Everyone loves a good perve.

I'm probably going to anger the single men's union with this little slice of male trivia, but it was bound to happen at some point, and we have a lot worse to cover yet in the world of dudedom before the writings done - my eventual ejection was inevitable. I'm over it. Besides, I think something needs to be said and ground rules need to be laid over a little thing called "perving", in order to make sure both sexes are playing by the same rules.

It's probably not a newsflash to anybody (at least it shouldn't be), but guys absolutely love to perve. Absolutely. Love. It. Love-it.

We perve at the supermarket, we perve on the train, we perve at work.

I've always said that if I ever lose interest in exercise I will still go to the gym because the quality of perving is phenomenal. And before the lady-readers start to squirm, let it be said that we catch you doing it too. We're glad you like it. You're welcome.

Whether it's at the gym, in the street, or at the bar, every single guy, and some un-single guys will leer at women, will comment on women, will talk trash about women. We're simple creatures, and it's natural. What's un-natural, and we do it only for you, is to contain ourselves and be discreet about enjoying your curves. That kind of etiquette is evolution in action. Right on, Darwin-baby.

I guess if I had to define it, I would say that the act of perving is something that happens between groups of the same sex where all simultaneously gauge their levels of lust for an individual outside of the herd verbally. Assume for the minute that we're talking dudes (I've got more experience with it). One dude has his eye caught by a giggling, squirming, perfume wearing lovely, and the banter begins. He brings the attention of the committee to a particular asset...a well-filled bra, a deliciously curved torso, a booty that can only be referred to as a badonkadonk (oh how I love a good badonkadonk)!

Bring on the perving:

"Duuude....check out that booty..."

"Oh my, that is nice."

"Phwaaaah...check her out, dude, the brunette. Deelicious."

"My goodness I love her. I love her. Do you think she loves me? I love her..." inevitably followed by: "HOW COULD YOU JUST WALK INTO AND OUT OF MY LIFE LIKE THIS?!"

Hearts are lifted and broken in course of a brief exchange with your mates, and she's oblivious.

Why the hell do we feel the need to express our appreciation for a member of the opposite sex? It doesn't fulfill any purpose. You could even say that on an evolutionary basis, by alerting the herd to your intention to court a member of the opposite sex, the perver is only reducing their chances of smackin' that booty by increasing his competition!

We do it because it's the next best thing. We do it because we don't stand a chance. We do it because we're all thinking it, and we even do it in some cases just to get a laugh.

And there's nothing wrong with it most of the time. It's just banter. Some could argue about the negative social ramifications of this kind of banter, but I hope that it's just dudes being dudes, chatting about what they all have in common. Sometimes, though, perving gets sick.

I would never claim to be chaste, or a role model...or even a morally sound individual sometimes...but I do think that perving has to have its limits, and without attempting to contain an animal that, by it's very nature, will always be a private conversation between mates, I do think that even perving has limitations to its social acceptablism(?)

A couple of weeks ago I was at a house party with a co-worker and I kissed her. I kissed her a lot, to be honest, but it was just one of those things that happens. We drank a lot, we spent all night making out, and I walked her to the bus. Nothing has happened since aside from a briefly awkward Monday morning (which I like to think I diffused elegantly with an email saying simply "Haw haw, we kissed"). The details are best left to another conversation, but what is relevant now is what happened when I told the wrong person at work.

"Soooo...Lauren stayed late at the party with you, huh? Did you smack that? Did you grab those big juicy melons? Did you get her kit off? Go on, you must have!"

"Unnhhh...no dude. We were really hammered."

"I know! Something must have happened. Don't gimme that we're just friends shit, you were both there for ages, surely you tried something?"

"Well yeah, something. We kissed. Actually, we spent all night making out, it was pretty wicked. I definitely grabbed her ass, it was sweet. I seem to remember her wearing red knickers...but I didn't get her kit off, we just snogged a bit."

"OH dude! You shoulda pushed it. I woulda been in there for sure. I bet she has such a sweet, shaven, waxed burger. Oh dude, you should totally smack that."

"Ugh, dude. You need to get laid."

This is the point where it becomes repulsive. What if I really hit it off with this girl, and six years later I have to deal with the fact that my mates know what shape my girlfriends pubic hair is in? Or maybe worse.

And fuck - who calls a vagina a "burger"? Shudder.

Don't get me wrong, I certainly say some things that I wouldn't want my lady friends to hear, I wouldn't say around my mother, and I wouldn't want the subject-lady to know about. I say some bad shit, but I like to think that I keep it somewhat kosher.

Everything that's said in the course of perving, whether it's meant to be complimentary or not, it's all trash talk. I mean, it is possible to make comments about the opposite sex that are suitable for Disney, but where's the fun in that? It's gotta have some bite, after all, otherwise the next thing you know you're buying baking soda and repainting the backsplash in your kitchen. (Know what the backsplash in your kitchen is? Ha - loser.)

Maybe I'm getting old, maybe I'm getting a conscience...maybe I'm getting respectful. Probably not. Fuck that shit.

I dunno. I just don't think that line of questioning is cool, especially being that I work with this chick. Also, how does he know I don't actually really like this chick? Maybe I'm sitting here thinking "Oi, stop talking about my girl's burger, you twat, or I'll end you."

I'm certainly guilty of discussing a passing cutey's "big chubby booty", or discussing the bouncability of a lovely jubbly or two, but as derogatory as these things are, I like to think that there's an underlying insinuation of at least a minimal level of respect. It's like the difference between Stuff or Maxim magazine and videos like "Cum Dumpsters IV: the Gargle Bites Back". It's the difference between appreciation and frustration. The latter sounds like rapist-type-shit.

In my own personal experience, dudes are not comfortable discussing with their mates the intimate details of their lives, unless it's piss and shit, obviously, that stuff's funny. And farts, farts are basically top of the food chain. But when it's girls, I don't want to know. I don't want to hear how many fingers you got stinky, I don't want to know what positions you used. I don't even want to hear her moaning through the bedroom wall, because as cool as that is, I know you're on the other end of it and that's gross. Discussions between dudes about sex is something that should only be done in jest, or in bragging.

Examples include:

"Oh dude, I slapped that ass so good last night. God damn!"

"So, I was doing your mom last night and she farted. Tell her to sort that shit out for me dude."

"That's right! In bed by ten, home by twelve. Right on!"

This is good perving.

I can hear the women of the world judging us and clucking their tongues right now, even me, and I'm a good guy! They think we're disgusting and rude, and some of them are becoming lesbians this very second, I can HEAR it!

But! There is something that you dudes should know. Women are not innocent either. Women talk about REAL shit! They talk about shit and mean it, and they tell stuff! Read this very slowly: Women talk about dudes NAKED! They tell each other how big it is, they tell each other how long it went on for, how good it was, and what positions they used! They probably talk about how many times, or if, they came!

Not cool. Not COOL! I like it to be a surprise for a girl when she unwraps my junk! And if your friend wants to know that badly, tell her I've got a 9 o'clock spot she can help me fill, she can find out for herself.

I feel as though there should be a certain level of implied confidentiality when you get to see someone naked - kind of like confessional in the Catholic Church. Actually, a lot like confessional in the Catholic Church. I like to think that the fact that I have genitals is a cheeky secret that only me and a handful of women (many of them with lowered expectations of their sex lives) know, and I'd like to keep it that way.

So I'll make you a deal, ladies: you stop giving away the closely guarded secret that is my massive donkey-dong, and I'll make sure to titty-twister any dude that steps out of line with their sexual banter. Unless he's bigger than me of course, or you're Shirley from EastEnders, 'cause then you probably need whatever attention you can get.

We on?

Kelly

Kelly was the only set-up date I've ever had, and I don't regret it at all, even if it didn't work out. She had reddy-brown hair and loads of freckles. She was giggly and a little shy, tall, and about a year younger than me. Tall and shy are two things that don't often appeal to me in the opposite sex, but we had a lot in common and she had a brain and good taste in music.

I was introduced to her at the Calgary Stampede, by a friend who insisted that she was "perfect for me!!" That day couldn't have been very spectacular as I don't remember a thing about it. Nonetheless, we exchanged numbers and started spending time together and learning more about each other.

She lived at home with her parents, and was doing a degree in psychology. She worked for a children's summer camp when she wasn't at University, and had the personality to pull it off: goofy, always up for a laugh, and able to find fun in anything. It was endearing.
We did a few cultural things, we went out for Vietnamese food, and went to movies. I met a bunch of her friends, and one day I even went to her kids camp to meet the other counsellors and the kids. It felt a bit like the teacher introducing her husband to the school-kids. Kelly spent the day explaining their inside jokes and making me promise that I was having fun and didn't think their kiddy games were stupid. They weren't, they were cute and quirky.

I remember meeting Kelly's family, although we hadn't dated that long, maybe a month. It was inevitable as she lived with them and in fact, I think one of our first dates was the time we watched Beetlejuice on DVD in their basement on an old, flowered couch - one of those classic date ideas designed purely to create an opportunity for a bit of heavy petting. One night Kelly's mum cleared out and we made scones together. Everything with Kelly was fun.

The first time Kelly and I slept together, was also memorable, because Kelly was a good girl and didn't take these things lightly. We were in my bed, naked, and were having a hell of a time. In the moment, she stopped, and asked me very seriously if I wanted to take it further.

"Well...I think that's up to you." Thinking just like a dude, that it meant nothing to me, and it was only her putting on the brakes.
"No, it's both of our decision." Which basically meant "If we do this you can't just break up with me, this is important to me."
"You're right, of course it is."

We did, and it was unexceptional.

Shortly after we started dating Kelly moved out of the family house and moved a little closer to the University. She took over a friend's lease and shared the place with the two guys already living there. After we got her settled in we made dinner and watched a film.

After the film felt like a great time for another shag. We went straight into it, and things were going alright, but after a couple of position changes I realized that things were funning down* a bit here, and in the end we just stopped. Nobody came, we didn't tire out, we just kind of...stopped. She asked if I was tired 'cause we'd used so many positions, and I think that's how I fobbed it off in the end, but it wasn't true.

That's when I knew we were done.

I spoke to my two chief advisors - my housemates - one day when I started to think that things weren't going anywhere with Kelly. They were both pretty surprised, because they both openly had crushes on her. Len, in particular, adored Kelly, but he had a fetish for freckles. The only response I got from them, though, was surprise, as dudes don't really give each other advice on relationships. Their opinion on the matter was "Hunh".

It came at an awkward time because my birthday had only just passed, and it was her birthday exactly a month later. She was good to me, too - she bought me the Bob Dylan box set (5 disc!), as our mutual love of Bob Dylan was something we'd bonded on quickly. She also got me a book of poetry because I had told her earlier that I was trying to find some more authors I liked. Naturally I wanted to do something nice for her birthday too. Instead I now had to break up with her.

It was hard. There was nothing wrong with the relationship, but there wasn't a lot right, either. Those are always the worst, but I didn't want to lead her on and smile when I didn't mean it.

We had gone for dinner, and I knew I had to do it at some point. We were sat in the car, parked up against the curb outside my house, and I knew I had to say it.
"Kelly, I don't think we should see each other any more. It's not that there's anything wrong here, but I just don't feel the way I should and I don't think we're going to go anywhere. The last thing I want to do is lead you on."

What I got in response was a brief, awkward, and short acknowledgement. It didn't seem to be something she wanted to particularly discuss, but it did end with "....so that's it?", which kind of rang like "Is that your final answer?", and it was.

What more can you say? Besides, giving this small speech took everything out of me, and I don't know if I had the breath to say anything more. Try looking into the face of someone you've become close to, kissed, and been naked against. Hers was a smiling face full of freckles, framed with curls. Hurting her was difficult, but staying with her would be selfish and destructive for both of us.

About a year later I saw Kelly for the first time since that night. It was really good actually, as we were both fairly deft at disarming an awkward situation. My housemates were excited to see her too, which relaxed things a bit. We were at our regular bar in the city centre, and she had come in with work mates. It dropped in the conversation that she was dating someone else, and had been with him for a while now, and living in Montreal. It was going good, and I was glad for her. Nonetheless, she looked good and it made me wonder if I had been too quick to make up my mind and move on. In consolation, though, I would have moved to the UK the following year anyways, and she hardly would have left all her family behind for good to come with me. Don't get me wrong, I'm awesome, but that's pretty heavy, so at least I don't have to wonder.

*Funning down (verb): a term used to describe a reduced joviality in the general atmosphere of an event. Often occurs late at night after far too many drinks before people start passing out. A decline in general levels of enjoyment.

My Sexual Manifesto

I'm 26 now, so I pretty much know how the world goes. It's about appreciating little things. Like people who predictably get knocked off balance when the train jumps forward, yet they still refuse to hold on. I usually see that coming.

It's not very easy to make me angry. Some people think that makes me a pushover, but I see it as a character strength. It's one of the things that I respect when I see it in other people.

Sometimes I find myself wondering "What would be the most socially inappropriate thing I could do in this situation?" Usually the answer is "vomiting", or "licking that strangers neck".

I embrace weather. It makes me crazy to hear people complain about the weather every morning. I think if life's a chore for you you should get out.

Living in another country makes it easier to appreciate things you never noticed at home. It makes me look at the way toilets flush, and why signs for emergency exits are green.

I get the impression that I'm a pretty normal guy. I've had my share of experience with girls, and I've certainly made my share of mistakes with them. That is, of course, how you gain any sort of fluency in the female language. I'm a bumbling, awkward prat around members of the opposite sex, but I admit it, and I like to think that makes it okay.

It also helps that I absolutely adore women. I know that as a dude I'm expected to, but not every guy does. A lot of guys appreciate them only to the extent that they would appreciate a pet. They expect to just pat them on the head and put a bowl on the floor for them and their girlfriend will come running to lick their face. There are obvious faults to this way of thinking, and it entirely misses the best things about women.

I think women are wonderful beings, and that if they knew how lovely they were there would be a lot more lesbians in this world. Women smell good, they change their underwear regularly, and they don't fart. They wear bright colours and they giggle amazingly. Men stink, can't cook, and expect the world to revolve around them.

I have personally met women who will cook for others all day long and will not rest until everyone around them is groaning with contentment - and they do this out of enjoyment! Such giving creatures. I cannot personally fathom how someone would take such joy from the chore of cooking dinner. Yes, women are wonderful beings, just don't tell them lest they realize how little they need us dudes.

It has been suggested in the past that my appreciation for all things female may come from the fact that my late teens were spent living with three women - two older sisters, and my mother. At this point my dad had taught me the necessities of being a young man, including fish-gutting, hitting a baseball, sleeping in the snow, and whizzing with the bathroom door open. At this point I was able to live with women without the slightest fear of losing out on something vital to my masculinity. In fact, my fondest memories of my early teens are of my older sister and I baking cookies with too many chocolate chips to be structurally sound and cleaning the house top to bottom when my mother left for work so a to surprise her on her return. Before High School was finished, my dad was living in his own place around the corner, and I was then full-time in the care of the female race.

Besides, by this time the Royal Canadian Army Cadets had taken over my male education and were doing an excellent job of picking up where my dad left off. By the time I was 16 I had fired more rifles, slept in more tents, climbed more mountains, and worn more military uniforms than men twice my age, and my childhood ambition was to make my career with the British Parachute Regiment the minute I finished High School.

On the other hand maybe it was my fully-developed masculinity that allowed me to become comfortable enough with myself that I could really enjoy the wonders of women.

Years later, this appreciation for women is what brings me to my dilemma: I want one. Just one is all I need, but it has to be the right one of course. I would love to provide you with a list of requirement - a list of must-have items on my shopping list that need to be fulfilled in order to make me happy, but every time I play that game I only prove myself wrong.

I used to think that I adored brunettes and had little use for blondes, and then I dated 3 blondes in a row (and lusted after countless others). I have always had an appreciation for short chicks, but not exclusively, either. The only constant that I've stuck to is that I can't date a girl who I didn't find at least somewhat intelligent.

That hasn't stopped me from dabbling with the occasional idiot, though. I always kid around about dumb women being easier to trick into bed, but of course there's a lot of truth to it too. This is why aerobics instructors are a staple of most men's fantasies.

But back to the point - I want my very own beautiful woman to love and adore and cuddle and buy things for. The right girl can make you do all of these things until you're broke and homeless and have lost every friend you had, and still you're happier to give her everything that's yours to give. And the best thing is, you get even more enjoyment out of every gift that she gets out of receiving it. Her only gift in return need be a smile and a coy look of satisfaction.

It was inevitable that it would happen - I've had a few run-ins with love and it's not so ba. Kinda makes you appreciate it, but the best thing about having been there in the past is that you can see when it's happening to you again and you can shrug off its charms when it's inconvenient.

That's not to say that my current predicament has come from a need for love. On the contrary, my current situation is a product of playing the game too much. I've never been anything but honest with a girl, in my intentions and in the way I feel, but it all gets to be too much sometimes and at some point you realize that you want to get off the treadmill. You want a steady thing, and you find yourself thinking only about the high points of every relationship you've ever had. You want to retire at your pinnacle and lock in with a girl you really like. Everyone wants to be impressed with the person they eventually end up with.

I think ultimately I want to meet a girl who challenges me, keeps me on my toes, and pushes me around a little. I'm a bit of a bully myself - not physically, but I have a strong personality and I throw it around a little sometimes. I love strong women, but they're a lot to handle. They aren't the kind of girls who you waggle your little finger at and they come running, but who wants that? What wants a robot around the house? I'd just get a fucking dog if I wanted someone who did what they were told. So off I go on the hunt for something more.

On that hunt, though, I've always had a few rules, and I stick to these rules very strictly:

1) I never cheat. If there's someone else I'd rather be with, then I'll be with her. If I'm tempted enough to fool around, then i'm not satisfied enough with my current position to stick around. Get out.

2) I never mislead someone to get what I want. Admittedly, I'm not always looking for happily-ever-after. In fact, sometimes I can't even promise to be there the next morning when she wakes up, but she will know that and expect it. I will never try to be something I'm not, but I can't promise that what I want in the beginning won't change before it's over. If what I want is different from what she wants, I get out.

3) Remember that I'm a dude, and I have needs. Girls do it too. Don't expect every relationship to be about anything more than sex. With that in mind, remember rules 1 and 2. As long as nobody's getting hurt, it's fair game. If someone's getting hurt, I'll apologize and get out.

4) Only tell them you love them if you mean it. Don't think that spelling it with a " u"makes it alright to deceive - if you're not convinced, don't play with their hearts. Women are emotionally high strung, and that kind of thing can leave them crying into a cup of hot chocolate every night for longer than they'll ever admit.

I grew up in Victoria, BC, Canada. Most of my first sexual experiences were with girls I met at Army Cadets. You put 25 pubescent guys and 5 girls in a bunch of tents out in the bush and you're going to come back with 8 guys wearing huge grins and 3 girls who can't walk right for a week.

When I turned 18 I moved to Cambridge, England, for about a year, and then I spent 5 years in Calgary, Alberta. After Calgary I lived in Victoria and then Lethbridge, and eventually I moved to London. When you move around that much in the space of 6 or 7 years it doesn't make sense to get into anything serious.

I always considered my transient years my practice years. These practice years led me to the final exam, or in my case, London. With a degree in Finance, London is a great place to find work, and it's not so bad for finding women, either.

For 6 or 7 years before the big leagues, though, I was tempted to get into heavy relationships. Admittedly it was stupid, but I adore women, and I can't stay away, I'm only human. Besides, it's easy to get carried away in a relationship. Suddenly you find yourself thinking

"Maybe this girl would like London? Maybe she could spend her life on the other side of the pond and find a job there somehow?"

But you know she can't. Regardless, you need a bit of experience before you make it to the regular season - before the cup is at stake. If you don't play the exhibition games you will never win in the regular season.

Before I moved to London I had told only one girl that I loved her, but I had meant it at the time. We had talked about her coming with me, but we both knew she wouldn't. People in love are irrational by definition. Level-headed people in love do stupid things and can't even see it.

I had been asked by other girls before I finished University, what would happen when I was done with my time in Calgary. They knew I couldn't wait to be unleashed from my educational sentence and would soon be roaming the world. Their only question was would it be with them or on my own. In keeping with my position of never leading a girl on I could do nothing but skirt the question, leaving them rattled and well aware of my answer, but happy enough to deny it to themselves and any concerned parent who should suggest that they were getting too attached to a boy destined to move on. In my defense I have always been inclined to cross bridges only when I come to them, and have never seen the benefit of conjecture, particularly when the decision need not be made for years to come. Had things worked out I would just as soon have asked my mate to join me on my travels. It would have been doing more disservice to us both by not waiting to make that decision.

As much as I've somehow had a reputation for it, I've never been a great charmer of women. I often find myself with more female friends than I do male ones, which to me shows nothing more than my appreciation and understanding for the creatures. In fact, it probably infers more of an inability to entice these girls than demonstrate virility. Most of these girls probably became friends out of a failed attempt to sleep with them.

At the very least this has left me with a vast team of sexual advisors in all things female; an army of agony aunts spread across Canada and parts of the UK, most of them available by the push of a few buttons on my mobile phone or through a simple email, bound to be returned in hours or days with insightful commentary, musings, and well wishes. Casanova never had it so good (although he probably didn't need it like I do).

My sexual conquests prior to University were admittedly slim. Like every man ever grown, I've had to come to terms with the fact that most of the courting process is on my shoulders. The role of women is often considered to merely be keeping themselves attractive enough to be flirted with, and the role of men is often to initiate an opportunity. I absolutely hate chasing women, as I have no respect for men who letch and leer all over them in the hopes of tricking them into bed, and I have no desire to represent those guys. That being said though, I have the same perverted desires that those guys do.

In fact I have always felt it my obligation to myself to sow my wild oats and get a lifetime worth of sexual debauchery out of my system while I'm still in my early years. I am utterly convinced that a man (I cannot speak for women) will never be sexually satisfied until he has experience all (or nearly all) of his perverted sexual fantasies. I firmly believe that this is often the cause of divorce and unhappy marriages, and for that reason I feel it is my duty to do some sick shit with the women of this world before I settle down.

This is why, given the opportunity, I spent my time at University ploughing as many fertile fields as I could. These were the glory days of sexuality for me, and I knew it. I knew that I could play the game to a glorious extent, more so than most can, becasue I knew that my slate would be wiped clean and I could move on to the big leagues of London without bringing with me a sullied reputation, only an ingratiated libido and sense of masculine accomplishment, justified in my ability to satisfy a woman.

The foundation was laid, and soon, so would be many an Albertan girl.