Dave: Facing the Dragon

If I have to read about or listen to one more ignorant demand for men to be more confident … It’s up there with ingeniously advising a stutterer to ‘speak slower’ or suggesting to a paraplegic to think really hard about it then leap out of their wheelchair.

C’mon girls, do we insist you inflate your bust, or go on a diet, or complain about that monthly bleeding, moody thing you do? Okay, some of us might do. But that’s not the point.

Besides, it’s alright for women, they’re not born with irreversible expectations of magnitude on their shoulders. We all sympathise with the sexist mantra handed them – of seeking a husband, raising a family, and forming an unhealthy bond with Karen Millen – and so totally encourage all the options for modern life.

In reality, women are aware that thanks to the male libido, which they mock so disparagingly, they would never be permitted to falter in life. If they needed somebody, anybody, they could emotionally (read sexually) ensnare them with considerable ease. Now, even if that were true for us fellas, we wouldn’t believe it.

How can men exude confidence when women are in control of pulling situations? It’s tantamount to publicly presenting ourselves to the Dragon’s Den panel, then waiting off screen while they consider their options. What the fuck are our, oh so flattering, options? Wait around for somebody to approach us, then blow it due to the coronary induced by the overwhelming shock? Or be fortunate enough to be like the ‘lads’ women go for who prowl around indiscriminately trying on the same line to 50 ‘birds’ in one night, looking for a hole to poke no matter how unattractive they find the packaging. Hmm, I’d love to view it like that.

Most of the guys who are able to approach women on a whim are self-absorbed, over-confident jack-the-lads with a brains the size of seedless grapes. But I think most women know this, it’s part of the attraction and yet hypocritically they still berate us for fantasising over the moronic air-head with the fantastic legs and long blonde hair. There’s a difference? Well actually yes, there is. And we still hold the moral high ground. The most absurd differentiation adopted by some women is the divergent category theory: nice equals spineless. Is that like pretty girl means dumb as fuck? On the contrary, it depends on how the term spineless is judged. Nice and shy could still be the most authoritative character in a crisis, whereas bold and brash quite often equates to cowardly and ineffective.

What frustrates me is the fact the women so often fail to appreciate the blindingly obvious – the less confident the guy is in the girl’s company the more flattering it is for her, as he’s quite clearly smitten with her. And a decent rule of thumb, I’ve noticed through observing some of my less than admirable acquaintances, is that the more confident the guy appears, the less the woman he’s smooth-talking is actually doing it for him. You might call it a bit o’ rough justice.

Dave: Same sex abuse

As Thom Yorke sings, “You do it to yourself. And that’s why it really hurts.”

Perhaps he wasn’t referring exclusively to the abuse we inflict upon members of our own gender, based solely upon sartorial or physiognomical discrimination. But, I’m going to run with it anyway.

Each day regardless of what our brains are trying to distract us with, our eyes, ears and noses are perpetually focused on every woman who passes by. We’re conditioned to check out all potential shags from the point of innate reproductive compulsions. Hence the bitter frustration felt all round during these modern times as the opportunity to indulge in such carnal pleasures appears to be more complicated than ever (and this time it’s nothing to do with the ingrained shame of religious doctrine). No. It’s mostly down to our concerns over how others may view us should we give way to regular spontaneous fuck-fests.

Now, with the raging conflict between intrinsic desire and social decorum bubbling millimetres beneath the surface we need to lash out. Doing so in the direction of our would-be conquests would be counterproductive. So, reverting back to our caveman days of animalistic competition we attack our own.

We’ve all seen it. We’ve all done it. Women watch potential rivals like a hawk. We may glance up to check out a great arse in tight jeans, smooth shapely legs disappearing up a mini-skirt or a low neckline inviting you to explore the cleavage for hidden treasures. Notice, it’s all about the clothing (not simply lack of it). Grooming is the way we sell ourselves to the world, shamelessly. Done correctly it can transform the appearance of anybody into a sex-goddess (okay, perhaps not Vanessa Feltz).

I digress. But our hang-dog leers aren’t half as lingering and critical as a woman’s. They are so unnecessarily harsh about one another. And make no bones to even disguise it. Whereas us fellas, we don’t even try to disguise our mutual victimisation. Pointing out each other’s flaws: nicknames such as Baldy, Pecker, Hairy-Back, etc.

And no. None of them were mine.

But the funny thing is we’re generally fairly decent to the opposite sex. Despite what our personal Iagos whisper in our ears. In point of fact, I will rarely be seen using the urinal in any public establishment, no matter how pissed I am. Not if there are other guys standing shoulder to shoulder with me. It’s not a prejudice I have, more a rebellious penis.

For whatever reason, I have a bit of a shy bladder in public arenas. And when you’ve been stood beside a bunch of fellas pissing into a pig trough, without producing even the tiniest of streams, self-consciousness rears its ugly head. And that head is the one in your hand failing to do its job. You know full well that to admit defeat, zip up and walk away with your bladder still painfully bloated would make you rife for ridicule. So you strain until you’re red in the face, while trying not to inadvertently force out a dangerously wet fart.

All the while, the chap between fingers and thumb is the one feeling the embarrassment. And he decides to hide, shrinking back into the palm of your hand like a magician concealing a coin. So now, you’re noticeably not pissing in public because you’re ashamed of you small cock. All this stems from the same sex competition we impart.

And yet, the little man behaves himself beautifully on the rare occasion I find myself alone with a woman. So I never have any ‘self-conscious’ issues in that environment. This is because both he and I know we are less likely to be criticised by the opposite sex. Even though this goes against all we’re brought up to believe.

If we could only ease up on the bitching between ourselves, perhaps it may help bolster our self-esteem. On the other hand, the genders could start attacking each other for real and having a semi-naked woman mocking my own naked form would be mortifying. Yes. Perhaps we should leave things as they are. Right Baldy, Pecker, Hairy-Back, oh, and you too Fat Bastard?

Dave: Mind the Gap

I wish more women made the first move. And despite what they say very few ever do. Of course that could easily be misconstrued as the ones I meet not actually fancying me, but I’m far too pretty for that to be the case. I also appreciate that part of the sexual excitement for many a woman is the ‘dominance’ (perhaps not the most accurate term) of the man – leaning in confidently, making her knees turn to jelly, oh, the film industry has a lot to answer for.

But it’s that vital gap between reading the signals, clearly having gone down a storm – making her laugh hysterically, lots of body contact, etc. – and ending up in bed together. Or the pub toilet. Or a poorly lit corner of the car park.

But it’s the potential misreading of said signals, which prevents the follow through. I mean, being the over-sensitive flower I can be at times, the idea of leaning in, following hours, days or weeks of transparent mutual flirting, and being rebuffed is totally mortifying (possibly another reason so many sensible women avoid doing it). The devastation is explosive. You start thinking whether she now sees you as a terrible person (or not terrible enough, in some cases). Then you start to feel like a terrible person, or even worse, a terrible failure. And once these feelings rear their ugly heads, your already faux confidence has gone off arm in arm with your masculinity for a yearlong trip around the world, leaving you even more sexually unappealing, or so it seems.

It’s just that space between doing everything right, little pressure, everyone enjoying themselves and ‘closing the deal’ where all semblance of charisma and charm you had at your disposal decides it’s time for a well earned nap. It always seems so crass to actually utter the words, “So, er, want to…?” (cue raised eyebrow). Or else you worry it’s a mood killer to openly question the other party’s interest. Hence the lunging in technique.

Perhaps it’s a combination of being unable to read the signals, low self-esteem, and that desire to be the one being pounced on?

Even if you do get further than a warm hug and a hefty handshake, the introspective concerns follow you to the bedroom. Having impressed all night through witty repartee, you worry about her perception of you altering somewhat when you oratory skills diminish into, “Oh yeah. Oooh yeah. Use your tongue. Oh God Yeah, baby. Bite that. That’s good. Do you want this? Do you? Huh?”

I have been known to come into some criticism for being too quiet. Understandably they’ve questioned their own abilities. The irony being that in response to their anxious query over whether I enjoyed it or not, internally the answer is at times, Well, actually No. But nothing whatsoever to do with them. It’s the fear of reprisal. Losing the sexual allure you portrayed by losing yourself honestly in the throws of passion. Incredibly self-destructive, really. But hey, what ya gonna do?

Dave: Sexual Chemistry 101

I was at a mate’s birthday last weekend chatting away with a female friend for most of the night. We were laughing and joking and generally messing about (not like that) as friends do. Later on, outside the pub having a ciggy, my mate’s sister enquired if the girl I’d been talking with and I were together. When I asked what had led her to this curious consideration, she told me in complete earnest that the sexual chemistry exuded between us was that of a couple of lifers at Wormwood Scrubs.

With this notion evilly implanted in my none too sober brain, my ego decided to collaborate with the id - after all, my friend’s incredibly attractive and I’m a randy little bugger anyway - and I return to my friend with renewed vigour. Naturally, I would need to ease this theory into the fold lest my advisor prove less than astute with her revelations. So we pick up where we had left off, kidding around and after a while I throw the idea in there with an air of absurdity. She laughs, playing along with the idea. Ah, I think, allowing my rationale to be driven further back by pervy possibility. Then drop the smile and say ‘No, seriously.’ This she finds hilarious, obviously believing it to be part of the jocularity. I laugh along too. Then again losing the smile with improved sincerity and say, ‘No, properly seriously.’ Once the penny drops, out come the ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’ of discomfort, prior to the ‘good-friend speech’.

Why had I allowed myself to become susceptible to suggestion?

Simple. Signals are hard enough to read in the first place. Or more poignantly, easier to misread. So I tend to leave them alone, mistrustful of so-called telltale signs of interest. If she’d stripped down to her underwear and leapt on me tearing at my jeans, then and only then might I have thought, “Hang on, is she trying to tell me something?” Otherwise it’s the cowardly road of avoiding possible rejection. At least, usually it is.

It seems that bystanders (especially those of a female persuasion) can pick up on signals or ‘chemistry’ better than the participants. I agree that taking a step back, broadening the picture will normally provide you with a greater perspective. However, a fleeting glance at two people in a potentially compromising position is not enough information to go on and formulate valid judgments with. Or at the very least not ones to then pass on to one of the drunken idiots involved.

The problem is that reason is stretched to its limit in trying to contain and control desire. And it only takes the tiniest nudge of encouragement to free the moron within. You know when you fancy someone. And you usually have a fair idea if it’s reciprocated or not, especially coming from the aforementioned assumption that without physical proof it’s best considered that it’s not. But, the male psyche, in regards to sex, is disposed to outside female influence. This is what has us sneaking peeks at magazine agony aunt columns (that, and the mild titillation at the sexual queries). A casual observation coming from a male counterpart, and we indulge it for a few seconds before thinking what the fuck would he know. From a woman however, and that stupid part of the brain (probably the feminine part which would explain the psychological link) starts dishing out delusions of grandeur.

The moral is (though it’s more obvious advice than a moral) if you too struggle to read blatant sexual signals, do nothing. Never under any circumstances listen to the advice of a casual observer. Not unless, you get a thrill out of feeling stupid.

Dave: Puppy Love

Of course there’s no sure fire way of pulling the girl you fancy. Or for that matter, her ugly friend. And it’s hardly the most original tip in the world but I would advise getting your hands on a dog (logic dictates she’d be overwhelmed by the attention and you won’t need the roofies stashed in your back pocket) Aghast! What a terrible thing to say. Thank god for readers with literacy skills and a sense of humour, eh?

Anyway. Clearly I’m referring to a pooch. One that’s cute, affectionate, with a bounce in its step and a good nose for a hot mama.

So often do we shy away from approaching an attractive stranger based on the worries of not knowing what to say. It’s difficult. Even when a guy is left alone with another guy they’ve only just met at some party or whatever, the initial stilted conversation covers the perfunctory topics of work, how he knows so-and-so, and the awful weather we’ve been having. And that’s when the brain’s not pre-occupied with visualising the other person prancing around in their scanties and wrapping multi-coloured ribbons around your cock like it’s a fucking Maypole. Or perhaps that’s just me? – different strokes an’ all.

An adorable pup provides a whole treasure-trove of chat, coupled with the immediate illusion that you must be a decent bloke for being with such a fun-loving mutt. (Naturally none of this works if the woman in question hates dogs. Then you’d have to aim for being seen as the gracious hero shielding her delicate self from the over-exuberant slobbering of the vile beast – hopefully you’ll be substituting yourself for that role later).

Either way, the right dog can open up a world of potential meetings. I sometimes walk a friend’s beagle puppy through the city. It permits time for contemplation, reflection and a great opportunity to perv. This pup is particularly endearing. And smart enough (or stupid enough, depending upon your take of things) to be easily trained. Together we roam the streets, Shrek and Donkey on another whirlwind adventure, enjoying the splendour of a cosmopolitan city laden with beautiful bodies.

Just the other day, in fact, a gorgeous American art student in her mid-twenties sauntered past in her knee-length boots and some other stuff she was wearing. Facially, she reminded me a little of my ex-girlfriend but I didn’t let that put me off. So, I extended the lead and told Scrabble (for is his name) that the nice lady in front had some doggy-treats in her bag. And off he scampers, dragging me in tow to either apologise profusely or preferably enjoy a friendly discussion about the handsome hound.

And off you go. We wandered around together for half an hour until she suggests coffee (Then of course I start worrying that the whole thing’s going to fall through because I can’t abide coffee, but thanks to the modern era in which we live, the place served tea as well. Close call). We sat and chatted, shared a few self-deprecating laughs and there you have it. A handy method of meeting people.

Admittedly this particular occasion didn’t pan out quite how I had hoped. The chatting and laughter’s all true but when I suggested going for a drink later on in the week, she regretfully raised her right hand to reveal this tacky diamond, following with the words, “I’m so sorry, I’m married.”

Bloody marvellous. Don’t women realise that in this day and age of judgement and paranoia it’s becoming increasingly difficult to simply meet somebody you fancy and go to bed? There’s no room for these nice, friendly people to go around suggesting ‘coffee’ to a veritable stranger unless they want ‘coffee’ too.

Nevertheless, Scrabble and I shall be hitting the town again, now I know the potential for success is out there. Ladies beware. Woof Woof.

Dave: Role Play

We all consider that there are significant differences between the sexes. Indeed, we often each insist the other is crazy. And of course that’s not the case. Us fellows are quite sane. Albeit in a combative, world-annihilation, shag our own sister after enough pints kind of way. But who doesn’t get that? Fucking loonies. Now, of course we are dissimilar. Our entire make-up is distinctly different – we tend only to go for the brylcream and lynx at most. Bio-chemically, physical attributes (which seem to be evening themselves out more and more as society strives toward a more economically viable medium), and often emotionally – you know how guys simply cannot deal with the sniffles – we vary greatly from one another.

It’s there for all to see without having to resort to feeble methods of personal identity: the adoption of cultural roots from regions of the world alien to us. Flocking to a specific pocket amid the cosmopolitan texture of a civilization like inconvenient fluff statically fixed between the more independently prominent strivers for unity.

But in terms of partnerships are the gender variances truly relevant? Or do we fall into specific roles? The Yin and Yang of a perfect union. Isn’t it the same for all alliances, regardless of the intended product? Music, comedy, procreation, even religion (imagine the self-righteous sods trying to sell the word of God without the poor Devil acting as His alter-ego. Never would have worked. God would have just come across a vindictive wanker). All the successful unions consist of a dominant personality and a submissive one. However they are interpreted: straight guy and funny guy, good cop and bad cop, Pinky and the Brain, the roles are distinctive. And when the balance is right the relationship works.

It even manifests itself physically. The stereotypical gay relationships in the cases of both genders – butch and effeminate. Man and woman, as we are propagated to believe. And for same sex couples of less clichéd appearance, undoubtedly one member of the partnership adopts certain attributes less inclined within the nature of the other – work ethic, aspiration, sartorial or domiciliary pride…

But as time passes does the relationship take on its own identity? Governing the roles of its inhabitants. Moulding each character to maintain the equilibrium of the sphere. Shifting the dominant figure back and forth depending upon emotional well being or to facilitate unambiguous responsibilities.

Man becomes woman, who becomes man. The metaphysical aspect will always sound on the tossy side unfortunately. But it occurs all too often. The late worker adopts the characteristics attributed to the 1940s husband. And the home-worker is the ‘wife’. Especially poignant in emotive instances: any low or depressed period misshaping the Yang and the Yin will seize control. Should the man suffer a crisis, the roles become reversed. The whole dynamic spiralling out of control until you have a scenario where she’s standing over him impatiently scratching her labia through well-worn navy blue suit trousers while he cowers below remonstrating on loveless relationships and complaining of cramps.

It’s all been documented. Pigmallion. Higgins and Dolittle. In the end their established roles or identities begin to falter and shift. Even Pinky’s simplicity can outshine Brain’s sizeable intellect (though it’s obviously a metaphor for man’s foolish assumption that his head should necessarily know better than his penis).

So in the complete package, personal identity is lost. Or possibly found. Perhaps this is what’s meant by the philosophical principle of the human ‘soul’ having been split in two upon reaching the earth, resulting in our principal constraint to seek out the other half to which we belong and reform in a union of majestic serenity? Or may be we’re too lazy, too trusting and too expectant. So once we’ve ensnared somebody for the main purpose of gratifying us when we feel restless, we gradually palm off the stalwart strengths of initial attraction. Slowly succumbing to Delilah’s grooming shears without realising it until eventually she looms above you sporting a mighty beard constructed from your shaven locks and an entire roll of sellotape.

Dave: Abdicating the throne

A common method of maintaining our gender identity is by regularly moaning about those minor irritations each appears to possess. Why do men insist upon reciting the entire The Empire Strikes Back script over the top of the film? Why do women have to point out all your grey hairs then sadistically yank them out individually? And why do men persist with using unnatural looking hair dye?

The one that confounds me the most is the notorious toilet seat row. The endless whinging about us leaving it up. The tireless complaints of having to remember to lower it and avoid a potentially lethal incident.

Now, without getting too technical, the practicality is that one has to lower oneself on to the crapper. Heading in a downwardly motion and thus enabling the hand to pull down the seat in one swift, not uncomfortable, movement. Where the hell’s the stress involved? Do we complain that we’re forced to bend down, latently straining a vertebrae, grasp the seat then pull back up to a standing position, thus further injuring ourselves? Do you hear us whining about this quite clearly more strenuous procedure undertaken whenever we need a piss? At least we have the decency not to leave the seat down and piss all over it, however great the temptation.

In fact, it should be the responsibility of the woman to return the seat to its natural upright position after she’s done whatever ungodly thing it is that results in the room being cast in a choking haze of lavender spray. Does the concept of future rheumatism in our backs ever cross their minds? Or the unnerving dizzy spells brought on by the quick-fire penitent action? No. They’re too busy worrying about falling down the loo and getting washed out to sea. If the seat were meant to be permanently in its horizontal position, it would be glued to the rim.

We use the seat too. We don’t crap straight into the bowl. Not unless we’re off our tits and even then it’s down to pure laziness rather than a lack of awareness. And we’re more than capable of levering it up for a slash and down for a lethargic slash and a bit of a read. Perhaps women are just jealous of our diversity?

Is that it then? Are women simply lazy or envious or is it an expectancy of a world running to the beat of their drum? Perhaps chivalry has spoiled them? Holding a door open these days rarely receives a polite note of gratitude, not that we should only act purely for appreciation. But, you’re more likely to get a semblance of recognition for behaving considerately from another man. Possibly because we as a gender harbour a greater decorum or it could be because we fear some kind of violent reprisal? Either way, it keeps etiquette alive.

This is one gender related huff women really should let go. If they’d seen the interior of many a pub’s men’s loo, they would praise their boyfriend, flatmate, or whatever for a remarkable job of managing not to smear excrement across the back of the seat or wedging three rolls of paper into the u-bend while unscrewing the lock on the door and spitting all over the floor.

Dave: Flirting

Perhaps it’s nostalgic misrepresentation, but flirting seemed so much easier in our youth. You could read the signals far more competently. You and your mates would be loitering in one of the local parks, drinking Merrydown Cider and giving each other spinning blow-backs off a single joint. You’d plonk yourself down on a vacant bench and she’d come and sit on your lap. And you could tender your intentions with equal clarity by ripping the piss out of her then stuffing clumps of mud down her top. Ah, great days.

We just went with what we felt. The potential consequences didn’t appear to bother us so much. Or at least we lacked the experiences life throws at us over the years, to corrupt our hopes and courage.

Now however, we are perpetually surrounded by the medium of fantasy. Engulfed by literary characters and heroes of the silver screen. To the point where it has created expectations, as we lose our grip on reality. Confused between desirable and down right fictional.

Flirting – isn’t it supposed to be subtle? The more discreet, the sexier? Potent glances across the bar. A shy smile. A flick of the hair. All highly impractical in a world (or at least society) whereby we struggle even to read the signals from our own gender. What? Are you feeling unhappy, angry, confused, horny, flatulent?

Flirting is the sexiest part of the ritual. When it works. Solely because of the uncertainty, the mystery and above all the fantasy. It’s entirely an act. Albeit a pretty sexy one. Nobody wants honesty. We want to be dazzled, seduced by the sexy siren or the international man of mystery. Performances. Certainly we want to belief a truth of being desired but as long as it is charismatically swathed in bubble-wrap.

That wonderful scene in Tootsie when Julie (played by Jessica Lange), frustrated with men and their flirting techniques, vents to Dustin Hoffman’s Dorothy how she wishes a man would just be up front and come up and tell her “I find you very interesting and I’d really like to make love to you” So Michael, as himself, tries the very same line on her at a party and receives a glass of champagne in the face. Predictable? Of course. But that’s the point.

Honesty no longer has a place in flirting. In fact, it’s the most likely quality to kill any sexual yearning on her part. If however you have a particular fetish for pitying expressions and sibling-style hugs, then let the truth out in all its unadulterated glory.

Bring back the days when sexual blossoming negated any personal expectations. Before women became truly aware of their sexual clout and the insecurities that come with that. Bring back the shyness, the giggles, the headlocks, and the exuberant groping. And rid the world of expensive dinners, cheesy grins, prosaic yarns, and unambiguous social roles. Strip down the responsibilities of financier and mannequin. And restore the joy of flirting.

Dave: Cool for Cats

Some of us fellas put great stock by our relationships. We regard them as a mutual bond between two devoted parties. An eternal flame which requires the constant use of bellows to avoid going out. A sacred unification of two equal parts fusing together to form a greater whole.

To the guys out there who consider themselves of this ilk there is one piece of advice I offer. A truly essential snippet of counsel you must heed. Whether it’s your first date at a particularly luxurious branch of Pizza Express (no expense spared on toppings). Or if you’ve reached the stage where she’s already seen you crashed out on the sofa in your pants playing Xbox for eleven hours straight. Before you go any further with this woman you need to know this: is she a cat lover or a dog lover?

Ideally you’re looking for a dog lover. Indifference towards either beast works just as well. A mild preference toward the feline and you could be safe. However, if she starts pulling out photos of Mr. Grumpykins, the fattest, cutest cat in town, get the hell out. Don’t bother paying the bill, just go. Ignore the fact you’re one game away from doing the treble with Accrington Stanley on Champ Man, leave your trousers lying in the middle of the floor and head for the door. This relationship, my friend, is no good for you.

You see, in most instances, cat lovers tend to be dog haters. They detest the loyal, obedient, trusting nature of our canine companions. They perceive the friendly, fun-filled frolickers as weak-minded saps. Where’s the mystique, they ask. The ambiguous attitude? The hateful scratch marks across the cheek?

Cat lovers like their men bad. They are the ‘three-letter C’s’ types of women: Cats, Cars and Cads. Coincidence? Perhaps. Nevertheless, they prefer the obvious charms of a well-groomed, furry-testicled self-obsessive. The self-flagellating excitement of knowing that puss has only returned from his philandering for some ready-made grub and a place to crash. All the while swooning over the mutual understanding that should the cook-cum-litter tray attendant get a little over familiar, he has the freedom to fuck off into the night.

Where do you think the old spinster stereotype and her harem of mewing moggies originated? These women weren’t too shy during their days of courtship. They didn’t undertake a vow of celibacy. Far from it. They were simply attracted to the worst types of users and bruisers around. Any man willing to open his heart to them or show respect never stood a chance.

In truth, these women don’t even know what they want. The dog may appear broken-in on first evaluation but its sophistication is unquestionable. Sure his hair get into the strangest of places and his chronic flatulence is less than desirable when friends come to visit. But, the potential for danger is always there, lying understated beneath an erudite surface. After all, what’s the worst a tabby can do other than obstinately plonk himself down on the exact part of the Sunday paper you were trying to read?

Well, that’s as it may be. But, she’ll never change her mind. So dispense with your faith in a fruitful relationship. Once a cat lover, always a cat lover.

Dave: Sleazing the Moment

It’s that When Harry Met Sally moment (no, the other one), your attractive female friend has recently been dumped and looks to you for comforting words and a shoulder to cry on. As the alcohol flows, she opens up to you. Tales of regret. How to ease her pain she’s slept with a couple of his friends and couple of their friends too yet, aside from a moment’s satisfaction she feels even colder and more lonely for having done so. Emotion runs high; honesty pours out. It was just sex, and never any good because it was for the wrong reasons (you need reasons?). And between hiccups and teary smiles she holds you tightly, showering you with compliments (for the first time since you’ve known her).

Even without having listened to her confessions, you know the flirting is born from misery and the fact she can no longer see straight. And if you’re truly honest with yourself, the vulnerability may even act as a stimulus, however ashamed you are to admit it. On the one hand it’s your responsibility to restrain yourself for the sake of not only your friendship but for the altruistic feeling of really caring for this person. On the other you get to shag a really hot woman, without the burden of having to impress.

But a tidal wave of questions crashes around your head. Would she regret the encounter? Possibly. Despite initiating the proceedings would she consider that you took advantage of her? Probably. Or ironically, should you do the gentlemanly thing and get her home safely with what’s left of her virtue intact, might the feeling of rejection be too much for her to bear coming from somebody she knows and trusts? Typically.

Do you seize the moment, accepting her advances at face value, pleading ignorance of valour and foresight? Would it not be incredibly patronising to presume you know what’s best for her? And are you desperately trying to convince yourself that there’ll only be a positive outcome from boning your dejected comatose companion?

The greatest quandary is dealing with perceiving yourself as the sleazy shyster you’ve warned all your female friends, your sister, and ten year old niece about. What’s worse? That your melancholy friend may view you thusly or to see yourself in such a light? Though in terms of rationalising the situation, would it be even worse to pass up what could be a one off opportunity? I suppose the answer depends upon the length of the dry patch you’re having. A nice clinical conclusion to a moral dilemma.

Dave: A little less conversation . . .

Timeless complaints over how oversexed the male brain is (probably ‘cos the other regions are so undersexed) are a little grating considering the effort women put in to discussing it. We in turn frequently grumble about how women don’t even possess libidos, in a vitriolic, I’m not getting any and there isn’t even a pub in the vicinity in which to drown my sorrows, manner. Well, I’m not surprised. Women burn themselves out. Right from the word go, ‘teen’ mags, and Judy Bloom books are instructing girls on sex. How to please their boyfs. How the dashing yet, untrustworthy rogue is the one to rescue them from the evils of a humdrum life. Christ, if I were raised on that I’d quickly learn to resent the opposite sex. However, I suppose as us guys are raised on porn, there’s enough disappointment to go round.

And it’s not that we’re too shy to talk about sex; it’s just that that’s all women do – talk about it; hold hilarious ceremonial evenings; lingerie sessions (whereby any rare purchases never see the light of day).

They appear to view sex as an ideal, a separate entity, a fantastical part of their psyche which should never be tarnished with the rather enjoyable reality of getting sweaty, fumbling awkwardly and then laying there in stained underpants enjoying a post-coital pizza.

Such is the case, they renounce any responsibility for quality. It’s invariably the man who’s at fault should the experience fail to be earth-shattering, for either of them. Always something the guy has or hasn’t done. If he struggles to rise to the occasion, it’s safely presumed he’s nervous, or under stress at work, or worried his wife might find out. It’s couldn’t possibly be that the woman he’s with is just crap in bed – regardless how attractive she is.

But, even we’ve adopted this self-flagellation. Should anything not feel quite right, we instinctively blame ourselves.

A group of us were enjoying a drink the other day, when one of our number announced he’d finally got it on with a woman he’d been pursuing for years. Feeling pleased for him we encouragingly enquired how it was (purely to show our emotional support and nothing whatsoever to do with extracting the sordid details). He hesitated before confessing how useless he’d been. Must have been nerves, he supposed. An embarrassing admission for any man – particularly around other men.

We did manage to raise his spirits however, when another member of the group casually piped up with his own experience of sleeping with the same woman. We hadn’t mentioned this to our friend before, not wishing to hurt his feelings – he’d had a thing for this woman for some time. Further validation concerning her shagging inadequacies was given by a third member of the table. And once the initial shock had subsided, our friend’s confidence in his own sexual prowess eventually returned. Even if his faith in humanity had been irrevocably damaged.

The point is, how can we attract women with our confident demeanour if we’re piling on the pressure over our own performance? We must remember there are two people involved. Three if your lucky. So if things don’t go according to plan don’t beat yourself up about it, so to speak.

In fact, the next time I pull, I’m going to employ a panel of ‘sexperts’ to sit at the end of the bed and issue scorecards after the strenuous 180 seconds workout. Then we’ll see who’s putting the effort in.

Dave: on the pull alone

So many films have captured the romantic ideal of the straightforward pull. Picture the dimly lit bar in some American city, usually East or West coast. Devoid of custom or rammed to the ceiling. A man trudges in, seats himself at the bar and orders a Scotch. Inevitably, there will be at least one woman (usually the same age or possibly younger) also at said bar. And also drinking alone. A brief back and forth of monosyllabic decadence, several more inexpensive drinks and bobs your uncle. Another notch on the bedpost. Or most likely a scratch on the crack-riddled, nicotine-stained wall behind your manky pillow.

Unfortunately, opportunities like this just do not exist. Indeed, did they ever? Was it an entirely fictional premise? In the days when film was based around escapist entertainment as opposed to the modern obsession with documentaries, attempted realism and all the other genres designed to cull the population through mass suicide.

Where is there to go for the opportunity of engaging with a woman you’re yet to meet without either being surrounded by your pissed up mates or having to earn the approval of hers? It’s incredibly rare to see a woman drinking alone in a pub these days. And even in this modern day Pompeii, immediate suspicions surround the lone male drinker. It seems your only way to secure access over the ramparts and into her acknowledgment of your existence is through the company you’re keeping. Even then to cross the moat, you’d need to bring your mates into the conversation. Getting her to relax with raucous tales of the night Gerry got arrested for simulating sex with a traffic cone on the bonnet of a parked police car, blissfully unaware of its inhabitants. I was going to keep going with the impenetrable fortress analogy with a further Portcullis reference. But I think the moat was touching on dangerous ground so I shall not over egg the pudding.

There are clubs, I suppose. An illegitimate free for all for the worst type of primeval butt-rutters. However, owing to the volume of music, it’s less a convenient system of flirting and more a place to get away with touching someone up. Call me over-sensitive but personally I’d rather not end an evening, having misread the signals of one particularly seductive dancer, being made to feel a would-be molester. With that kind of guilt swimming around your head you wouldn’t even be able to go home alone and touch yourself up. Well, not unless you’re a very bad man.

Then some bright spark fooled the public into giving Speed-dating a go. Thank fuck that ludicrous phenomenon died a three minute death. It takes that long to exchange flirtatious glances and breathless pauses between generic compliments. Having a stranger rattling off his or her career, personal or sexual history at pace is precisely why women avoid drinking alone in pubs in the first place. Where’s the appeal in having to sell yourself like a reduced infomercial?

“I dunno, Bob, I’d sure like a little extra for my money.”

“Well, hold on there, Chad. I’m also gonna throw in good hygiene, a winning smile AND a BA(hons) in caring for small furry animals!”

The notion of potential suitors passing between school desks via conveyor belt in order to present a favourable account of themselves before the princess doesn’t even have a novelty factor. Especially when you’re bound to encounter her ugly evil stepsister at the next table.
And of course the infamous Singles nights held discreetly in the function room above your local pub. Advertised as thirty and up, to encompass a broad scope in clientele. But in actual fact only attracting men over sixty hoping for so nubile younger totty, and to there dismay discovering the women had the same idea. The only woman in her thirties whom actually turns up, invariably brings a male friend for moral support. They then spend the first half an hour chatting exclusively to each other before bogging off downstairs to main body of the pub and people nearer their own age group.

So what’s a guy to do? Enlist his friends, rally acquaintances, pay the odd stranger to stand next to him laughing at his hilarious tales of derring-do? Does he have to wait around for the next work-do or birthday party to try and get his end away? Or is it the soul-destroying solo night at a cheesy club, whereby you feel too depressed to channel any appeal into your visage and just end up getting smashed on extortionately priced vodka. But it makes no difference at this point because you’ve been gradually deafened by the excessive thumping generated by some Dutch ‘musician’ with an adjective for a surname.

Dave: Stick it up your bum

As Al proposes, there is a distinct discrimination against male self-gratification. Women’s needs and desires are catered for with the vast selection of dildos and vibrators available. Whereas we’re inconsiderately waved aside to spank our monkeys (or as a rather charming Australian friend of mine refers to it, kicking the ever-loving shit out of his gorilla) in the good old tried and tested way.

Perhaps though, introducing an assortment of artificial pussies would be admitting defeat. I can’t even picture what would constitute a variety. Once the NASA approved SuperDeluxe cock-muncher 3000, incorporating state of the art aeronautic systems of suction, has ensured cocks of all shape and size get a perfect workout, where does that leave the other plastic orifices on the market? But that’s precisely the problem. We’ve allowed our imagination to become stifled. Maybe because of the inequality of permissible methods of self-adoration. It’s deemed acceptable, nay, adventurous, in the eyes of both sexes, when a woman utilises the contents of her kitchen, dressing table or fridge for items to play with.

When women discuss their penis substitutes openly, it invites salacious leers and whooping from all those listening. However, should we let slip when down the pub that we too have had our moments of invention: Marigolds, a congealed Pot Noodle, your sister’s knickers – the black silk ones, with the rose on the front; a gawp of incredulity is the most we can hope for. Typically followed by disgust. As if initiative is a negative quality to have?

As the sex toy industry continues to leave us behind in the docks, it’s become evermore apparent that it’s up to us to massage our own creative juices. Let’s rediscover the days which spawned those heinous slurs of guys sticking it in anything and everything.

Venture forth, with a war cry of “I’m Stiff, and I’m Proud!” And raid every room in the house. Be experimental. Mix and match. Use a couple of toothbrushes (obviously not your own) and incorporate the colgate too – Icy Blast is a particular delight.

I want to hear ideas. Together we’ll show the sex toy industry we don’t need them – well, not together as such. We are after all, Men: inventors, conquerors, wankers!

Dave: the attraction of disloyalty

We’re often upset when we discover the woman we’ve just boned chose to have sex with us purely to alleviate the intense emotional void she’d been cultivating since her cat died, or ‘cos she’d accidentally overheard a friend commenting on her natural big-bones.

It’s not so much the pondering of whether it meant anything to her, though it can hit your pride, albeit as a distant after thought once you’ve finished strutting your stuff around town for a week – I got lucky, oh yeah, baby. The frustration lies in the considerable ease in which women are able to accomplish their task; plenty of guys ready and waiting without having to engage them in witty banter – a quick glance and deliberate brush of the hand across his genitals will do it.

Not so easy for us (you can get in quite a bit of trouble brushing a hand across the genitalia of a complete stranger).

Especially when your self-esteem isn’t at its peak. The lower you feel the tougher it is to sustain the necessary act required to secure the pull. This becomes a vicious circle of repeated rejection, further dejection, greater need for companionship and thus less ability to provide the appropriate cheery persona, etc.

Having been out of the ‘game’ for such a long time, confidence (never my strongest attribute, if indeed, it exists within me at all) has been at an all time low. I was sincerely wondering if I’d ever have sex again.

So I decided, following weeks of deflated deliberation, to visit a hooker. And one within my budget – not the best idea – weighing up the socially and emotionally ingrained indignity of the concept of paying for one of the most natural of human pleasures.

Needless to say, the entire process was incredibly unsexy and demeaning (for both of us no doubt). In a nutshell, my mind refused to allow my cock to get on with what it’s designed for – and it had nothing to do with the several drinks I’d consumed for Dutch Courage as my penis never seems to get as pissed as I do.

She forced a condom on to my flaccid member and sat back holding one leg in the air. Thoughts of shame, despondency and self-ridicule whirred around my head at volume until I sorrowfully mumbled an apology, dressed myself and fled, red-faced and £20 out of pocket.

Where is this going? Well, the last girl I was with, assumed, from my appearance, rather than my attitude or anything I’d said, that I was some kind of ‘player’ (I wish). Once we’d screwed a couple of times over the following weeks, it transpired that we got on well, better than well, we became best friends – so a relationship blossomed. A relationship which lasted longer than most marriages I’ve known.

That’s what hurt so much, once I’d dedicated myself to this person (as was my way) she, through personal insecurities and expectations based upon her father’s infidelities, decided I wasn’t cavalier enough (well, I am circumcised).

It wasn’t until I’d deigned to drunkenly visit a whore that her ‘passion’ returned. I neglected to tell her that I failed to perform because of feelings of self-loathing. Had I cheated on her with a non-working girl, I later discovered, it would have set me up in blowjobs for life.

However, she failed to understand that had I been sleeping with anyone else, I wouldn’t have stayed with her (possibly a greater attraction) but more to the point, it wouldn’t have made me more ‘manly’ but less so.

It may sound a little unsympathetic but then again, she left me. Hooked up with some geeky older family man and now lives alone. I guess it says a lot for my judgment. Though, until that disturbing turn around she’d always claimed to abhor such philandering.

Yet another example of that old adage ‘nice guys finish last’, as made homage to by numerous 80s teen flicks.

Dave: Women can be so tactless

I’d like to revisit the age-old classic theme of frienditis.

It seems an unfortunate yet simple state of affairs - and it’s easy to put it down to her plainly not fancying you. To her you lack that spark so often associated with the mystery of a stranger. Then inevitably she gets to know the stranger a little and forms a new friendship thus ready to cast her eye over to the next mystery man. Doesn’t that sound scarily reminiscent of the clichéd roving-eyed male – a brush we’ve been tarnished by ever so unfairly?

I was having a drink with a female friend of mine last night. This woman is magnificent. The aristocratic chime of her voice, her wonderfully positive outlook, her beautiful uplifting smile, and fuck me, what a figure. As per bloody usual, she reveals to me the string of disastrous dates she’d recently embarked upon.

The psychotically besotted guy who texts her eight times a day after one date. The charmless man utterly devoid of charisma and even the most basic conversational skills. The older man, possessive, money-oriented and extraordinarily boorish. The list went on like a particularly sexually-biased episode of Sex And The City (er, apparently). None of the potential suitors held a glimmer of sexual intrigue for her.

What struck me, having heard her distinct dismissal of any attraction be it in terms of physicality, sexuality or personality – two of them she admitted to not even liking, was when she confessed to have slept with all of them. Again, she recounted the disappointment of all the encounters (including an erectile disfunction scenario), as if it came as a shock.

Naturally, once the entertaining tales of failed dates had come to a close, the only thing I could focus on was the fact that people my striking companion neither fancied nor liked were getting to screw her.

And here was I. Chopped Liver. Forever fantasising about the curves of her body pressing tentatively against me. Here was I, offering an interested ear, making her laugh, sharing snippets of intimate information. Ultimately doomed to receive a ‘sweet’ kiss on the cheek at the evening’s end, and to go back to my bed to indulge in brutal self-abandon.

The question is do I mention my desires? Not necessarily in graphic detail. And risk receiving the response already clearly laid out on the table. Or may I be pleasantly surprised? Well, in my experience, any surprise is a rare bird in this all too often predictable world.

Dave: Treat 'em Mean

Just as the ‘Tree of Knowledge’ pops up in the mythology of every practised religion, so does the ‘Treat ‘em Mean’ mantra from every successful pulling-merchant.

An old friend of mine, whose arrogance is unsurpassed even by the most heinous celebrity chef, regularly preaches this me. Usually over the phone as he’s sneaking out of his latest conquest’s apartment in the early hours of the morning after.

He’d say it’s not about charm, or even confidence (he’s one of those typically insecure arrogant guys. Arrogance and confidence are two very different things). He’d advise rudeness. Not as in hurling insults at the poor girl, commenting on her dreadful taste in shoes. For starters, that would just make you sound gay, wouldn’t it?

No, what he meant was to appear disinterested. He’d say to glance around the room while she’s talking to you. Never under any circumstances seem keen. In fact, goes as far as to convince yourself you don’t even like her before she’s spoken.

Now being the humanitarian I am, I always refused to believe women love being treated improperly. Still do, I suppose. Sort of. Perhaps it’s a blind faith in womankind? Or a fantastical hope for my own behalf? It’s just that I think all people should be treated with equal respect. As long as they recognise my rightful position as master of the human race.

Naturally I put it down to the specific type of dreadful girls he must be going for. The kind I wouldn’t share cyberspace with nevermind personal space. Alas, this proved not to be the case.

I’ve never approached a woman I fancied and whom I didn’t know. Apart from this one occasion. I just wanted to test the over-hyped theory. I expected either I’d do it wrong – not offensive or dismissive enough. Or I’d hit the bar perfectly and she’d be a charming young woman who now feels utterly offended and thinks I’m scum.

So I was in a pub, and this voluptuous brunette was flirting outrageously with these dopey students, getting free drinks out of them (student loans must be much larger than in my day) then giving each a very predictable brush off. This was enough to rile my senses and I must admit that using negativity as a source of ‘courage’ to approach her definitely worked. Otherwise I would never have spoken to her. Now I understand what women mean when they announce we should simply go up and talk. Quite literally that, it seems. There’s no need for humour, politeness, or, as my friend suggests, charm.

So I swan over, as if I’m looking for a fight, for christ’s sake. And lunge in with some accusation of her ‘playing’ the poor sods fawning over her. To this day I can’t recall my actual words, such was the self-disgust I felt. Priding myself on being a decent man, I’ve buried that part of the memory. What I do remember is that I was brutally offensive. There was absolutely no charm involved. No intrigue she could’ve possibly felt. Yet, she responded. A conversation was brewing. Either that or a potential fight.

Unfortunately, I had to keep reminding myself not to like her. And sustain my obnoxious manner. And the more this appeared to entice her, the more I truly began to lose any semblance of interest in her. And when she leaned in to kiss me I found myself rebuffing this attractive woman. So basically I’d finally talked my way into a stranger’s knickers and talked myself out of them before I’d even stretched the elastic. It transpires treating them mean simply makes me feel unclean.

Well, my friend’s advice definitely works, but it’s not for me. I’ll just have to continue my adopted method of hanging around suspiciously until the right girl takes pity on me and decides to engage me in conversation. And more importantly, finds my nervous stammering, as I marvel at the rarity of having been approached, particularly alluring.