Guys Don’t Have Female Platonic Friends

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Nice Move

Bedroom Horror Stories- The Night A Threesome Turned My Girlfriend Into A Lesbian

I’m a red-blooded, heterosexual American male, and because of that, I want to debunk a myth millions of liars continue to perpetuate around the country: I just want to be friends with a smoking hot girl. I “would never try to hook up with her. Our friendship is too important.”

Like I said, liars. Now, before a blogger or two shoot dysentery-level diarrhea on a webpage and claim this as “sexist” or “misogynist,” let me start by clarifying this is 100% due to the unending immaturity of the penis-clad sex, not in any way an indictment of women.

In fact, some of the most interesting, intelligent, and fun people I’ve ever met are females. The problem lies squarely with us, and that problem is the mass of flesh dangling between our legs. I am here to tell the world today that it is IMPOSSIBLE for a straight man to be alone with a smoking hot woman and not even THINK about hooking up with her. Unless you are perpetually jerking yourself off, leaving your balls so cum-drained you can’t even consider sex, you want it and you damn sure want it with the incredibly hot woman sitting next to you in yoga pants and a sports bra.

“He seriously has no interest in me. He just likes my personality, and I wish you could understand that,” I’d hear with an eye roll amidst insinuation that I, the guy who bought the cow after repeatedly having the milk for free, is the one who is being “dishonest” with my girlfriend of nearly a year. Right. It’s the acne-ridden shithead working at Jimmy John’s who really just wants to go to the mall with her, go on runs, watch Bravo, and has no interest in her perky Cs and a grade A turd-cutter.

This is simply, without exception, a lie. A man is only uninterested in sex with women indisputably rated above an 8.5 during three circumstances: 1. in the 8 to 14 minute period of pure non-penis maligned clarity post-orgasm, 2. during a bout of explosive diarrhea on the verge of actual death, and 3. in the direct presence of our mothers. Even these three extremes are debatable, and exceptions can be found.

“Too worried about friendship” is impossible. Yet, I was handcuffed and not in the fun way. Instead of getting a blindfolded blowie, I was unable to stop this little worm from his attempting to burrow deep in my ex’s vagina. But I knew it was happening. Every time I would mention this, explain to her the impossibility, she would alert me to my own immaturity, how “pathetic it is” that I can’t just be friends with a girl with great tits.

But during her series of humble brags, she missed the point: Of course I can be friends with extremely hot women, but there is no doubt I want to hook up with them. It’s biology, it’s nature, and it’s fucking humanity. And that’s what drove me insane. This little prick wouldn’t just admit it. He’d tell her how I was a “mouth breather” (though of course I went to one of the 10 best universities in the world, while he dropped out of community college), that I “don’t understand women” and he sees her “on a deeper level.”

And then, after almost a year of biting my tongue and just sitting idly by, I was vindicated. And it had nothing to do with me, kind of. My ex was missing a shitload of her panties and bras, and would repeatedly claim they were at my apartment and I was “too fucking lazy to look.” She was right, under my bed was an abyss and with the revolving door of thong removal that was my place of rest before (and at points during) her, I couldn’t risk giving her “back” a g-string that was up an ass that wasn’t hers.

So as a complete joke I said, “Why don’t you check Billy’s room? I bet he steals all your shit.” She of course scoffed at me, and thought nothing of my off-handed asshole remark. Until she did.

Our platonic “friend” Billy, the sandwich guy, had looted my ex’s drawers like post-Katrina. He had thongs, boy shorts, t-shirts, bras, even leggings under his bed and in the back of his closet. My comment had struck a nerve with her, prompting a quick investigation while Billy was grabbing popcorn for “Real Housewives of Go Fuck Yourself” and found his treasure.

That was the last we saw of our uninterested friend (you know who you are). That night I got some of the most incredible “holy fuck I’m sorry for telling you how awful you are for eight months” sex imaginable, and the understanding that my tried and true rule stood up to even the darkest challenges. Fuck you, “platonic friend.”

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