I don’t date much anymore, which is a good thing since the Janmeister would kick my ass.
But there was a time when I dated. As we all know from my previous votes, I was something of a date retard. One woman even thought I was gay after our first and only date. Imagine that? On second thought, don’t.
I have always found the end of any date awkward. Sometimes, I have had no connection at all to a lass, only to have her manhandle me in the parking lot, wrapping her legs around me like an octopus, all the while trying to suck the life out of me with her mouth.
At other times, things have gone swimmingly, only to find that there was never a second date. This, of course, would leave me extremely confused. It’s not because I was overly aggressive… my mother taught me to be a gentleman in regards to women. Perhaps that was the problem. I simply wasn’t aggressive enough for them or I wasn’t a complete sh**.
Somewhere in between was a normal date. Well, I guess they were normal. I only wonder now because I was watching Forget Paris with Billy Crystal and Debra Winger for the umpteenth time yesterday.
If you haven’t seen the movie, somewhere in the first third, Billy and Debra spend a wonderful, romantic day together in Paris. At the end, they say goodnight. It is then that Debra did what every guy in the world dreams a woman will do at the end of a date. She said, “Do you want to come upstairs with me?”
O.K., let’s be honest here. We would much rather have us say this than you. We would rather be on our home turf when we’re going to be doing the horizontal mambo for the first time. There’s something wonderful about having the home field advantage.
I guess women think that, too. They know where the mace is, or the baseball bat, or gun. If things get a little too freaky, they can quickly diffuse the situation and kick us out of the boudoir.
And what a great name for a room, huh? Boudoir. Now, first, let me say that a lady’s bedroom isn’t really her boudoir. Historically, that is the dressing or sitting room next to her bedroom. But you can get pretty jiggy in there too, so I guess the term just got broader over the years.
Men don’t have boudoir. We have a lair or built out to its end logical progression, a man cave.
Even though you get home field advantage in your lair, it’s not exactly made for loving. For example, if we bring you over to our house and you actually accept, we assume you’re one of “those girls.” You obviously do this regularly, but if we’re really lucky, we won’t have to leave money on our dresser before you leave that night.
Notice I said night. As you know, guys don’t want to wake up with you necessarily. They will, but they won’t know what to do with you. Lairs aren’t made for entertaining. They definitely aren’t made to making breakfast for you in the morning. Hell, you’ll be lucky if the 75 thread count sheets on the bed have been washed in the past month week.
But a boudoir. Wow, what a treat to be invited into one. In my own experience, they are like going to a five star hotel. The thread counts are in the thousands, there are layers and layers of fluffery on the bed, and everything, I mean everything, matches.
True, it smells, but in a good way. A lair can smell, too, if you forgot to empty the fridge or if you use the space beneath your bed as your laundry hamper.
And taking a leak in a woman’s bathroom – divine. You usually have two ply. In a lair, it probably came from the rest stop on the way home or we lifted a roll from the bar we were in last night.
Unfortunately, the home field advantage is not such an advantage when it comes to engaging in a little romp-a-bomp. There is a reason for this. If a guy is in his lair, a woman will think twice if he reaches into the nightstand and pulls a protective raincoat out of a big Costco sized box of Trojans. She won’t feel very special.
If you’re in a woman’s boudoir this is less of a problem. But it feels a bit strange if she has any on hand, especially any that are marked XL and you’re just an L, M, S or XS. Well, scratch XS. If you’re just “all that” then you didn’t get as far as the boudoir to start with. Better to just please yourself ‘cuz you’re not going to be pleasing anyone else tonight.
And that brings us to extracurricular activities. Typically you’re not going to bust out a pair of shackles or even a vibrator on your first few go arounds. This can be a tricky thing. If you’re a woman and need the Beach Boy’s Good Vibrations to put you over the edge, the guy will feel like a total loser in the sack. But if you don’t pull it out and just fake it, you’re setting a bad precedence as he will think he’s the king of the hill in the lovin’ department and figure you don’t ever need an accessory when he’s in the mood for some lovin’.
My favorite part of the boudoir experience? It instantly helps you decide if your date has any possibilities long term. For example, if her dresser is loaded to the gills with girly-futz, you will never have room for your bowling trophy if you eventually want to live with her. Write her off right then and there. And oh, if she hasn’t washed her sheets in a while, you’re not in a boudoir. You’re in a lair. Check your date’s plumbing quickly and run for your life if there’s a handle that is waiting to be flushed, if you get my drift.
In the Emerald City, always looking under the hood before I open the door,
– Robb