge and my jaw was tired from all the talking we did earlier, and I chowed down a big salad.  Hahaha.

Julia: So, he was good?

Diane: I mean, the man has a beautiful penis…when erect.  But he couldn’t stay up the whole time, especially when he was in me.  And so it just became this big floppy sausage swimming in and out of me to the point where it was just chafing my clit instead of stimulating it.  I had to stop it and tell him I was tired.  Went home and watched Youporn instead.

Julia: OMG, what a waste of a big penis.  Sounds familiar though.  I had tree stump penis last weekend.  Remember Scott, my sister’s friend?  Not that he went soft, but he just didn’t know what the fuck to do with it.  All he knew was the porn thrust – you know when you go in-and-out really fast like a fucking dog in heat?  It hurt!  I just wanted him to slow down and take his time penetrating me, but he was fucking like it was a video game.  Like the faster he humped, the more points he’d get or something.  And it’s not like I don’t like rough sex, but I need variety in speed AND positions!

Diane: Ewww, and that’s when you just flip over and sit on his face.  At least his tongue can’t be as violent.

Julia: Um…that’s exactly what I did.  That was a waste of a tree stump.  I miss Magic Dick Danny.

Diane: MAGIC DICK DANNY!  The little engine that could.  He was how small again?

Julia: Well, one-hand-jerk-off without any wiggle room.   So I guess it was more like the one-hand-twist.  But that man knew how to put me in all the right positions to hit my G-spot.  He just knew how to use it and was able to get deep penetration.  I never had to sit on his face.

Diane: He had a magic stick.  I still haven’t found mine.  Did I tell you about the Olympic dick I hooked up with a month ago?

Julia: Olympic dick?

Diane: This guy’s dick was so fucking big and hard that it could probably lift weights.  It was like an Olympic athlete, I was scared out of my mind.  We were hooking up and all of a sudden I feel this hard, fist-like creature poking into my inner thigh.  This thing was so huge that I think it could have gone right through me.  I couldn’t do it girl, I just couldn’t bring myself to ride that beast.  I think it would’ve been the closest pain to child birth.  My arm was tired from jacking it off and I don’t think my mouth could physically open that wide, so I didn’t bother with that either.

Julia: Good call, your teeth would’ve definitely scraped him.

Diane: And I would’ve choked and died.  So I told him I just wanted to cuddle, and he asked if I was a virgin.

Julia: You know what you need?  A grow-er, not a show-er.  So they start off small and sweet, and then they get all big and aggressive while inside you.

Diane: BAM!  Let’s go find me a grow-er.

Julia: Done and done.


I don’t know if it was Ricki Lake who coined the phrase, “It’s not the size of the ocean, it’s the motion of the ocean” on her talk show in the late 90’s, but that’s the moral of the story here.  You could have the best tool in the toolbox, but if you don’t know how to use it, it’s a waste.  There are many ways of stimulating a girl in bed, and the size of your cock takes a backseat to staying hard, manhandling, foreplay, oral sex and dirty talk.