5. You Sport An Expensive Watch
The high school and subsequent college graduation Rolex is as engrained in Greek life a tradition as hazing and sexual conquests rooted in unforgivable irresponsibility. Wear your two tone Sub (most common grad gift) proudly while proclaiming to any and all doubters a self-assured “I earned this” even though, deep in your soul, you realize the validity of your previous statement is comparable to the “earned” yacht-based vacations of Instagram “models” (without the geriatric cum swallowing).
Perhaps even more important is what you say off the cuff about the exorbitantly expensive possessions of others, even those financed by sources other than a trust fund or credit card inexplicably still in your name but billed to your father. Those wearing a Hublot or Audemars are shamelessly “new money,” a notch below the country club crowd to which we’ve become accustomed, and unable to buy their way into the Romney strata regardless of net worth.
Wear yours proudly.
4. You’re extremely arrogant but keenly self-aware.
The ultimate combo. Nobody likes an obnoxiously full of himself entry-level paper pusher with a dad bod and alcohol problem. But if that same lowly fuck realizes his limitations — the ripples staining his stomach like he birthed a thanksgiving turkey, his moderately impressive education, the horrendous sexual stamina (not that he gives a fuck) — all of the sudden the asshat in mergers and acquisitions is the guy that loves to party and fuck.
Frat guys get a bad rap in that we’re seen as try hard cocksuckers with Sperry logo tattoos and a sexual “hit list” more imagined than experienced. Being confident is a definite positive in life; socially, academically, and, without a doubt, in the corporate world. Maintaining that confidence while understanding your own limitations is the key to making it to the next level (ya know, like me: the freelance “writer”).
Thinking you can fuck a ton of girls but knowing you’ll disappoint them like the father they never met, asserting intellectual dominance even though you realize your SEC school isn’t exactly the Ivy League, and never wearing an inseam past the knee or shirt with sleeves despite an admitted dad bod is the happy medium that 4 years of good-natured hazing and self-depreciative humor a Greek education provides.
3. You’ve had a horrific STD scare.
For me, it was a freshman with an ass like two cantaloupes pasted to the tops of her legs. Unfortunately, the Congolese soccer players must’ve mistook that ass for a coconut (or whatever the fuck they eat) because they tongue swabbed that thing like it was the last bit of clean water in their village.
Anyway, I got the text most of us with a wandering frock and alcohol problem wake up to at some point midway through junior year: “I really think you should get tested.”
Now, let’s keep in mind this is nothing compared to the “I’m late” text. An STD, even the chlamydia I thought the freshman anal enthusiast gave me (fuck, should’ve known when the “oh fuck I don’t have a rubber” line resulted in “I don’t care” and anal, we had a problem) can be eradicated with a Z-Pak, a little water, and some All-Star Weekend-type rest.
What you don’t want, however, is to be that guy who gave a shit load of women diseases. Some weirdos like the ego trip that comes with leaving a mark that the dishrag can’t wipe off of her, but we shouldn’t be trading any more bacteria than we already have to. Especially if you’re an equal opportunity fucker (translation: you bang ugly/fat chicks), you don’t need a scarlet letter in the wake your standard-less dick leaves behind.
2. Your sexual endeavors have actually gotten worse over time.
Remember that first one? You know, the girl whose screen door you poked open for the first time and gyrated on top of for a few seconds? Well, she had about as much fun as your current conquests. I’m ashamed to admit how truly disappointed women are leaving my bed. Sex with me is like going to the humane society to look at puppies on a euthanasia day. It seems like a great idea at the time, but it’s a total mind fuck in actuality.
The real issue here is pure laziness. I remember a time not so long ago that a new slam got my full attention. The neck kissing, nipple play, even a little clam diving for good measure. I would change tempos, positions, try to legitimately respond to her body. Then I realized if I bend her over and pump for about 35 seconds with one hand full of hair and the other a tit or two (depending on size) I reach the same result. Work smarter, not harder.
You know exactly what I mean, too. It’s been a long day, and the whole process is such a fucking hassle. If only women felt the same way instead of wanting to listen to The Weeknd while enduring a half-hearted fingering until you think she won’t be too upset if you move in for the real thing. How about instant nudity, blowjob, sex, money shot, snack, repeat? Now that’s a night worth speeding home for.
1.You have a real fucking job.
And yes, family businesses count. It’s not how you got the job or why you have it, but what it is you do. We are not liberal arts majors pumping out Moby Dick’s cum to save the blue whale population or “blogging” from our parents’ basement. We’re corporate, private sector, well-educated professionals with our worth ethic rivaling solely our alcoholism in terms of commitment.
Say what you want about frats, and sure, I’ll be the first to admit I spent more time drinking and being a fucking idiot in school than the average student. But guess what: that minimum GPA requirement is real, and we basically all did above average at damn good schools while having a better time than anybody else.
Slamming tier one girls, partying 4/5 nights a week while making the best friends you’ll ever have and setting yourself up for a life of white collar wealth? That’s a real TFM..