The way I saw it, Jen was being completely oversensitive. Everybody at the station always acted happy to see me and didn’t do the stop talking ‘cause he just walked in thing. The presents I got in the holiday gift exchange were decent and didn’t appear to be of the get-the-jerk-anything variety, and nobody ran away (or even seemed reluctant) when I cornered them under the mistletoe in the lobby. Which I totally did not put up.
People visited me in the booth just to shoot the shit, I got invited to parties and barbecues… it sure felt like everyone liked having me around.
Except for the people who filed sexual harassment complaints. No, that was not a mistake, saying people and not women. I found out that Milo logged a grievance, too; I don’t know how he managed to make it out of high school without living through locker-room chatter. Every guy makes fun of the size of other guys’ dicks.
Milo’s such a pussy.
Or else he really does have tiny junk.
Unlike yours truly.
And there we go again, talking about my penis. Stop making me do that, will you, please? I’m trying to be serious here.
Now, back on topic, ladies: having an unfathomable prick doesn’t mean that I am one.
I held open doors and pulled back chairs at dinner. If someone asked for help, I would if I was able. I donated both my money and my time to charities; I worked to put a criticism in the kindest terms. Hell, even most dogs liked me, and they say animals are a good judge of character, so there you go.
I’ve never lied to a woman to get her into the sack, and never represented those bedroom sports as anything more than playtime. Once in said bed (or the occasional bathroom stall), I get off on them getting off first.
I ask you, are those the actions of a jerk?
I’ve been living inside this skin my whole life, and I know a thing or two about myself. I’m confidant, but seriously, it isn’t arrogance when you know your strengths and utilize them. Can I help it I’m better than some people, and can I help it that it’s patently obvious?
I’ve been told—many times—that I’m a handsome man, and when I look in a mirror, I have no reason to doubt it. My face is put together well, I think, which helps me win numerous partners for those bedroom acrobatics.
That’s not to say that good looks are required to be a popular girl with the guys, ladies. Take note of that. Confidence is attractive. Confidence is sexy. Confidence is something you pull on like your favorite shirt, and just as visible.
Let’s take a rock-n-roll example, shall we?
Mick Jagger.
Skinny, and always has been. His head’s too big. Ridiculous hair that always looks like he just rolled out of bed. Dresses like he pulled on the first thing he found lying on the floor. He looks like a caricature of himself, and don’t get me started on that weird square thing he does with his lips. According to Men in Black 3, he might be an alien… and all of that stuff is irrelevant. That funny-looking waif-man has gotten more pussy than Hugh Hefner.
Why?
Because he struts around like the rooster in charge of the henhouse. And the hens respond.
Is Mick Jagger a jerk? I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. He gets the cooch, and that’s what does.
And let me set you straight, before you go jumping to unjustified conclusions about me: I love women because they’re women. If you need advice, a sympathetic ear, or just some understanding, they’re the go-to gender to give it. They have a perspective on life that men don’t. They’re soft, they smell delicious, and are different from men in so many amazing ways.
Still, in some respects, women are exactly the same as the opposite sex they dearly love to complain about.
See, my mother has run the nightclub at Caesar’s since as far back as I can remember. During the late nineties, it was a performance club with house cover bands, and in 1999, there was an all-girl Bon Jovi tribute group with the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. I was only fifteen, but since my mom ran the place, I could come in after school and watch the bands rehearse.
Actually, I was forced to report there within half an hour of school getting out. I’d been suspended a few times for cutting class to go smoke weed, and my mom didn’t trust me for a while after that. Anyway, since the bars inside were all closed, it was okay for me to be there, even if my mom came and went from the club or was in her office, taking care of paperwork.
I would run water and sodas up to the stage for the band during practice, and got to know them a little. The lead singer, Lacey, I got to know way more than that. She was barely twenty-one, hot as hell, and would hang out and talk to me after the rehearsals would end.
As more time passed, I gained back a little of my mother’s trust and she didn’t watch me as closely. Maybe she should have. A month or so into our friendship, Lacey asked me to bring her wireless mic to the dressing room so she could put in fresh batteries. I’d been in their dressing room a thousand times, and hadn’t really thought much of it.