Why Nice Guys Don't Get Sex: Reason #1 In An Infinite Series

One of the biggest problems that nice guys have: they think women want men who don’t want sex.
I think this attitude, unconsciously developed, stems from listening to women complain about the fuckheads who hit on them.  “All those assholes want is sex!” is what they hear their female friends lamenting, so they go, I’ll be the opposite.  I’ll be very quiet and never ever mention sex, or that I desire it.  This will make me a gentleman.
No.  It will make you a loser.
I think this attitude springs from this sad view of nature where they believe that women don’t really want sex, they just sort of endure it for the sake of the species.   So you have to sneak up on sex.  You can’t just mention it around women, because at the first hint of cock they’ll run like zebras from a lion.  No, you have to sort of sneak in the penis, waiting for the proper moment to, uh, bring it up.  This may take months.  And all the while, you’ll never ever mention sex, or if you do you’ll discuss it like you were handling a dirty diaper. Because that’s what women want.
So how’s that working out for you, chum?  Well, you’re probably standing by the sidelines while your ideal woman is going out and fucking these horrible behemoths, feeling resentful because you’re doing everything right and there they are – falling into bed with an oaf!
An oaf who actually expressed his desire for her, and she responded!  Carnally!  Why, it’s like she wanted to get fucked! But that can’t be the case, so these brutes must be, I don’t know, hypnotizing her with their gold chains and their Axe body spray and their abs or something.
No, dude.  What you heard was “All these assholes want is sex,” and came to the erroneous conclusion that sex was bad.
What she was saying was, “All these assholes want is sex.”  As in, “Remove my vagina, and I’m worthless to them.”  That doesn’t mean her vagina is some sort of null zone to be ignored. She wants to fuck, but she wants to fuck someone who wants to fuck.
And what are you doing?  By conspicuously not mentioning sex ever, you’re sending the impression that if she wants sex, well, it shouldn’t be with you.  You’re taking the default stance that as a guy you naturally desire it on occasion, like some sort of cyclical Pon Farr, but it’s not anything you need.  And if she really needs it, why would she want to fuck a guy who’s never said he really wants to, loves to?
Look.  What women like – what people like – like is passion.  And you being a wishy-washy huggabear will just make it clear that when you get into bed with them, she’ll have to tell you everything to do, making you kind of a voice-activated vibrator.  So she finds other guys who may have less attractive qualities but at least will satisfy her in the sack, and leaves you firmly in the friend-zone.
Why?  Because you never told a dirty joke, or shared an embarrassing sex story, or even told her how fucking gorgeous she is.  Not that she’s pretty, but fuckable.  And yes, there are creepers who make women feel awful by slathering them in filth, but the fix is to not go the opposite route and sanitize yourself so you’re as sexless as a Hello Kitty.  Yes, it’s awkward finding that fine line between “no sex ever” and “creeper sex maniac,” but if you squash your desires altogether then you’re lying to her about what you want… and you can’t complain when she doesn’t respond to a desire that she doesn’t know exists.  (Or that you’ve given the impression that you’d be bad at it.)
A lot of guys have this terrifically sad dance, wherein they never mention sex ever and if they do, certainly it’s not something they’re really interested in, no!, and then they wind up with women who aren’t that interested in fucking. Don’t do that.

"But I Just Wanted Conversation."

I usually don’t link to comments of mine, but if you scroll down and look at my response to Colin here, you’ll see what I think of as one of the classic “nice guy” traps: the idea that because you want more than sex, that somehow this interaction becomes not about sex.
Look.  The reason I get a reasonable amount of sex is because I don’t care if sex happens.  If I’m talking to a heartbreakingly beautiful girl, I’m doing so because the conversation I’m having is interesting on its own merit.  I’d be getting this much satisfaction out of the talk if I was having it with a girl I found unattractive, or a guy, or a genderless voice over a telephone.  And people respond to that genuine enthusiasm.
But the “nice guy” will talk to a girl, and pretend hey, this is a great conversation, aren’t we having fun, OH BY THE WAY WHEN WILL WE HAVE SEX.  And that delay between “Such a good time!” and “When’s the fucking start?” may be months, but don’t fool yourself that most women can’t feel it.  They know that you’re eventually going to be dissatisfied with just conversation, and they’re going to excuse themselves.  Or be furious when you bring it up after years of dormancy.
It sounds weird, but what women – what people – want is genuine interest.  The feeling that they matter.  And you can say “Oh, it’s more than that,” but that ignores the fact that without that, it’s pretty much worthless to you.
It’s the paradox.  I like you whether you’re going to have sex with me or not.  Some of my greatest relationships have informed me they find me as attractive as a tub of day-old lard.  That’s great.  I’ll still text to say hi every once in a while.  Which means whoever I’m with knows that I dig them for them, not some act they can perform, and as such ironically they’re more willing to perform that act.
Or not.  I don’t care.  I can’t always have Teh Sexx0r, because I’m in two satisfying poly relationships right now, and though I’ll flirt scandalously, who knows what permissions I can actually get?  But that’s the point, really.  Anyone I’m talking to, I talk to because I think they’re awesome in the absence of anything else they can provide to me.
If you’re telling me that this isn’t sex, it’s a relationship you’re trying to start, well, chances are good this relationship involves sex.  And if that’s the case, don’t tell me it ain’t about sex.  Sex is firmly on the agenda, even if it’s buried halfway down.

"But If I Can't Buy You A Coffee, How Will Our Species Reproduce?": How To Hit On Women

When I wrote my essay about buying coffee as a metaphor for sexual harassment, men started asking: “Well, what do I do if I can’t hit on women?  Do you expect me to live my life in a closet, wandering alone through my tie racks forever?  Why, if no man ever approached women, our species would go extinct!”
The panic is understandable, to some extent.  It’s scary meeting new people, let alone asking them out on a date.  There’s a lot of upsides to being a guy in modern society, but one of the downsides is that you’re expected to take the initiative when it comes to asking someone out on a date – which is pretty fucking scary.  It’s like going on a job interview, except they’re not rejecting your work experience, they’re looking right at you and going, “No, you suck, go away.”  I’ve had women friends who had to start asking out strangers for various reasons, and their reaction was invariably, “My God, how do men do this?  This sucks.”
But you know how you don’t approach it?  By treating it like you’re doing the woman a favor.
The overall reaction from men is a whiny, “But I’m being nice!” No, sir, you are not.  You’re buying a coffee to try to get in her pants. The whole “What a nice guy I am!” aspect makes it easier for you to approach an intimidating situation, but let’s not romanticize this moment.  You’re not paying a compliment to that old, unattractive woman, or sharing your love of Terry Pratchett books with that dude over there.  You’re trying to buy five minutes of a cute woman’s time via a combination of guilt and gift-giving.  Jeez, what a prince you are!
If you gotta, you gotta.  And there are places that’s likely to be well-received.  If you’re at a singles bar and the girl is alone, well, chances are good that she may actually want that drink.  But the trick is understanding that this is in no way a compliment. It’s a strategy.
And if you spam that attack like somebody using Ken’s fireball in Street Fighter II, people are likely to hate you.
Look, if the girl is so attractive that you just have to snag this opportunity at this very moment, then so be it.  But acknowledge you’re being selfish.  You’re saying “She’s so pretty, I have to go bother her at this very instant on the off-hand chance that she’s into me.” And maybe she likes your looks and you’ll click.  Synchronicity happens.
But think carefully, chum.  The odds are good that she’s not going to respond well. And if you keep bugging women just because they happen to be within eyesight, then you send the none-too-subtle message that “A woman showing up in public means that she’s fair game.”  Which means she’s not a person, but an antelope in a game preserve.
There are those who think you should never ever approach a stranger in public; I’m not one of them.  But if you take the attitude of, “Hey, anything could happen, might as well take my shot,” then you are being a dick to women.  What you should do is size up the situation: is this a space conducive to strangers talking to each other?  Does she look involved in something else?   Does her body language say she’s receptive?  Would this friendly approach look threatening if she had no clue as to your intent?  (Because despite your peppy smile, she does not.)
If all of those clues don’t add up, then fucking walk away.  Give her the privilege of being a person, and not some slot machine for you to take your shot at.
And even if you’re really nice about it, recognize that hundreds of men have done this before, and this may not go over well.  If she rejects you coldly, she is not a bitch.  That’s on you, chum.  You took a shot, knowing full well you might irritate her, and lo you got exactly what you deserved.  Don’t tell yourself the story that “I was just trying to buy her a present!” because you were not.  You were bothering a woman in a clear attempt to get something from her.
As I said, I don’t think you should never approach a stranger in public.  But I think you should carefully consider it, because some people do think you should never approach a stranger in public, and the rest usually don’t like to be bothered.  So the hitting on people should be a rarity, that time when all the planets align.
Will the human race die out without your botheration?  Well, maybe it would have in the past, but now there’s this thing called “OKCupid,” where like-minded people can specifically search each other out for romance.  While I appreciate your concern for the future of humanity, I’m pretty sure we’ll find a way to get by if you don’t call out, “Hey, you so beautiful!” on the street corner.
We’ll get by.  So it’s okay for you to be quiet.  Really.

A Rare Cross-Post From FetLife To Here: Things That Have Distracted Me From Your Naked Body

I usually keep my explicitly-sexy writings to FetLife (theFacebookforkinksters!), simply because a) some of the erotica that I write is dominant, and hence like all hot sex is a little sketchy from a feminist perspective, and b) sometimes, the privacy of my sex life deserves to be what is behind, effectively, a massive friends-lock.  If you want to read those writings, you have to specifically seek them out, so no complaints when you get there.
Still, probably 70% of my FetLife writings are cross-posts from here to there.  (And they often do much better there – my “How To Tell If You’re Cheating On Someone” has nearly 2800 “likes” and 700 comments.)  Sometimes, though, I have a toss-off essay that I think is funny enough to throw over here.  Which I will do now.  It involves perving on amateur photos of women, which are posted by the score on Fet, but having been a fan of amateur photography (“Photographs, he asked him knowingly”) for years, this has been a constant distraction.
It’s also a window into how my mind works.  It’s not pretty. Anyway, it’s called “Things That Have Distracted Me From Your Naked Body”:

• The terrible streaks on that mirror. You look like you have ghost hickies. Then I start wondering whether you can fuck a ghost, and then think that Paranormal Activity answered that question, but that wasn’t really “hot” so much as “creepy,” but then again somebody on FetLife has to be into invisible demon-rape, and oh shit, right, naked girl. Anyway, clean your fucking mirror.
• That episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond” you left on when you were sucking your boyfriend’s cock. I mean, yeah, dick in mouth, but it’s impossible to fap when Marie is nagging Raymond. Unless you’re Raymond. That guy has issues.
• That uncomfortable sex position you’re in. Man, your tendons have to be aching. There’s gotta be, like, five pictures after this – the blurred shot where he fucks you off the couch, the slow realization of the head wound, the frantic rush to dress, the paramedics arriving, and GODDAMMIT PHIL WILL YOU STOP TAKING PHOTOS THIS ISN’T SEXY ANY MORE.
• Your DVD collection. Hey, is that pink-purple rectangle the complete Jem and the Holograms boxed set? Oh, man, it is! I haven’t seen that show in years. What else have you got there? Pulp Fiction? Next to Jem? Oh, crap, you’re one of those girls who doesn’t alphabetize her DVDs, we’d just fight all the time. Hell, I can’t think about fucking you, I’ve gotta clean up that shelf. You probably have stray DVDs all over the damn place, too.
• The shakycam. Hell, dude, I’d probably have some pretty bad camerawork too if a girl that cute was gobbling my one-up mushroom, but I can’t tell if this is a blowjob or a fight with Jason Bourne. Get a steadicam.
• Your cat. It’s quite prominently in your bed. You’re not sleeping with the cat, right? Right? checks your profile Okay, good. No felistiality fetishes. The lion sleeps tonight. WITH OTHER LIONS ONLY.

New Story! Totes By Me! "Riding Atlas," In Three-Lobed Burning Eye

Today’s freshly-published story is a tale with some serious history behind it.
“Riding Atlas” was the story I submitted to the Viable Paradise writing workshop, because I knew it was flawed and needed some serious help.  What I didn’t realize is that the story would get passed around Viable Paradise, even to people who hadn’t read it, with people asking, “Have you read the story about the entwined circulatory systems?  It’s fucking creepy.”  I wound up in an unadvertised Creeper Face-Off with fellow VP-er George Galuschak, who had also written a deeply disturbing story.  So by the end, people came up to me and went, “You are sick.”
Which, really, is a triumph for any writer.
Then this tale was greatly improved by the aid of editor Teresa Nielsen-Hayden, who did a thing I think every writer should see: instead of critiquing it, she simply edited it.  I watched her as she went through my words, taking out about a third of them – and instead of weakening the tale, every deletion strengthened it.  It was Teresa who showed me just how flabby my prose was, and that’s why I credit Viable Paradise with my turnaround.  I used to be a pretty sad prose stylist; now I’m no master, but I can string together a good sentence.  (With the help of my trusty copy of The 10% Solution to pare down my words, of course.  For the record, this story used to be 6,500 words long; I added two scenes and now it’s 4,900.)
So what’s the story about?  Well, I think an excerpt will be of use:

They were naked, now, on a dirty mattress.
“Neither of you have eaten or drunk anything for twenty-four hours?” Ryan asked, hauling equipment into the room: sloshing plastic buckets, packs of hypodermic needles, coils of tubing, straps. “And no drugs in your system? This is a pure trip. Just two bloods commingling. Any impurities will stop Atlas from getting inside you.”
Stewart didn’t answer. He was too distracted by all the naked couples. The attic floor was covered with bodies, lying belly to swollen belly on bedbug-blackened box springs. Their arms were thrust out above their heads, ears resting on their biceps; they clasped hands like lovers, each couple’s circulatory systems knitted into a single bloodstream.
Stewart felt his arms itch where the needles would be inserted, anticipation and fear churning into a sour mix in his gut. But Tina was ready, as she always was for things like this. She’d dragged him here, telling him they had to do this now, before they outlawed consanguination just like they’d outlawed LSD.
She stared up at Ryan with adoration as he strung the wiring above them with efficient motions. Her breath came in excited hitches.
Though his girlfriend was dry-humping Ryan with her eyes, Stewart took satisfaction in the way Ryan refused to look back. Ryan had wanted to take her to Atlas, but Tina had insisted her boyfriend should be her first time. And Stewart had gone along with it — because if he didn’t, Ryan would.
Once you’d exchanged the most vital bodily fluid, Stewart thought, sex was almost an afterthought. That must be why the consanguinated fucked so much. But Tina kept insisting this wasn’t about sex…

Go forth and read it, if you dare.