Sweats in Public Are Not Aphrodisiacs

Dear Dategirl, I love wearing sweats—old-school Russell sweats. I don't see why wearing sweats in public is considered taboo. Sure, they might not hug my ass like a pair of jeans, but there's no better revealer of the thunder down under than a flexible pair of sweats, if you catch my drift. Actually, just in case you don't catch it—here's my drift: Within 10 seconds of spotting a foxy lady in the streets, m'wang goes from six to midnight. I pack about eight inches (not lying; I've measured) and would expect that about 50 percent of the ladies who see my third leg will offer to take me into a public restroom and suck it for me, or at least ask me on a date. So why does that percentage end up being more like one-tenth of one percent in real life? Do the ladies secretly not like giant shafts? Or is it the sweats?—Boner "Prince" Billy

Have you ever seen a doggie dick? I'll tell you, there are few things more unnerving than watching little Fluffy sprout a woody. But one of those few things is a badly dressed dude leering whilst cupping his rapidly expanding rod and tackle. And yes, if you're wearing sweats outside the gym, you qualify as badly dressed. Sweatpants are made to be sweated up during some sort of sporting activity. They are not appropriate gear for the supermarket, the bar, or work. When you succumb to the sweatpant lifestyle, you are announcing to the world that you have given up. (Ladies, this goes for you too.) By wearing sweats in public, you're acknowledging that you're gaining weight so rapidly that only an elastic waist can keep up. You're saying you don't care enough to make the effort zipping a fly entails. In turn, we women naturally translate this as meaning that you're not going to make much effort in the sack either. I mean, you're trying to seduce with a knitwear-encased chub. Most women don't need flowers or fancy presents, but we do need more than a bobbing knob to get us in the mood. In the course of doing some charity work, a girlfriend of mine met and briefly flirted with a very minor Hollywood celebrity. Since then she has become convinced they are destined to be together and that he is going to sweep her away to live in California. At first this seemed like a harmless fantasy. But it's been six months and she still talks about him every day, pouts that she hasn't heard from him, and demands reassurance that he definitely likes her. How do I give her a reality check without being hurtful? I really don't want to be the one to tell her it's not going to happen, but the whole thing is just getting weird.—Frustrated Friend

Reading your letter gave me a warm flash of cold recognition, because I was kind of like your friend once. I fell madly in love with a guy who lived on the other side of the planet—with his girlfriend. I was completely oblivious to the fact that he was just looking for a little vacation booty, because at the time it had been years since anyone of the male persuasion had expressed any real interest in me at all. Don't get me wrong—I'd been dating and doing, but nothing stuck. And somehow even the cheesiest declarations sound more heartfelt when they're delivered in a French accent. So we had our little tryst, he went home to the girlfriend, and I cried for days and told anyone and everyone about our great love. When a fed-up friend tried to tell me I'd been just another conquest, I flipped out. Maybe if she'd been a little gentler I would've had a better reaction, but I wouldn't count on it. Only years later did I realize what a moron I'd been. Basically, what I'm saying is that this sounds like something your friend is just going to have to figure out on her own. dategirl@seattleweekly.com

 
comments powered by Disqus