Wednesday, January 26, 2011

The Secret Hopes of the Socially Inept

At a recent industry conference, one of the attendees asked me a most provocative question: "If you socially inept losers are so devoid of hope, why don't you commit suicide in greater numbers?"

My response at the time was a curt "Fuck off", but had he not annoyed me so much with his tone, I would have given him the response I am about to share with you now.

To a healthy socially inept male, all of life is a curse. He knows that he has no chance of ever boning deep the gash of an attractive woman, despite the overwhelming and endless horniness afflicting him. He knows through hard experience that any woman who expresses interest in him from afar will just as surely be repulsed by him once introduced to his timid and insecure personality. But despite this knowledge, the sad truth is that he continues to find hope in everyday situations. In nearly every interaction he has with a woman of even modest looks, there exists for the socially inept male an absurd, irrational, but very real hope that the interaction will somehow result in him getting his substandard dong clasped by the heavenly grip of that woman's vagina. Over the course of a man's life, the nature of this irrational hope changes and can be loosely divided into three categories.

Category #1: Love Will Find a Way

Men who are in their teens or twenties are particularly susceptible to this ridiculous hope, which posits that love is a magical thing, capable of breaking through the barriers routinely erected by the socially inept male's psyche (namely his perpetual inability to ask a girl out). The young man may believe that he has a soulmate, and that were he to ever meet her, she would somehow see past his dipshitted silence and realize what a special and wonderful person he is inside. And then she would make love to him.

Here is an example:

Nathan stops by his favorite coffee shop as he does every morning and is happy to see that Ashley is working.  He tries to hide his excitement as he approaches the counter. She smiles warmly as he places his order and asks him about his weekend plans.  Nathan suspects that her friendliness goes beyond standard customer service.

What Nathan Secretly Hopes Will Happen:

As Nathan hands over his money, Ashley grabs his hand and looks at him intently.
“Ok, this might sound crazy but I just have to say it. I have had a crush on you ever since the first time you walked in here.”

Nathan is—surprisingly—not surprised at all.  He has long felt that it was his destiny to be with Ashley.  “Ashley,” he says, “It isn't crazy.  I've loved you for months. You're the reason I tried doing pushups for a week. I even wrote a shitty poem about you.”

Upon hearing those words, Ashley smiles more broadly than Nathan has ever seen her smile before and tears well in her eyes.  She grips his hand tighter.  “Nathan, I want you to make love to me without a condom!”  The other customers standing in line can only watch and listen.

What Actually Happens:

As Nathan hands over his money, his hand touches Ashley’s.  For that brief instant, Nathan focuses his thoughts on the sensation of her thumb touching the side of his knuckle, and then the instant is over.  With the transaction completed, Nathan puts an obscenely generous tip in Ashley’s tip jar, just as he’s been doing every day for the past six months.  As he leaves the establishment, he angrily wonders if she’s been fucking the gay-looking dude who was working the other cash register. 

Category #2: The Hyperaggressive Slut

Emerging from the naive fog of his youth, the socially inept man in his thirties and forties has come to realize that he is not some "undiscovered treasure", primed to bring great happiness to the first woman bold enough to buck convention and ask him out. That nonsense has been replaced with a grim acceptance of the fact that a rational woman would not choose to be with such a passive and meek man as himself. But although he has abandoned the concept of a soulmate, he inexplicably has not yet abandoned the idea that he might someday have sex.

It is from this sad mindset that we see the emergence of an only slightly more realistic hope--that he might encounter a woman who is fiercely and indiscriminately slutty, to the point of being mentally disturbed. Most importantly, she is so aggressive in her sluttiness that she refuses to be dissuaded by the socially inept man's numerous attempts to blow his opportunity.

Gary walks to the end of his driveway to check the mail. He reaches the mailbox at the same time that a fairly attractive young woman in a light blue tanktop and shorts is walking her beagle past his house. He casts his eyes downward, knowing that he otherwise might not be able to stop himself from involuntarily stealing a glance at her tits or ass as she walks by.

What Gary Secretly Hopes Will Happen:

Rather than walk on by, the woman stops just as she gets to Gary.

"Hi, I don't mean to be forward, but would you like to have sex with me? The only reason I ever take this dog on walks in the morning is because I'm hoping to get laid by an older guy and, well, here you are!"

The question-he-never-expected-to-be-asked causes Gary to hesitate for a moment, though his schlong does not hesitate and immediately begins to swell. But even with the woman's intent stated explicitly, Gary doubts her sincerity. Although not the most gorgeous woman he's ever seen, she is still far too attractive to want to have sex with him. Already hating himself for the words about to come out of his mouth, Gary blubbers, "I'm sorry but I think it's way more likely than not that I'm on a hidden camera program right now, and I don't need to be humiliated on national television."

The woman stares at him incredulously. Her smile remains in place, but her eyes darken. She takes a step back from her beagle, cocks back one of her beautiful smooth legs and savagely kicks the dog in the head, knocking it out cold and sending it sliding into Gary's yard.

Gary is stunned. Remarkably, his amoral penis doesn't care and remains rock-hard despite the dog seizing in the grass.

"Name one television show that would air what I just did, " she says.

"I don't know," Gary sputters, "but I'm pretty sure most Mexican television stations wouldn't have a problem with it."

"You're giving me that wood," she demands, producing a small 9mm handgun that had been hidden who-the-fuck-knows-where. Then, rather than using the gun to threaten Gary, she simply shoots him in the stomach. Gary staggers, then lands onto his back, the fall cushioned by his overgrown lawn. As he lay there with his innards shredded inside of him, the woman tosses her gun aside then drops to her knees and pulls Gary's pajama bottoms down to mid-thigh, allowing his impatient and fully erect johnson to stand free in the crisp winter air.

Staring skyward, Gary smiles with satisfied resignation. "I have no choice..."

"That's fucking right you don't." The woman gracelessly pulls the crotch of her shorts to the side and mounts Gary right there next to the mailbox. She grinds on top of him, forcing blood to pour from his wound more rapidly, but also bringing him to the squirtiest and best orgasm of his life.

Bleeding out, and at the height of ecstasy, Gary wonders if he'll live long enough to call his friends and brag to them about what just happened.

What Actually Happens:

Gary thumbs through his stack of junk mail, pretending to be interested in it as the woman walks further down the road. Once she is about a half-block away, he glances up for a quick peek at her ass. God, it is a good ass. As he walks back up his driveway, he hates himself for having looked at it. It's not like he isn't sexually frustrated enough as it is.

Category #3: Acts of God

Once the socially inept man reaches his fifties and beyond, the situation is a bit more desperate. He understands that at his relatively advanced age, and with neither fame nor riches to entice the ladies, even a happenstance encounter with the mythical SuperSlut would be unlikely to result in him getting any pussy. It is at this point that he will turn to God as his last and greatest hope for a chance to finally fuck before he dies.

Barry walks through a parking garage adjacent to the local coffee shop on his way to grab a mocha. Walking toward him is Ashley, the remarkably attractive young barista who has come to know Barry on a first name basis over the past year. As she walks closer, Barry hopes she doesn't act too friendly, lest it aggravate the persistent and unsolvable horniness that has afflicted him every day of his life since puberty.

What Barry Secretly Hopes Will Happen:

Without warning, the building lurches violently as a massive earthquake commences. Ashley and Barry are both thrown to the ground. Barry's pants and underwear inexplicably get ripped off by a flying chunk of debris. It's all so crazy. Then the floor opens up and Barry falls feet-first into a hole. Almost immediately, Ashley falls into the same hole with her dress thrown up above her head and lands puss-first onto Barry's schlong. It's a quake-fuck. Then the entire parking garage collapses on both of them, completely trapping their bodies and leaving them entirely at the mercy of the earthquake.

Now encased in a pile of broken concrete and unable to move his arms, Barry feels like an anatomically correct Ken doll in the grip of a stony giant--a stony giant who likes to make his dolls fuck each other. As the temblor continues to wave and rock, Barry's luckiest-in-the-world penis is crammed in and out of Ashley with the rhythm of the earth itself. With Ashley's vagina easily 40 years younger than his grizzled old cock, and the circumstances leading up to this coitus so obviously guided by a divine hand, Barry imagines that this must be what it feels like to fuck God himself (up God's ass presumably).

Ashley is wise beyond her years and understands that there is nothing Barry could have done to prevent their parking garage screw. He simply had no choice in the matter. She smiles sweetly and conveys her understanding to him with a shrug: "What can you do? It's an earthquake!"

Then Barry ejaculates so intensely that semen gushes out of Ashley's nose and mouth.

What Actually Happens:

"Hi Barry," says Ashley as she approaches. She looks at the unkempt mop of hair on his head: "Looks like you could use a haircut."

"Yeah, fuck me right?" says Barry with a smile. Ashley seems put off by the vulgarism and gives a tight-lipped smirk as she walks by.

Barry feels slightly wounded as he continues toward the coffee shop. He hates it when people make him feel like a creep. And he hates it even more when he starts to wonder if they might be right.

Making his way through the cold parking garage, Barry starts to wish he didn't have a dick at all.