Friday, June 30, 2006

Kickball: It's Not Just For 5th Graders Anymore. It's for Drunks, Too.

Remember back when you were a kid and one of the highlights of your day was going out to the cement diamond on the playground with your oversized red ball and kicking some “baby bouncies” into the outfield for a rousing game of kickball? Remember how much fun that was? Remember how you used to think “Man, this would be so much better if I had a Jack and Coke right now?” Well, in the shadow of the Miami Skyline, where the Bay meets Brickell, every Thursday there is a little kickball league that allows you to live this dream. Without worrying about being put on time-out by the playground monitor.

You have to absolutely love a rec-league game where drinking on the field is not only allowed, but encouraged. And, unlike rec-league softball, there is little if any real athletic ability required to play kickball so lots of girls who just like to drink are guaranteed to be on your team. Some people, like our opponents catcher, take the game very seriously and actually argue calls and hustle. But most of us are content to get liquored up and throw the ball at each other. And such was the case with my team, comprised of a few friends from UM and a bunch of kids from Columbus and Lourdes who I knew from that Christmas Party.

I knew this league was not going to be serious (compared to all of the dead-serious kickball leagues around the world) when the opening email from our team captain said we needed two refs who were “preferably” sober. Yes, preferably. Not required, mind you, but it might be nice if you could cut it off at two beers. This explained a lot about our game. There are a variety of rules in this league that a sober person with a college degree would find quite confusing. Unfortunately, many people on the diamond were neither sober nor college-educated, and the first inning was spent arguing whether or not a baby bouncie was a strike but a big bouncy was not and if a runner was out if he crossed the plate before kicking. The umpires, comprised of players from other teams, actually seemed a lot more concerned with watching the girls jog by on the Bayfront and drinking their beers. And why shouldn’t they?

Me, I patrolled right field with a presence that would have made Ichiro proud, catching the only ball kicked my way and finding a nice divot in the grass for my beer. I think next game I’m just going to bring a handle of Stoli so I can look EXTRA nasty out there. Maybe smoke a Marlboro Red while I’m at it. Unfortunately while our team played pretty good defense for a group of people with exactly ZERO combined kickball games under our beer-stretched belts, we could not get a hit to save our lives. Yes, we were actually getting no-hit through three innings (out of 5) and it’s not like the pitchers in this sport are hurling Randy-Johnson-esque fastballs. We lost 6-0, but by the time the game was over we were all pretty much too wasted to notice. It just gave us an excuse to kill the beers in our coolers and proceed over to Bayside for more debauchery.

And what better way to celebrate the kickoff of a new kickball season than getting tanked at a tourist-aimed theme restaurant at Bayside (aka the only place in Miami that every person I meet on a plane that came here for a cruise has been)? The Kickballers were all noticeable by our Kickball Jerseys, but none more than our proud team. Because our shirts were bright freaking pink. That’s right, pink. In Miami, I guess, you can get away with it what with the art deco and the flamingos and whatnot, but let me tell you the team in black looked intimidating and the team in white looked tan, so I have to wonder how we looked. Especially after getting killed 6-0.

I will keep you all updated on the success of our little team. We are definitely a group of rookies trying to make a name for ourselves, and this promises to be an interesting season. Week 5, we play one of our teammate’s ex-girlfriend’s team complete with a bunch of her friends who all hate us. I think if we win that one the year will be considered a success. And if not, well, there are still four or five parties at local bars in addition to the games, so it would be hard to come out a loser. Wish me luck, and Happy Kickballing!

Thursday, June 29, 2006

The Lost Art of The Fuck Buddy

For those who do it right, a regular fuck buddy is the best weapon you can have in the battle of the sexes. If you are a man, it gives you a regular outlet for sex that allows you to go out and have fun without concerning yourself with whether or not you are going to get laid and annoying everyone around you. And more importantly you can do so while staying single. If you are female, it gives you someone you can call upon should the “need” arise without having to seek out new men and feel guilty about it afterwards. In an ideal fuck buddy situation, everyone comes out satisfied and no one gets hurt. Of course, it rarely works that way.

Most of these “relationships” fail because maintaining a fuck buddy is not a skill. It is an art form. Few can comprehend it, and even fewer have it mastered. It requires patience, discipline and above all else, mutual understanding. Now, I am certainly not a master of this art as of yet, but I do believe I understand the nuances that can make it successful. And luckily for you, I am going to relay some basic hints for maintaining a successful fuck buddy relationship, in the hopes that we can all learn a little from mistakes I have made.

1.) Dates do not make Fuck Buddies. That is to say, a “relationship” based purely on sex must begin with purely sex. A quality one-night stand, a random hookup at a party, or someone you meet at a “lifestyle” club would make an ideal candidate.

2.) A Fuck Buddy is A Fuck Buddy, Nothing More, Nothing Less. The quality fuck buddy will never ask any questions regarding taking the relationship further, nor should you. You must understand that in order to have a quality F.B., you have to accept him or her for what they are and nothing more. Like niche marketing for sex partners.

3.) Do Not Go to The Well Too Often. One of two things will happen if you end up fucking too much: A) You will start to like the person or B) You will start to dislike the person. Either way the F.B. relationship is ruined. If you like her, you will start to want more and probably get hurt. If you don’t like her she will start to annoy you and even the thought of guaranteed ass is not enough to endure the 5 minutes of conversation before her bra comes off. Once every 2-3 weeks is about right.

4.) Invitations Should Be Blatantly Sexual. Whether it is a phone call, a shady text message or an email, invitations should not be anything more than “Hey, wanna fuck” or, if you are not so forward, “What are you doing tonight?” Social invitations other than this may lead to a hint of a relationship, and that is unacceptable.

5.) Fuck Buddies and Real Buddies Shall Never Meet. Understand? NEVER. Not meeting you at a bar, not taking her out with your buddies for drinks, and not showing her off. You and your F.B. live in your own little world together that lasts a few hours every few weeks. You really shouldn’t even discuss your F.B. with anyone unless it is relevant to them.

6.) Do not Concern Yourself with Their Life. All conversations should be superficial and unimportant. Do you care who they are dating? Do you care if they are happy at work? Do you care about their life ambitions? No, no you do not. And neither do they.

7.) Do Not Date Your Fuck Buddy. The only date you should be on with a fuck buddy is a sex date, which should last no more than 1 hour or three drinks before the phrase “Where do you want to go?” is uttered. All she does is talk about the good section at her restaurant and how that bitch made her do all her side work? Who cares? It’s only an hour. But any more than that and the illusion is ruined.

8.) Do not call your F.B. Drunk Every Time You Strike Out. Again, once in a while is okay if you are both out and in the same general vicinity. But more than once every couple of weeks and it may become habit. And the idea here is to have a stress-reliever, not a last resort.

9.) Do Not Travel Further for Sex Than you Would for Work. I employ a 30-mile rule, which is applicable in most major cities. In New York, I think it is limited to a subway ride. In Southern California you may extend this to 60 miles.

10.) The Sex and Their Looks Can’t Be TOO Good. The sex has to be just good enough that you are satisfied, but not so good you think about nothing else. The person should be good looking enough that you want to sleep with them, but not so hot you want to show them off to your friends. In short, a slightly-above average looking person who can fuck, but is not the best you’ve ever had.

11.) Overnights are Only Permitted for Safety Reasons. If you both end up drunk at your place and neither of you can drive home, fine. But no cuddling. If you or your F.B. is sober, the visitor must be returned home. And no more than a peck on the mouth goodbye.

Follow these not-so-simple rules, and you may find yourself sexually satisfied and still free to live your own life. While the balance is rare and difficult to attain, by having the patience to wait a few weeks for sex, having the discipline to not call too much, and having the understanding of what the “relationship: is, you too can be well on your way to a lifetime of guilt-free fucking. And by “lifetime” I mean probably about 6 months.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

On Sluts and Players

Here’s another gripe I am tired of hearing from women: “It’s such a double standard. If a guy sleeps around he’s a player, but if a girl sleeps around, she’s a slut.” While, societally there may be more of a stigma attached to being a promiscuous female, the way you girls are phrasing this is just dreadfully awful. Because there is a difference between a player and a slut, whether you be male or female. And, being the public-service-type blog that I try to be here at White Dade, I am going to lay it out here for you.

The double standard exists not because of some deep-seeded sexism or desire to repress female sexuality. I think the 1960’s pretty much took care of that for anyone who does not memorize scriptures in their spare time. It exists because women, no matter their appearance, can get sex whenever they want it. From almost anyone they want to. So if you are getting some from a lot of different guys there is really no achievement in doing so and therefore you are not highly regarded. For men, sleeping with different women is markedly more difficult, so if they are able to accomplish this there is more of a feeling of achievement than of degradation. Now, do societal pressures lend themselves to perpetuating the double standard? I’m sure me and Alice could do a whole week of posts on that, so I will save that debate for another time.

I have heard women try to flip it around and refer to promiscuous men as “male whores” and “male sluts.” Your attempts at gender-degrading equality are cute and somewhat accurate, but many men are still players. Here is the difference: A slut sleeps with anyone who will sleep with them, a player sleeps with whoever they want to. So those who would call Colin Farrell a slut are dead wrong. He may get a lot of ass, but he is sleeping with whoever he wants. Your typical US Marine, on the other hand, is a slut. Because he will fuck anything with a vagina, no matter if she is old, fat, married or a post-op. You see the difference? A player sits back, says, “I want to bang that girl,” and pretty much does, often using lies, deceit and money to get his goal. Players are the “bad boys” and “assholes” that girls complain about all the time but still end up sleeping with because they know no better. A slut sits in the corner of the bar and waits for the first girl who grabs his ass and the promptly spends the rest of the night with her. Male sluts are just as sad as female sluts, as they often use sex to bolster their sagging self-esteem and have no standards for whom they will be intimate with. So, to summarize, Players are bad guys who get what they want, sluts are nice guys who take whatever they can get.

The same is true of women. There are women you could classify as “sluts” who generally sleep with any guy who gives them the time of day. Again, this has a lot to do with poor self-image and is not healthy. There are also promiscuous girls who are highly selective, but understand that they can get sex from whoever they want and take those opportunities. I don’t know if a word exists for these girls, but I seem to encounter a lot of them. And lastly, there a female players. These girls use men for money, vacations, jewelry or whatever else they want, and often do not even exchange sex for the goods. Sure, she will lead a man to think she is sexually interested, but she too is “playing” the guy for whatever it is she wants from him. I find these girls to be utterly disgusting and generally avoid them at all costs. They are of the same breed as the male “player” and when they meet it is often interesting to see who comes out on top (figuratively). So, again, to summarize, a girl is only a slut if she is promiscuous AND non-selective, and is a player if she leads men on to achieve some sort of material gain. Selective girls who get a lot of dick? Somebody give me a term. I’d say it’s half my sexual history.

So, let’s stop mislabeling these poor people. A slut is a slut, a player is a player, regardless of gender. Sure, a double standard exists, but I think we are getting further and further away form it as time goes on and that will only mean more sex for everyone. Hooray! I am thinking of a Cosmo-esque quiz to determine if you are a player or a slut. And it will be gender neutral.Y’all think this is a good idea? Maybe not.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Go White Teams! And Ghana.

The World Cup is still going on, in case anybody in America still cares. Unfortunately our glorious Yankee boys were sent packing by Ghana last week and we must wait four more years until anyone in America watches a soccer match in its entirety. And by then we’ll have all forgotten what the rules for offsides are and once again be utterly confused when our only goal of the game is called back and immediately do what all Americans do when their team loses a close game: blame the Refs. But since I have a bit of time during the day and Maury has been severely lacking in quality Paternity test shows for a while, I have taken an active interest in the “Knockout Round,” America or no. The problem, of course, is who do I root for? The only country that I have any ethnic association with, Croatia, was also eliminated early. Which leaves me with a bunch of countries I have never been to nor have any connection with.

I have these Hispanic friends (unbelievable I know) who are Dominican, Venezuelan and Cuban. When Brazil won the World Cup back in 2002, they all went out and paraded around South Beach with big Brazilian flags and painted their faces whatever colors Brazilians like to paint their faces. Green or some shit. Anyway, I asked them “Why are you guys going so batshit nuts? You aren’t even FROM Brazil? They don’t even speak Spanish, for crying out loud?” To which they responded, “Yeah, but they’re a Hispanic team, so we root for them.” Fair enough. I am, therefore, rooting for the White teams.

England, Switzerland, Ukraine, France and Germany. These are my teams. I would have put Australia number one, but they lost today. I know Americans love to bash the French, but I’m White, so I’m rooting for them, just like a Puerto Rican rooting for Argentina. Some may ask why I would root for Germany as they did kill like 7 million of my ancestors a while back (actually, most of those guys live in Argentina now, so even more reason to root against the Argentines). Granted, but that was a long time ago. More recently, the Germans have given us Trance Music, Dirk Nowitski and the BMW, and for all of those I am grateful. Seeing as how a German hasn’t done much to aggravate me since 1942, but countless Argentines and Brazilians have aggravated me since 10:42, this morning, I would much rather see them hoist the cup than any team from South America. I would say I am going to root for Ghana, but I think they have about as much chance as the Marlins do of wining the World Series. But should they beat Brazil, GO GHANA! They are the Ultimate Underdog.

Why not Portugal, Spain or Italy? I don’t know, they don’t really strike me as White teams. They are more like Ethnic European teams. Maybe it’s because their languages sound more like those of the South Americans, but I just can’t get behind a team full of guys with last names ending in a vowel. Call me crazy. Call me nonsensical, but do not call me a racist.

Because if a Cuban guy wrote this and said he was rooting for all the South American teams because he was Latin, nobody would bat an eyelash. If a Black guy wrote it and said he was rooting for Ghana because he is African American, we would all stand up and cheer. But let a white guy say he is rooting for the White European teams because he is White and of European descent, he is a racist. Simple as that. Yes, I am Jewish, but last I checked Israel wasn’t fielding a particularly competitive club this go-round, so Germany, France and England are the next best thing. Actually, as long as Argentina or Brazil doesn’t win, I’ll be satisfied. Otherwise it’s going to be two solid days of flag waving idiots in the streets, only weeks after we cleared out the last batch.

Friday, June 23, 2006

White Dade vs. TIWWDN: Shut Up New York

If you live in South Florida, there is no greater joy than seeing your team knock off a team from New York. It is partly to do with your constant flow of transplants who feel it necessary to let us know where they are from, and partly to do with their incessant presence at our local sporting events. Yankee fans wear their jerseys to Hurricane Football games. Jets fans start their infuriating chant at a Dolphins-Chargers match-up. If you ever watch an away game in Miami you know what I’m talking about. 60% New York fans, at least. This is why 2003, when our underdog Marlins beat the Evil Empire From The North, was so sweet. It made up for Allan Houston’s bouncing shot in 1999, it made up for the Jets Monday Night Comeback, it made up for the countless games I’ve had to leave listening to your fans go on and on and on about how “New York is the Greatest City in the World.” A win for Miami is a win for the little guy. It’s a win for the underdog and it shuts up the arrogant pricks who think they’re better than you. And when it comes to arrogant pricks, you don’t get much bigger than Larry.

For those of you who don’t know, Larry writes a little blog called This is What We Do Now. He is on Gawker about twice a week, I think he gets in the neighborhood of 20,000 hits a day, won some award as “Best Urban Blog” last year and has hundreds upon hundreds of blog groupies at his beck and call every night. In short, he is the New York Yankees of Blogging. And so after attending a Yankees-Red Sox game with Larry back in May, I decided that a friendly wager should be in order as our underdog Marlins once again come to town this weekend to take on the Yanks. A night of binge drinking in New York is the prize, since apparently Lawrence would rather freeze his ass off in the concrete jungle than sit on the beach and get plastered while looking at topless girls. To each his own, I suppose.

A lot has changed since 2003, though. The Marlins decided that fielding a competitive team to play in front of 7500 people every night just wasn’t the brightest of financial moves, and traded away every player making over the league minimum. What South Floirda got in return was an opening day starting lineup that featured six guys who had never started a game at this level before, and a payroll of $15 million. That’s right, $10 million a year less than the Yankees’ .281-hitting third baseman. The local press predicted a season on line with that of the 1962 Mets and nobody gave this year’s Fish a chance of losing anything less than 100 games. The team is now frequently outdrawn by the Sacramento RiverCats.

Oh, but a funny thing happened on the way to the #1 draft pick. Somehow, after starting the season 11-31, the Marlins all of a sudden decided they wanted to start winning ballgames and now sit at a somewhat respectable 31-38. This team has perhaps the best collection of young talent in baseball, and they are living up to their potential long before anybody thought they could. The Marlins have caught fire of late thanks mostly to the starting pitching of three guys NOT named Dontrelle Willis and a bullpen that can only be described as “Shut Down” over the last month. “What?!” you say? “The Marlins?! Isn’t that the team that gave away Mike Jacobs jerseys on Jewish Heritage Day without checking too see if he was, in fact, Jewish?” Yes, those Marlins. And don’t look now, but this year’s team is poised to make a run a .500 by the All-Star break. They are new to the game, hungry and out to prove that they can do just as well if not better than any of the over-hyped stars from New York. Sound like anyone we know? Exactly.

So pull your heads out of your collective asses, Yankee fans. This years Marlins are not the cellar-dwelling scrubs you wish were coming to town so you could get back in the pennant race. When you look in your program and see “Alfredo Amezaga,” understand that he is not a new special at Carmine’s but rather one of the top utility players in the game. New Yorkers, I encourage you to go out to the stadium this weekend and educate yourselves in some of the best young talent baseball has to offer. Because I guarantee you will be hearing the names Uggla, Han-Ram, and Cabrera(Miguel, not Melky) for a long time. I doubt you’ll get a chance to see this team again until 2008, and next time, it’ll be in October.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Blogging Out of One Eye is Kinda Fun

In case some of you didn’t know, the local professional basketball team here in South Florida won some sort of big game the other night. If you are a regular reader of this blog you know I like the Heat about as much as I like a punch in the face, which is to say not bloody much. Which makes the events of Tuesday night all the more ironic.

It became painfully obvious to me with about 4 minutes left that Dallas had about as much chance of winning the game as Walter Mondale did of wining the 1984 presidential election. My friends were planning to go out afterwards for the traditional “Let’s all party like we actually accomplished something” celebration that follows a pro-sports championship, but I declined the invitation. Being the Heat hater that I am, I told them, “Nah, dude. Probably not a good idea. I’ll end up getting in a fight or something. Best I just stay home.” Which was my plan, until I had a few more beers and decided that since I had never lived in a city when it won a pro title, I should go out and see what all the fuss was about.

We decided to begin the evening at our favorite watering hole Tavern in The Grove. The bartender there, who we call Uncle Neal, is a borderline friend, and Johnson's #1 man-crush. Uncle Neal is an interesting character. He is about 33 years old, holds a law degree from UM, but has instead decided that slinging draft beer at a grimy college bar is a better way of life. I can’t really blame him, as he makes as much if not more than a typical young associate or prosecutor, but only works three nights a week and gets to bang college girls on a weekly basis. He is, at least to some, a hero. At any rate, Uncle Neal had lost a bet with Graig and my roommate on the outcome of the series, and they went to collect.

I knew something was wrong when he ignored us for about the first ten minutes we were inside. He finally looked over and told my boys “Look, I’ll give you your money. Not today, not tomorrow, but sometime next week.” With that, he gave us a pitcher of Bud Light and we went over to our customary corner table. Of course, by this point the table was occupied by some Javi’s and Jose’s, so we opted to stand and wait for them to leave.

And they left. Or so we thought. As Juan and Marcos got up, my roommate and I sat down, taking our customary position at the back corner table. We have occupied that table since 1999, so once we sit down, we’re not going anywhere. Unfortunately, Pedro and Ricardo did not understand this, and upon returning from their trip to the men’s room, expected their table back. Now I was feeling charitable and told them we could share it, which they apparently felt was an affront to their Latin Machismo. So they asked again and I said, “No, but we can share.” To which one responded “Tell your boy to get the fuck up.” I informed Oscar and Frank that I was not “my boy’s” boss, and that they would have to request this of him themselves. Which they did, to which my roommate responded with a kiss blown in their direction, which they responded to with a beer to his face, which he responded to with a beer back, which they responded to with a flipped table.

At this point, I was trying to break it up. I did not want our reputation at the Tavern soiled, and I didn’t want the night to end in violence. So I tried to separate my roommate and Graig, who had now unwittingly been thrown into the fray, from Paco and Martin. This was perhaps the poorest decision I made since I said “Yeah, writing a blog might be fun.” It did not occur to me that at this point, the fight was already out of control so I may as well try and get some White Dade Rage out on Manny and Joel. Instead, I continued trying to separate everyone and was thusly punched in the head multiple times by both Carlos and Enrique and by my roommate. Funny, since they were all swinging at each other and not me. Basically, aside from Graig getting hit in the head with a pitcher and whatever shots he and my roommate got in on the Hialeah All Stars, I took every punch in the fight. And all I did was keep pushing people away from each other. I guess it is often the biggest guy in the fight who throws the least punches, but next time, I told my roommate, just tell me to hit somebody so this doesn’t happen again. The fight finally ended with Uncle Neal choking out my roommate saying “I’ll fucking kill you right now. Get the fuck out of here!”

So, sorry Johnson, all those nights you spent with Uncle Neil have now been nullified by the incredulous actions of Luis and Antonio. I apologize for not realizing the fight was out of control and getting in some licks, but I promise it will not happen again. I don’t like fighting, I think it is stupid. But if you’re put in a position where it is either slug a guy or get caught in the crossfire and hit by friendly and not-so-friendly fire, you gotta come out swinging. My bad. I’m sure the Marines would be ashamed. The lesson here: If I ever say the words “I probably shouldn’t go out tonight. I’ll probably get in a fight,’ listen to me. I know what I’m talking about.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Thank You, Bill Simmons

Hey, all of you fucking Miami Heat/Dwyane "Hype Machine" Wade apologists who still insist he was touched by someone other than the ghost of Reggie Lewis on his overtime drive in Game 5: Remember that post I worte a few weeks ago that you all called "moronic" and "senseless?" The one where I said the Heat are bad for the NBA and any unbiased fan should be rooting against Miami with all their heart? Well, here is a real, live profesisonal sportswriter who I could very well sue for plaigarizing my blog he reiterates my points so well. Since he writes about sports for a living, he makes my points in a much clearer way so you know what I'm getting at. Here's hoping the Mavs pull it out tonight and on Thrusday, otherwise we are in for a really long decade.

Anyone interested, here is Bill Simmons' take on the Finals and why the Heat will ruin the NBA with a victory. God I love being validated.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Sexual Selective Memory

We have all had wholly forgettable hookups. Some are regrettable, some are embarrassing, and some we are too drunk to fully remember. But one undeniable fact about all of them is that they happened. Girls, for some reason, do not believe this and seem to engage in this odd phenomenon I call Sexual Selective Memory. Alice seems to think this is a common disorder, and even goes so far as to defend it. But I'm still calling bullshit.

I assume it starts out honestly enough. A girl goes into a bedroom with a random guy at a party, her girlfriend sees her, asks her about it he next day, and girl #1 responds "Oh, nothing happened. I passed out." And, of course, by "passed out" she means "had really drunken mediocre sex for about 15 minutes and probably didn't use a condom." But, a funny thing happens when we lie: Once we do it enough, we start to believe it. And so, just as Johnny Frat Boy has been talking about his hour-long marathon session with this girl, so is she beginning to believe she never slept with him. And since she never told anyone she did, there is nobody who can remind her of this regrettable event. Except the guy, who is most likely avoiding her like your run-of-the-mill Ebola patient.

This is the inherent problem when girls do not keep track of their numbers: Regrettable sex can be completely erased so long as there are no pregnancies or diseases as a result. This, friends, is just as wrong as a guy lying to himself about his performance, or lack thereof. You can't un-fuck somebody. You did it. Own up to it. Just like me and the fat chicks.

I know this girl who used to give me very graphic details of her pseudo-sex life. I say pseudo because she was a lot younger at the time, about 14 or so. I was younger too, so don't get any ideas. She was a wild kid back then and used to get drunk a lot at parties and call me while she did so. She also liked to "hook up" with different guys. Hook-Up, of course, meaning a hand job and an occasional fingering. One guy, who she told she was 18, even went so far as to go down on her. Again, she gave me rather graphic details of what she was doing, and I have a steel-trap memory when it comes to sex, so I remember. Well, after that wild phase she found a man and has been with him for about the last eight years or so. She stopped drinking and has seen only one other penis since then (during a breakup).

Conveniently, though, this young lady likes to tell people she has only been drunk a handful of times in her life and that she has only felt 3 or 4 penises. Granted, if her life started at 16, this might be true, but I remember one particular trip to Club Med where she bragged about constantly having beer and liquor bottles in her room, and hooking up with a different guy every night. My point is that what she has chosen to remember about that time and what was actually going on are totally different. And, since I am really the only person she told about most of this, I seem to always be the one going "No, dear, I recall you telling me about at LEAST 5 or 6 other penises back then." But the lies, at least in her mind, have become truth.

Last week, a girl I dated a year ago called me asking details of the first time we had sex. Apparently she was rather drunk at the time. Odd, since I was dancing with her for four solid hours and the only thing I saw her drink was water (no, she was not rolling). We went back to her place, did it, fell asleep, then did it again the next morning and took a shower together. And you wanna know the kicker? She didn't remember any of that. Even though she was stone sober by the time we woke up. Now, we dated for a while afterwards and she remembers every other time we had sex, but she told me she felt extremely guilty about having slept with me so fast. I think her guilt made her begin to deny even the things she could not pass off as alcohol-induced from that first encounter, since she wanted so desperately to think that she was not capable of sleeping with a guy she had known for 6 hours. Sadly, I believe that had we not spent the next three weeks repeating the events of that night, I may very well have been forgotten like so many losing vice presidential candidates.

But it makes me wonder: How many of the girls I've been with have suppressed my existence? The tourist on the beach who made me swear not to tell my friends? The girl I brought back to a hotel who left at 5AM the next morning before I woke up? The one who hooked up with me playing the same wingman role that I was while Graig banged her hot friend 6 feet away? I bet you all of them, in their minds, have never had sex with me. And, I must say, I am rather insulted. I take the time to analyze and remember every girl I'm with. Fat, skinny, drunk, sober, all of them. Do I wish I could deny and undo some of them? Of course. But denial doesn't change the fact that it happened. And girls need to learn that regrettable sexual behavior, like it or not, is a fact that will never change.