To Whom I May Bang

When dating in the county of Los Angeles (and who knows, maybe even further afield in Ventura) one notices a propensity for people in general and dudes in particular, to be something approximating “in and out” also known as “hot and cold” or the “slow fade.” How does he feel? What is he doing? What does he, in actuality, want? Any attempts to discern what is actually going on will be met with stonewalling, denial or heavy rounds of compliments:

Do you not know that you are “hot?” (Why yes, yes you do, you have an Instagram account that stands as testimony to this very thing.)
How much he “love[s] fucking you?” (Yes, you had figured that out by the sweating and the noises.)
That you are “amazing” (you will be reassured.) And then… nothing.

Did you do something? Should you not have removed your make up with a Q-Tip in his presence? Did that render you too domestic, too relatable, too housewife? Despite the electrifying multiple sex acts that preceded it, did your personal grooming disgust and disappoint him? Should you have been pushing your tits together at the time? You had run out of cotton squares; is it horrible that you chose to use Q-Tips rather than risking your special friend waking up with a panda? If you had used cotton rounds, would he have called?


DO NOT ATTEMPT TO FIND OUT- especially via social media. It is essential that you block anyone whose penis has been in your proximity across all digital platforms immediately. Do not leave so much as an errant Twitter account laying fallow as the Twit will doubtless do or say something upsetting. It is pointless, you understand, to try and dissect his motives, reasons or predilections. He himself has no idea. He is but a wisp of a male, floating between vaginas like a frog amongst lily pads, with equal amounts of Amphibian thought about which he will land upon next, and for how long. He is clueless, faithless and distracted. He is trying to survive and not in a place for you and your antics. Your Beloved is BUSY. (Or should I say your Befucked.)

What these gents offer is perfectly respectable, as long as one asks for not a smidgeon more. They turn up at the vaguely appointed hour with a hard dick and a willing attitude, which is no small thing. Requests for another thin slice of time or attention or affection are met with bewilderment, and rightly so. This is not our agreement, and the agreement is binding. The ones I speak of here have not behaved badly. (There are some that have, and they will get no more than this parenthetical. While it is tempting to put your full names and contact information for other potential female victims [HERE] I shall desist. You know who you are and I don’t wish you ill. I have stopped wishing you well, though. I don’t have the energy. If I find out you died in a fire I shall do my best to remain neutral.)

The men I affectionately pillory have redeemed themselves by pillorying me, and well. When they are there, they are truly so. They do not look at their phones. They do not gaze at other women in my presence. They look me in the eye and fuck well. Bless them and keep them… but for how long?

For as but a lowly female in possession of a highly specialized set of hormonal circumstances, I require notice, gentlemen. Just a hair of forethought, no more. Just one dram of foreshadowing… Just a slight reference to a time when we MIGHT possibly have another engagement, so a girl can arrange her child custody accordingly. Do it for the children (that you will never meet.) I don’t ask for a time, a place, or a date, just an IDEA of when you might perhaps deign to remove your clothing and let me worship once more at the altar of your phallus.

For amongst the hideous monotony of life, a girl just wants to know when and from whom her next dick is coming. Is this so bad? Is this so wrong? Is this, after all, so needy? I do not need said dick to gallop in on a trusty white steed. I do not even require activities, entertainments or gifts. By all means show up in an old Maxima and park where you will. As long as you will shortly park on top of me I care not one whit, for I am a lucky, lucky girl.

I never said Love, and certainly not its embarrassing retarded cousin, Monogamy. I never said Hold My Hand, or Don’t Walk Ahead Of Me, like I’m a bound-footed Geisha who needs to hurry the fuck up, hobbling on the shoes I wore for you. These missteps I can forgive. Let another woman correct them, for I am mostly interested in the acts that will take place once the Geisha finally hobbles up to her apartment. I am even happy to leave the shoes on. Just tell me the next time the sword will be drawn, Kemosabe, that’s all I ever want to know. That there will be a next time…
geisha chick


  1. This is so completely unbelievable and amazing how prevalent it is when people are on their damn phones all the damn time for the slightest momentary-item-of-bullshit-interest-distraction. On behalf of those who actually do follow up with the women they spend time with: we apologize for all the asshats, because yes: that is, in fact, fucked.

  2. I hear you, unfortunately I’ve seen this do a real number on one of my closest friends and it really messed with her for a bit; I’ve been on the receiving end of it from women, sure, but it’s somewhat mind-blowing to me that it’s so much the norm now for dudes.

    Nevertheless, satire-on….! 😉

  3. The banging of the befucked (my spell check kept writing befuddled…hahah)…..

    understanding and appreciating family logistics is a highly underrated attribute….

    Planning planing anyone Bueller…bueller….it’s a bumpy road isn’t it?!


  4. I am going to carefully choose words here, as there are all kinds of ways I could get into trouble.

    I am all about the attention giving, because I (with 99% accuracy) want to: A) repeat what just happened; B) repeat what just happened; and C) REALLY, REALLY repeat what just happened.

    There’s not a menu or anything from which I make my choices of partners. I am certainly picky. One has to be. If not picky, doesn’t it cheapen a person? Wouldn’t it mean I am turning into one of those guys who fucks and moves on to the next fuck? If I become one of those guys, I become the very thing I despise.

    Okay, I despise many things, but those guys, I have found, truly believe they are a gift to the world, and I never ever want to be one of those guys. Those guys are more of a gift certificate you get from your parents (who never really understood you in the first place) to go enjoy a dinner at Chili’s, or some place of that quality. You indulge and have fun for a time, but you feel gross once you realize what you’ve just eaten.

    I strive to be a different kind of gift. You open it. You ponder what made the person who gave you the gift think that it was perfect for you. You play with it for the first day and set it down. You might even spend the next day with it, because the first day made you feel pretty good. But, on the third, fourth and fifth days, not so much playing. Yet, you think about it. You didn’t stick it in the closet, or some box, and you glance at it as you stroll about your day. But, then about a week later, you can’t get that gift out of your mind, and realize why the person gave it to you in the first place. It’s because they really get you.

    I am not saying any of that as a ploy to impress anyone, but more as a “shouldn’t we all strive for that and be that gift, rather than dinner at Chili’s?”

    Now, is it weird that I am now picturing awaking next to a panda? Oh my god, it’s weird that I am picturing that, isn’t it?

    • I love this analogy. The men I choose have been all kinds of gifts, some cost me more than others, some like a Jack in the Box and some just harder to unwrap. Or you thought you’d unwrapped them, but in fact they were like one of those gag gifts at kids’ birthday parties – the closer you got to the middle, your excitement grew as the layers come off, the package became more difficult to wrangle; only to reveal a final empty box. I will never get bitter or even too angry because I have comedy! Also I love fucking way too much, which makes me excuse men all kinds of foibles. Human beings are just doing the best we can, and mostly that is a fumbling inadequate version of the brilliant, insightful, communicative selves we would like to be. And as for waking up with a panda, you are not alone:

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