puttin' it out there.

dear i+i: How can I become more approachable? In my entire adult life, only ONE MAN I'd be willing to consider sleeping with has ever made the first move, and that was on OKCupid. Weird foreign men in inappropriate pants, bros with sports shirts on, and extremely dumb men have hit on me, but that's it. I am moderately attractive, moderately stylish, and have moderately good hygiene. How can I get non-gross dudes to make the first move? - Unwitting Wallflower

ian: First off, and I think we can all agree most importantly: OKCupid® should totally be irby+ian's first-ever corporate sponsor. It is a fucking natural. We cater to similarly desperate people; we both traffic in false hope; we both feed on the shattered dreams of the fallen - smells like fucking synergy to me, bitches. And I know you corporate swine-whores love to throw around words like "synergy" - so it's in the fucking bag, am I right? 

Now to you, UW - I think your main trouble in this arena stems from your misinterpretation of signals. The human male is a blessedly uncomplicated creature. There are really only a handful of objectives that we pursue with any vigor or purpose: eating fire-kissed meat; vanquishing our enemies (actual or imagined); and dipping our man-wick into the molten lady wax pot (you getting this, Yankee Candle®? you hitch your stodgy wagon to the i+i rocket sled, and you can capture some non-spinster-in-Beadazzled-sweater-vest-crazy-cat-lady market share). As I addressed in a previous post, which you may find HERE, it is really this latter item that capture's the lion's share of man-mind.

To a far lesser degree, we think about awesome karate moves, spinnin' rims, and hitting the lottery or knocking over a bank to sock away enough fuck you money to walk away from a goddamn job. But these are fleeting. Those studies you've read that assert dudes think about sex every seven seconds? They low-ball it. (Advertisers: come ON - in that one [shimmering, perfect] sentence, there's opportunity for the latest Jet Li release, a Pimp My Ride® pop-up or American Chopper® crawl, the Illinois Lottery's Holiday Gold Instant Game® [which make great stocking stuffers!]. i+i fever - catch it!)

The so-called "content" of what a dude is saying to you is immaterial. The human male has largely been socialized away from the bluntness that comes to us naturally. We want simply what God-fearing and peace-loving people want the world over: that every conversation culminate in a sexual encounter. Yes, every one. Watch for the little nano-pause at the end of every exchange with a dude - the instant where he's assessing the possibility of friction/moisture being applied to his wang by you. Think for a sec. Every time you've had even the most fleeting interaction with a dude, he's scrutinized you for a sec, deliberating about whether it might be go time:

"Ma'am. You forgot your change. [pause/assess]." 
"Yeah, Lake Street is up that way, like 2 blocks. [pause/check.]" 
"Sorry my son puked in your purse again. [pause/significant look]"
"I know I've been screaming under your window since dusk, but I did two tours in Iraq and my PTSD is quite debilitating. [pause/cocked eyebrow]"
"I regret that you've uncovered my backyard cockfighting ring. I've been a bad neighbor to you. No, I don't. What's PETA? [pause/appraise]"
"Guard! My cellmate hung himself! [pause/check you out]"
"I'm afraid I have some bad news: we weren't able to get all of the tumor, and it's grown quite rapidly. [pause/gauge]"
"I concede you've just witnessed me fishing a mashed and crooked Kool® butt out of the gutter and light it with shaking hands. But you did not see me devouring that skinny pigeon I managed to catch earlier. [pause/reckon]" (RJ Reynolds! Wassup?)
"I concur. Shitting in your pool showed poor judgement. [pause/guesstimate]"
"No, yeah. Good point. But I didn't know she was like married-married. [pause/waggle eyebrows]"
"I am Pope Benedict. You may call me Your Holiness. [pause/nod meaningfully]"
"Look, just cause we're sharing a seat on the bus doesn't give you the right to tell me to quit picking at this thing on my neck. [pause/smolder]"

I could go on. Point is that every time a dude gains even the most cursory awareness of you and has determined you're are not outright disgusted by him, then the game is afoot, Watson. The dudes you cite as undesirables - "inappropriate pants" (AXE Body Spray®! your smelly idiots oughtta love i+i, no?) and the redundancy of "sports bros" and "extremely dumb" guys - these are just the dudes who are clearest on the fact that it's a numbers game and they just gotta keep rackin' up units - they're just tryin' to get on the board. Nothing personal. 

As for the rest of us - this is what passes for subtlety. If it turns out that you ever wind up in some form of relationship with one of us, trust me, the day will soon come when you're sorry as shit that this level of decorum is behind us. We are swine. Every last one of us.

But at least we don't hate foreigners the way you seem to.


irby: i don't know shit about karate moves. or spinning rims. apparently i'm destined to die alone.

my okcupid profile is totally fucking amazing. after re-writing it a couple of times and sending it to my smart and attractive friend kristen to review, i decided that it is the perfect blend of smart and funny without being obnoxious and false. and it presents a pretty clear picture of how great i am, but i tried not to sound like a braggy fucking asshole. it's fresh and brutally honest and in one of my pictures you can clearly see how amazing my tits are. i have not received a single inquiry from an interested human male party to date.

man, i don't know how hilarious i can be about this. my silly, sensitive ass. let's be serious for a minute: i have absolutely no idea how to properly solicit internet penis. especially not from someone other than a drooling old goat or weirdo in inappropriate pants. i don't know who the fuck these bitches in the commercials are. you know the ones, the happy women with all the big smiling teeth who are just so thrilled to announce that both she and her cousin and her sister and her neighbor and her mother all met the loves of their lives on bigdickboyfriend.com and adulteringhusband.org or whatever the fuck. and maybe you can't really tell through the old television box, but they don't seem any smarter or more awesome than anyone else i've ever met, so where the fuck did they find these normal dudes? AND HOW ON EARTH DID THEY GET THEM OFF THE COUCH AND OUT ON A DATE IN THE REAL WORLD?!

the idea that this is "a numbers game," as uncle dad so gently put it, is thoroughly depressing to me. i've never understood the appeal of collecting ladyfriends or whatever. and if women tried that shit we'd be labeled trollops and whores. having a vagina is totally the worst.

my grownup friends all say that "you can't find someone good on sites that don't charge money," as if the ability to scrape together $35.99 confirms your standing as a hot piece of brisket worthy of taking off that high-waisted spanx stomach-smoothing panty thing i've been wearing under all my clothes lately. but i'm desperate and weak, so i made a match.com, too. might as well see what the world of dudes with prepaid visa cards has to offer, AM I RIGHT? where the ballers at?!

thirty seconds into filling the fucking profile out and i was in a pickle. there are 1,937 options to select from when it comes to body type alone. and none of those options is "proportionally saddlebagged" or "deceptively slender ankles." how many double bacon chili cheeseburgers constitutes the difference between curvy and full-figured? how do you even know which of the two is larger? am i inadvertantly lying to potential online suitors?! THIS SHIT IS EXHAUSTING. i give up.

men have become lazy. and women have, as a response, grown more aggressive, thus conditioning them to believe that if they just sit around waiting long enough, some hot bitch will come sniffing around and decide to take him as her own. it's the fucking end of romance, sister. i can't remember the last dude i didn't have to hunt down and shoot with a tranquilizer dart before dragging him back to my apartment and demanding that he put it in my butt. and that's okay, i guess. the trick is not to get depressed about it. instead of feeling like a man-repelling loser, ask out every single young man you see who makes you wet in the pants. what's the harm in it? aren't you already feeling rejected and unloved? at least this way you can feel bold and empowered and shit. start a goddamned numbers game of your own. every time a dude shows up in the possible matches my internet yenta collects for me who is the least bit attractive and whose profile is written in complete sentences and properly punctuated i send that motherfucker an email. a form email that i send to every other dude like him. i don't even think about it, i just copy and past that shit 137 times and click send before my low self-esteem gets the better of me.

and if he doesn't write back, SO THE FUCK WHAT? who cares?! he doesn't know me and he obviously doesn't want to. his goddamned loss. but you'd be surprised at the number of gentlemen who do. and how impressed they are that a strong, confident woman such as yourself took the time to read their profiles (i skim that shit) and send them such a lovely message (he doesn't have to know i sent the same one to forty-seven dudes in the metro chicago area). so get to soliciting, GURL. and then one or two or twelve of those dudes is going to ask you out. and even if that dude doesn't wind up your husband, you might get to bang him. or he might buy you a steak. or silently watch you drink a gin and tonic you've paid for with your own money because he's a broke college student slash bike messenger and he used his last two dollars to take the bus and meet you at this bar because it's pretty far to walk from the apartment he shares with his nine roommates so he's also going to need a ride home or cab fare if you can spare it and oh by the way could you spot him five bucks for this ice cold colt 45? [pause/doe-eyed stare]

colt 45: it works every time®.