“I can't talk to really beautiful girls”
If there's some sort of divide between the women you'd f-k and the women you spill your guts to, don't let me know. I want to be a good-looking man's “buddy” about as much as I want to eat steel wool.
“My last girlfriend was a model”
And you shared her in a bisexual relationship with another model and they both liked anal sex, sport and swallowing. Men always seem to have spent their previous relationships in a parallel universe of six-foot tall, size-eight nymphos who get around on their knees wearing nothing but a drinks tray.
“Was that you?”
No, it was the dog. If there are only two people in the room and it wasn't you, then of course it was me. But if I can smile sweetly and snuggle up to you amidst a blast of foul air from beneath the doona every night, then I expect you to turn a blind nostril to my odd slip-up.
“But I bought you dinner...”
The dinner-for-sex deal just doesn't make sense. I've eaten some good meals, but none worth as much as a prostitute makes in a session. Besides, I buy my dog Good-O's every week, but I still don't expect him to f-k me.
“So do you girls, y'know, do it?”
Maybe we do, but I'm hardly going to throw my best friend down on the nearest horizontal surface and lick her silly just because you mentioned it.
“Do you really need to eat that?”
If I eat it, I need it. It may be frustrating hearing us rave about slimming down, trimming up and getting back into that bikini after we've hoed down a slab of mud cake, but when it comes to my thighs, I want sympathy, not a solution.
