The Game is Afoot

I feel as though I should justify a little something I've referred to previously - a friendly competition between my housemates and I, known as "the Game".

The game entails only one year of what is inevitably going to be referred to in the history books as "The Craig Snider Epoch", but contains about half of my adult sex-life, and as such is an important milestone in not only my sexual development, but the development of my ability to meet women.

One evening, huddled excitedly outside in the falling snow on my front porch in Calgary while Len and Turner smoked we became deeply engaged in some male banter, which wasn't unusual. The energy was high as we were planning a big night out and the drinking had already begun. Over some friendly competitive chat the idea came about that it would be funny to compete on the sexual playing field. The appeal of it was primarily that it was such a horrendously over the top macho idea and so absolutely ludicrous to compete in such a manor that we couldn't wait to start.

The rule was to be that in order to score a point, the competitor had to either have sex with the girl or get head from her. As such many a point was scored with my hands clasped firmly behind my head while a self-congratulatory grin crept across my face. The point was almost inevitably sweeter than the The provision for oral was thrown in because Turner, one of the housemates, didn't like to hump around, and often held back to just oral. Not all of us were such angels, though, so either method earned a point. The girl had to be someone you had never done either of these things with before, so no trawling through the little black book for ex's, which took the wind out of my early confidence.

It was a very convenient time to start as I had broken up with Renee only weeks earlier and today was New Year's Eve. This made it easy to set start and end dates - we would start at midnight and go for a year. We even laughed that it was just our luck that we would probably all go out that night and meet a girl each, but have to hold her off of sleeping with us before midnight in order to be able to count the point. This high was our level of confidence.

Many a night started with Turner excitedly throwing on a clean shirt and excitedly announcing "I'm gonna get myself a POINT tonight!" followed by a round of laughs and some trash talk. This is what the game was all about, fueling the banter. It was never about the sex, though I can think of no better way to celebrate a victory. I guess it was an excuse to rub in the fact that one of us had scored and to brag about our exploits. It also justified our slutty behaviour.

Early on in the competition the three of us had plans to fish our favourite pond, the Drum and Monkey in downtown Calgary. It was a grungy bar that Turner had been going to since he'd moved to Calgary years ago. It played a lot of reggae and had the kind of crowd you'd expect at a Sublime gig - pot heads, grungers, and a few punk-types. It was a very trendy place - one night I even met one of the girls from a popular indie band, Broken Social Scene there, collecting empty glasses - only weeks earlier she had been playing the stage at the Much Music Video Awards in Toronto. Turner still bumped into a lot of old friends at the Drum, and it wasn't long before Len and I did too, including the staff and other regulars. The staff didn't give a fuck about us, even if they did recognise us, but we would inevitably bump into a few friends in that pub which in any other place may be confused for homeless people.

The night was uneventful for the most part, and just at the point where things were getting hazy, Len and I were dancing in a dark corner of an adjoining room, in front of the DJ. Somehow sparks flew and I found myself dancing with a cute young blonde girl with a nice shape and a mischievous smile. Len quickly pulled me away to the next room and tried to reason with me.

"What're you doing? You just broke up with Renee, dude!"

"I djunno, djude, she wush kyute. Didja see her? Keyute."

She was cute, and I was hammered. But I'm fairly certain Len was interested in her. We had never really crossed paths on the playing field before.

Regardless, that was the last we saw of her for the time being, and we got a few more drinks and looked for Turner. Not long after that we found ourselves outside trying to wave down a cab.

Finding a cab in Calgary after 2 is impossible. At any time it's difficult, but when the bars let out and the streets are crawling with drunken twenty-somethings shouting and dripping after-bar pizza all over their shirts, it's truly impossible.

Our regular strategy was to split up and each work a different corner outside the bar, shouting at any yellow car that went by. Len's good fortune was that the blonde girl we both fancied stumbled by his corner with a friend, also looking for a cab. Without asking where she was going Len decided she was joining us, and we instantly became five. My good fortune was that she was still interested in me.

I distinctly remember getting into the cab, Len parked between this girl and I in the back seat, and the sparks continuing to fly. While he was leaned forward, giving the driver directions, this girl and I were already preoccupied with each other, her friend was fretting about fitting 4 in the back seat, and Turner was too hammered to be any use to anyone. This girl and I were already flirting, and I was blunt as a shovel.

"You're cute. Come here." I said, looking her right in the eye, and reaching out for her hand.

"You too." she came back with.

"Come here and kiss me." which she did.

On the way home Len managed to convince the girls to come for another drink at ours, and that they were welcome to stay. Good ol' boy.

The girl I was hitting it off with was more than okay with this, but her friend who's name turned out to be Jen, was going along with it in a thinly-veiled passive aggressive way, which my new friend pretended not to notice.

After we got home, we set everyone up with a few drinks and a seat in the living room. God knows what we had to talk about, but after some further flirting and laughs, my blonde friend excused herself to go to the bathroom. This was my cue to excuse myself and wait for her to finish. I accosted her on the way back to her seat, and got things going again in the privacy of a darkened hallway. We shuffled to my bedroom, not to return 'til the next morning. Only a few weeks in and I had my first point. I was liking this game. Her friend Jen crossed my mind, but I knew she would sort herself out, and I was busy.

It's probably worth mentioning, at this point that very few girls by the name of Jen were actually called Jen by Len, Turner, or myself. Between the three of us we knew so many girls by that name that we had informally begun to assign each one of them a nickname. The roster included Jenny the Pirate (who wore a pirate costume to our Halloween party and stole our hearts), Dub Jen (who we met at reggae night at the Drum), Jenny Rim-Job (much more innocent than it sounds), Crazy Jen (fairly self-explanatory), and Badonkacronk, who was fortunate enough to have the last name Cronk. Joe-Lee's friend Jen, unfortunately, didn't have the personality to merit a nickname. Getting her to respond to her own name with anything remotely interesting was chore enough, so she was simply called "Joe-Lee's Jen".

The next morning I woke up beside this little blondie, my mouth heavy with the taste of last night's pints. My friend was easily coerced into an early morning session to reacquaint ourselves, although shortly after it occurred to me that I couldn't remember my new friend's name. The thing is, I knew she had told me the night before, so I had no excuse to be drawing a complete blank at this point. To be honest I think I had been preoccupied with how cute she was, and had not even listened when she'd told me. Not to worry, I have a strategy to get around these things:

"Wow, last night was a blast." I said as I handed her a pen and a pad of paper. "Write down your number for me, would ya?"

Brilliant. No one would ever just jot down a phone number without naming it, and I didn't have to ask. Not only that, but I should be able to keep it as a tangible reminder should I forget again. It's times like these that I wonder why I never made it to the major leagues.

According to the scribble above those all-important 7 digits, her name was Jo...something. Joelle? Probably.

But later that morning, on the couch in front of a film with her and Turner I was brought down to earth again.

"Hey Joelle, you hungry?"

"What did you call me?"

"Ummhh.... Jo...elle?"

"It's Joe-LEE." Sternly. But not that sternly. I can still save this.

Then Turner laughs. I decide - I can't save this.

After some blushing, some explanations, and some sucking up, I saved it. We had a couple of days together and I started to learn a bit about Joe-Lee.

Her dad had wanted a boy, and wasn't shy about it. He was going to name his boy after Bruce Lee, so when she turned up with only 20 extremities (instead of the 21 he'd wished for) he simply changed it to what he felt was a suitably feminine name. She had coincidentally been born in a minutely small town 10 minutes up the road from the minutely small town I was born in. Only I had moved 5 years later and she had waited until college to relocate somewhere more interesting.

Joe-Lee, it turned out, was a leech. She never had any money because she only worked 16 hours a week. That was she was still eligible for student welfare payments and tuition grants while she studied to be a dental assistant. She lived in her own apartment, also paid for mostly by the government. What she didn't get from the government, she tried to get from me.

The following Friday, Len, Turner and I were to go out for my ex-girlfriend Renee's birthday party. Renee and I had dated for a year and a half, and only broken up a couple of weeks before I met Joe-Lee. Rather predictably, the party was to be at the Drum and Monkey.

That night, Len, Turner and I were sitting with Renee and some of her friends around a table sharing a pitcher when someone caught my eye. I got an elbow in my side from Len, and a heads up: "Dude, Joe-Lee just walked in."

Shit. This didn't need to happen. Renee's sweet, and obviously she'd be hurt if she saw me with someone else, especially at her birthday. I wasn't going to be that cold.

I figured Joe-Lee would be pleased to know that I had dumped this girl and was more into her - I'd be laughing about my good fortune if it was me in her shoes. My thoughts would have been something along the lines of "His loss, my blow-jobs." How naive I was.

Joe-Lee had known I was here with my ex for this event, and I'd asked her for some space to clear up my past with this girl and wish her well.

I accosted Joe-Lee at the bar, where she was mashed against the crowd waiting for a drink. She tried to kiss me, and I stopped her.

"Hey. I'm here tonight because it's my ex-girlfriend's birthday, so play it cool. There's no reason to be jealous, 'cause I'd rather be with you, and I'm not with her. I broke up with her a few weeks ago, and she's still a little upset. Just don't make things awkward, cool? You knew about her already. After she leaves we can relax."

Joe-Lee agreed and I exchanged hello's with Jen, bought Joe-Lee a drink, and went back to the table. Joe-Lee came by to join us later, and Len and Turner, good mates that they are, chatted to the two girls while I continued my conversation with Renee and her mates. It would have looked weirder had we just brushed this girl off or told her she couldn't sit with us.

That was when Joe-Lee slid her hand up my thigh and into my crotch. I hoped to god Renee hadn't noticed, and I tried keep the conversation going while slowly sliding my hand up to Joe-Lee's and removing it in no uncertain terms. Never has a girl's hand on my junk made me so crazy angry. Renee didn't seem to notice, but I couldn't be sure.

The minute Renee left I had it out with Joe-Lee.

"What the fuck was the point of that?! I told you Renee was still upset, and that I didn't want to do anything to make it worse. There was no reason for that - you were just being a fucking bitch."

About an hour later I was on the receiving end of a very similar lecture from a drunken, tearful Renee and her best friend, Badonkadonk. I can't say that I didn't deserve it, because I did. So much for keeping Joe-Lee low-key.

I didn't make any further attempt to get in touch with Joe-Lee, I was so angry. I honestly had no intention of hurting Renee. She was a sweet girl and I would miss her. Unfortunately Joe-Lee felt the need to turn the knife, and we bumped into her and her miserable mate Jen again at the same bar shortly after I had stopped calling her. Things were jovial enough, and she latched onto us for the night. When it came time to leave, she even followed us to the car. She not only assumed that I wanted her to come home with me, but that Turner would be happy to give her - and her friend - a lift home. Not that I was about to say no to having a guest tonight in my bed. Cheeky fuckers.

Turner had a healthy affection for a salted assortment of snacks known as Bits N'Bites, it was his after-bar snack of choice. He made it clear that in exchange for the ride home he was expecting Joe-Lee to buy them. He did this by screaming his request at the top of his lungs at her over and over. It was funny because he was so overtly rude about it, and who could blame him? He was also horrendously disappointed when she left him to buy his own. Maybe "infuriated" is a better word.

By the time we got home Joe-Lee had had enough of being shouted at over Bits N'Bites, and she hurled herself at Turner, who was bending over at the time to untie his shoes in the doorway. In my inebriated state, I thought it was a friendly wrestling match! The Bits N'Bites went flying across the room and salted snacks poured out of the foil packet and into the carpet. Struggling to stay on my feet from laughing so hard, I watched the two of them roll around like cats, hissing and spitting abuse at each other for ages.

It wasn't until she got up crying that I realized I was the only one laughing. Turner continued to hurl abuse at her, and stormed off, shouting that no way in hell was he cleaning that up. I quickly sobered up and told them I would clean it, only I was having a hard time finding sympathy for poor Joe-Lee.

She was streaming tears and I did what I could to comfort her. She wasn't dropping the argument either, but I wasn't going to wade in. Turner was in the right, as far as I was concerned. She hadn't even asked for a lift home, and in her moochful way she had simply expected we would take care of her and ask nothing in return.

I vividly remember telling her "It's probably best if you don't stay here tonight." while we leaned up against the front door, my hand on the handle.

I offered to call her a cab, but she didn't feel like waiting around, thankfully. She stomped out and started walking the 20 minute trip to her place. She deserved to walk home, and I wish it had been the last I saw of Joe-Lee.

A Monster is Born

It's true that awkward men come from awkward boys, and I am no exception. No, honest, I'm not.

Apparently awkward boys are not the preferred choice of the discerning 12 year old girl, so needless to say I was not the front-runner in female-male relations amongst my friends.

There was even a time, back before college, and high school, and pubic hair, when I didn't know the first thing about kissing a young girl. Honest. So take heart young boys, because you too can become the swaggering adonis that I did, in time. Right.

Thankfully the cure for my inexperienced predicament came from a young girl by the name of Athena. We were about 14 years old, and both members of 5th Field Army Cadet Corps. She was a year younger than me and so by the time she had joined I had gained a meagre amount of seniority. Basically I was no longer the scared new guy.

I have always been certain that 12 and 14 year old girls join Army Cadets purely to meet 12 and 14 year old boys. Call me big-headed, but Army Cadets was all about guns, and uniforms, and marching around yelling at each other, and I often wondered how that appealed to girls my age. Regardless, in Athena's case, it worked.

I don't really remember the whole "courting" phase with Athena (as if 14 year olds court), although I'm fairly confident that it included a fair amount of "my friend likes you, do you like her?" and the like. Probably a bit of hair-pulling and name calling.

Needless to say, after a bit of diplomatic relaying of messages, the two parties met and hammered out a treaty agreeing that they were officially dating. Back in grade 8 this gave me the privilege of holding her hand, buying her sweets, and most importantly, telling people that she was my girlfriend. It gave me a certain degree of social esteem to be considered dateable.

What surprised me about this set up, though, was that it didn't mean that I automatically knew how to kiss her. I had assumed that went with the agreement. Obviously we'd done the peck-on-the-lips thing many a time (we were dating, after all, and the Public Display of Affection was an important part of showing off to our friends). But that was as far as it went, mostly because that's all I knew how to do. Any advanced sexual maneuvers were terrifying and completely foreign to me, and I didn't want to mess them up. I had visions of just relying on instinct, only to find Athena pull away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and shouting "What the hell are you doing?!" Kids have a knack for assuming the worst.

Conveniently my friend Chris was dating Athena's friend Janet (see where I got this theory?), so we double-dated a lot. Chris was a year older than me, and into a lot of punk music. He showed up to cadets one night with eyebrows died with zebra stripes, and we never let him forget it. Janet was a good girl, and a year older than him. Her mom worked very closely with the corps, arranging fundraisers and anything else to be helpful.

Double-dating with these two generally meant driving around in Janet's car, watching movies together at her house, or wandering around the mall. The girls gossiped and chatted about us behind our backs while we complained about Army Cadets.

Chris and Janet were a few years older, so they were farther ahead than us and kissing was no big deal. They did it all over the place, and in front of us. This of course meant that Athena wanted to, too.

I remember thinking that I'd just let Athena kiss me, and she could lead the way. I hoped that I'd just pick it up that way, 'cause surely that's how everyone does it. I wondered, though, if that's the case then is learning to kiss like passing a torch of knowledge from one person to another? Do people pass on different methods of kissing? Do various methods (or strains, even) just crop up spontaneously every few years when someone invents something new? 'Cause how would you know unless you've kissed someone who does it differently? Does that mean different parts of the world kiss in different ways, like languages, with various methods evolving and spreading around the globe amongst the romantically inclined like a joyful STD? To this day I'm still doing the research.

Athena goaded me, tried to kiss me a few times, but I kept it to simple pecks by casually pulling away and distracting her. One particularly difficult dodge was when we were at Janet's house watching films (no parents!) and as we were getting ready to leave I remembered that I'd dropped my sweater in Janet's room earlier. I ran downstairs into a dark bedroom to pick it up off the floor and as I stood up with it in my hand, there was Athena right in front of me, leaning up for the kill. A quick peck dispatched her and I was already out of the room while she was likely pumping her tongue in and out in front of a Craig-shaped cloud of smoke from where I'd just disappeared.

This could only go on so long before Athena either tied me down or broke up with me, and either method was fine with me. I guess my 14 year old masculinity was coming into question and I was clammed up and avoiding the subject like any self-conscious junior high school kid should. Had I been a young girl I would have spoken to my girlfriends about it, and maybe even done some practicing with them. That's how young girls learn in all of my fantasies, anyways.

Fortunately for me Athena was persistent, and we stayed together long enough for us to go on a camping trip with Army Cadets as a couple. Not that we let anyone else at 5 Tribe know it of course, because fraternization with the opposite sex in the military is considered gravely un-cool. It broke down the chain of command and undermined authority. It confused the rank structure with personal relationships, but most of all it called into question your ability to march in circles and iron your uniform, amongst other key skills required to be a good Army Cadet.

After the sun went down on the first night of any Army Cadet venture the first point on the agenda was Capture The Glowstick. This game was an absolute institution, where one privileged, senior member of the corps stood on a rock in the dark with a flash-light and tried to spot kids in camouflage crawling on their bellies towards them. The ultimate goal for one of these little sniper-wannabes was to leap up at the very last second and dash across the rock to snatch a glowstick hanging from a post without being tagged by the person with the flashlight. If they were spotted in the field and could be accurately described using a quick flash of the beam the contender had to start again from the road. The prize for capturing the glowstick without being tagged was the exalted honour of standing on the rock with the torch for the next round.

The location for this game was so good that I always assumed the game had been specifically designed around it. A small rocky surface, about 15 feet around, rose about a foot high out of a field next to the beach. The field was full of dry, swaying straw about 2 or 3 feet long, and dotted around the perimeter were staggered patches of brush. At night it became an incredible place to skulk about the bushes, crawl amongst the grass, and pass whispers to your mates when the wind picked up enough to cover the sound.

The best part of this game, and the reason it was staged without fail every time we went out, was not playing. The senior cadets who ran the weekends (senior meaning over the age of 16, or someone with tight friends over the age of 16) took this game as a rare opportunity to walk off into a bush far enough out of earshot that they could sit in the dark to smoke and complain about the other kids.

Janet being fairly senior in the cadet corps, she had informally excused Chris, Athena and I from the game, which meant allowing herself to be seen walking away into the bush with us. The two couples paired off and we found a comfortable bush each to park in for the next hour or so and be alone to hold hands freely.

I distinctly remember laying on my back, holding hands and passing the hours with Athena while the stars peeked through a scraggly canopy of bushes over our head, listening to the occasional shout from the other kids when a beam of light found it's mark. In the background the waves washed lazily up on shore and reflected the moonlight back into the sky. Occasionally Janet would have to get up to sort out a disagreement amongst players, or we would see the glow from a watch. Nothing could possibly feel better than laying there at night, abusing the little bit of power I had to spend some time with a girl holding my hand. It doesn't sound like much of a first date any more, but I often wish I could be back in that damp field by the sea again.

And even with all this going on to look at, Athena picks this minute to suddenly roll on top of me, plant her lips on mine and throw in a little tongue for good measure. She lashed it around in my mouth a few times before I got the hang of it, and I soon started to mimic her moves. It wasn't so bad, even if I didn't love it at first. When it was over I turned my head quietly and grinned to myself in the dark. I knew that I didn't have to worry about it anymore, because I knew how to kiss.

I pretty much figured the rest out from there.

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.