Many women, particularly single women of the slutty persuasion, take a perverse glee in recounting episodes of bad sex with a man. Some even like to challenge the alphalinity of a potential suitor by offering unsolicited stories of times in the past when they had endured bad sex, the unstated purpose being a sneaky desire to test the new man’s quickness or reluctance to assert that he is not one of those “bad sex guys”. (Sincerely answering this kind of probing question is a no-win situation; best reply is to tell her it takes two to tango.)
The femmesplaining and gloating by women cackling about bad sex is a rhetorical ego balm. The truth is that the bad sex theory, as a rule, is a misdiagnosis of the first cause: a bad stimulant. Women who complain about bad sex should look in the mirror. If you’re not very attractive, don’t expect the men who will have you to put much effort into pleasing you.
I’m sure there are isolated cases of men who for whatever reason are simply horrible in the sack. But it defies credulity that the world is overrun with bad sex bros; more likely is that very few men are banging their dream woman, and that this mismatch in the male hindbrain between bang reality and bang fantasy accounts for most of the bad sex complaints by the middle of the belle curve plain janes.
And the further down the female SMV hierarchy a man must tumblr to get laid, the less likely he is to feel the power of his Inner Jackhammer summoning him to feats of boudoir majesty.
This is the high unholies of ugly truths that sub-hottie poseur-thotties will never ever acknowledge (not that I blame them): that their romantic disappointment is a byproduct of their facial comportment.
Personally, I have noticed big differences in my enthusiasm with women who differ by as little as 1 point on the 1-10 female beauty scale. As a man of stealth and taste, Game and my accumulated experience with women have afforded me a lifestyle which precludes the necessity of dumpster diving for sustenance, however even a maester of the muff sometimes dates across instead of up, and heaven forfend even down a bit when the stars cross in cursed portent.
The occasional muse-less 5 or 6 has knelt at the Chateau pine shrine. From my perspective, at least, bad sex ensued, and I imagine they thought similarly though they kept that opinion to themselves. A perfunctory piston-efficient pumping, followed promptly by a snooze.
I can tell when I’ve delivered a sub-par performance because I know what heights of sexual abandon I’ve scaled when inspired to a great performance. The HB8s and yippie! 9s who’ve made the crimson-pillgrimage received the banging of their lives, all clitorises excited, all proclivities gratified, all G spots perused. Once, I broke my no-licky-the-sticky first month rule on a first date with a hard 9 whose pussy smelled of lavender. I went at her neatly trimmed bush like a tasmanian devil, gulping her aroma with the exuberance of a drowning victim piercing the surface for that precious breath of life. Anal? You betcha. Sweat? Through the sheets. Splattered juices? Like a crime scene. Bent over the kitchen counter, her head knocking into a cabinet as glassware rattled its orchestral approval? Oui oui, my mortal release. And did I kiss her deeply, passionately, longingly, as we met and pressed our flesh into one? It was required.
An older womanizer once told me that erectile dysfunction isn’t real if it can be cured by a younger, hotter, tighter woman. He was a mentor of sorts, and in his honor I remembered of him that old seducers never die, they just fade from the game.
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