I CAME I SAW I CAME


It’ll take you 40 minutes to walk from Mulberry Street to Williamsburg and about four days to give Justin an orgasm. Getting there is not a straight line, what you’re doing isn’t going to work; the sex road is a hill, that curves, and at one point you hit a ravine and you have to learn how to fly – because he needs to feel like you’ve never wanted to fuck any man as much as you do him.

And how does a woman accomplish that at 36 in NY with two STDs and nightclub habit?

You can do it, I’m not saying it’s impossible, I’m just saying it’s going to require your full arsenal of bullshittry, because on top of it he’s a Pisces. So obviously he can tell when you’re lying.

I suggest you first deprive yourself of intercourse, of porn, of anything related to your vagina including touching it, for about a week. This is called supply and demand. You spike your demand for sex and suddenly you can bullshit your way into any dick supply. This step is the cornerstone of your efforts, because after 3 days when you violently need sex you’ll amaze yourself at how good an actress you are; you will look into his face and all you will see is his penis, so when you speak words that you don’t mean at all it won’t be so discomforting.

You take him to dinner. One good dinner, well planned, with your wits about you, and you might not need to have another. It has to be a dark place, I mean you can barely see each other, a black hole where all his hopes and dreams about having babies can fall soundlessly; a restaurant like the Bermuda Triangle where everything he’s ever imagined about love can disappear without hope. Eat quickly and let him do most of the drinking. Talk about anything except him. Start with things that make you sound stupid, then things that make you sound smart. Circle and confuse him in the conversation; be a pirate, be an eagle, an ostrich, a race car, a ninja, a pair of apples, two napkins, a house, a good memory. But do not talk about him or give him compliments. Make him ask YOU for a nightcap. Because here comes your crucial move.

This is how you will sleep with him in 4 days or less:

You have to make him ask you for a nightcap and you say NO to that nightcap. You walk away. You don’t return his texts for 3 days. You stay on Mulberry Street as patient as a vulture with your vagina taped shut, doing sit-ups and calling your Father, avoiding Williamsburg and doing the best you can not to think about his tight ass – or the way his eight-pack rises up into his two chest muscles that are neither too muscle-y nor too flat, with just enough hair on them to remind you that he’s a man.

Then after three days you reappear, dressed to fuck, and take him out for a nightcap after his dinner with his colleagues, as though no time at all has passed. And when he asks you what happened to you, you just look at him with a tiny look of confusion; momentary, brief, making him feel he’s unaware of some great truth.

And just like that he’s on your couch.
And here’s where you’ll have to learn to fly.
Sex is the goal but the road must lead to an orgasm, must it not? And getting
Justin off is akin to free-falling when you’re scared of heights. He will look into your eyes and know that you’re full of shit. How will you make yourself look like you’re honestly interested in only him? Will your need to fuck at this point be so overwhelming that your eyes will look honest on their own? No. But fret not.

This is where you begin to treat him badly – very badly – diminishing him as much as possible into a tiny person incapable of pleasing you. YOU rise ABOVE. You beckon his insecurities gently and you don’t poke, you smirk at them. From behind an air of omniscience you look down upon this man who is seeking your soul and you say NO, my soul is not for the taking. But my pussy is. So do you want to get off or not because you have five minutes before I move the goal posts.

And hold on: you have to do this while listening to indie folk pop he’s put on, while forest-scented candles are burning in his apartment littered with GQ magazines, while he’s smiling at you like it’s a Disney movie, and while you’re so wet you could drown a small village because for three days you’ve done nothing but think about his trapezius and his deltoids, his pecs and his quads, his soleus, tibialis, hamstrings and trimester muscles.

But believe me, girl, you can do it.

It took me four days and it can take you even less if you put your mind to it. You hit a snag and you call me up, cool? 

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