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What's Wrong with Nice Guys?

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No More Cosmo for Me!

by Lynda
Mar 5, 2007


The article in Cosmo sucked me while in waiting in the grocery store line.

Step one: Make a list of everything you want in a lover.

Well there you go; I was ruined before the Catholic mother ahead of me paid for three carts of groceries. Everything I want? Try finding that after forty! After forty every single man is damaged goods. No matter how good he looks, no matter what kind of car he drives, no matter how much money he has, somebody, somewhere is sick of his shit. Heís got issues with his ex, issues with his sexuality, issues with his psyche. He gave so damn much in his marriage he just wants someone to give and give to him. He still hurts so much from what that bitch did, he holds all women responsible - with a smile. Heís got a flabby ass and is in desperate need of a nut-tuck. He refused that vasectomy for 20 years of marriage and by damn heís not going to do it now. He thinks itís okay to let himself go a little - but wonít be seen with anybody carrying an extra 5 lbs. Itís all too real.

Everything I want? How about ONE thing I want?

But back to the simple steps: I want him to smell like magic. I want him to love me when Iím raggedy, love me when Iím bloated, love me when I bitch. I want him to have a six pack - not a pony keg. I want to wrap my legs around his ass as many times a day as I like. I want him to love my anatomy like a lesbian. I want him to look deeply into me when heís inside of me. I want to be soul-fucked sometimes; and not just sport-fucked. I want to get drunk and make out like teenagers. I want him to take me on dates; out to a field under the stars and drink beer and kiss in the back of a truck, take me to the opera, to the ballet, to the rodeo, and to the movies. I want to cook for him and watch him eat. I want to get shivers when he kisses me, and I donít ever want them to stop. I want him to tell me straight up when heís pissed at me, and forgive me in exchange for a blow-job no matter how awful Iíve been. Everything I want? I want goddamn everything; thatís what.

Step two is worse: Make a list of every place you might find someone with the qualities on your list.

How about - nowhere? He doesnít exist. No matter who he is, he wonít be more than 3 of these things and having made the list, I will feel cheated - as if Iím settling.

Step three: Find him, commit, and live happily ever after.

What the shit? After all is said and done, the only thing I can commit to is the strength to never look at the covers of those magazines in the grocery aisle. From now on, Iíll stick to Hillaryís alien lover, the 7 year old who gave birth to quintuplets and the pope having been kidnapped by a group of radical Jews. Itís just too sad for women over forty. Why hasnít Helen Gurleyís rag grown up with us? Once this magazine liberated us. What the hell happened?

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