Things Not to Talk About on a First Date

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Here is a helpful list of things one should probably avoid conversing about on a first date (as informed by my extensive dating experiences over the past year):

Do not bring up marriage. Seriously. It’s freaky.

Do not talk about how badly you want children.

Do not talk about how great a parent you would make if the implication is in any way that you would be an awesome stepfather to my daughter. Just. Don’t.

Do not talk about the future. Now, it’s fine to maybe bring up plans for a second date… maybe even a third date. But by no means should you  be planning future trips or our honeymoon. I will run. Fast.

Love. Do not use or even allude to the ‘l’ word. It’s definitely too soon; I don’t care what kind of connection you’re feeling with me.

Yourself. Okay, do talk about yourself. Just not endlessly. Because I’m sure you’re cool and all, but I probably think I’m cooler.

That being said, there are a few topics that others may advise you to avoid that I think are silly. Here are some generally acknowledged ‘no go’ topics that I actually don’t mind broaching on a first date:

Politics. People say wait to have these conversations, but why not get them out of the way? If our political views are that drastically different, we’re probably incompatible, anyway. Why waste time not knowing how incompatible we actually are?

Religion. Another of those things that I probably don’t want to wake up one day after discovering that I’m madly in love with you (unlikely, I know), only to find that you are a religious zealot and I can’t abide your religious fervor.

Your ex. I personally don’t mind someone bringing up their ex, even on a first date (if contextually appropriate). Why? Because how you talk about your ex/exes tells me a lot about you. If you use the word ‘crazy’ or ‘bitch’ or any other derogatory word to describe your ex, then you’re probably a douchebag. And if you have generally nice things to tell me about your exes, it tells me that you’re probably a reasonable, amiable human being.

Ah, dating. What a tricky thing it can be.

Disappointment

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You know that feeling when you’re really looking forward to a date? Said date is at least moderately attractive (because, for me, physical appearance is a mere fraction of attraction), they have decent employ (or at least comparable to yourself – because disparity can cause a great deal of interpersonal conflict, my last relationship being a case in point), they seem capable of holding up their end of a conversation – all of these factors lead up to that feeling of excitement and anticipation in looking forward to the impending date.

But don’t you just hate when that hope is dashed away in a single instant?

I was sitting here thinking back on my dating experiences last summer. I went on a lot of dates, mostly just to pass the time. But there were a couple that piqued my interest and I was actually excited about.

One of these was The Doctor.

Moderately attractive? Check. He wasn’t my type. I didn’t find him physically super attractive (he was in shape, nice body, works out, but he just wasn’t that aesthetically appealing to me… attraction is so subjective!).

Decent employ? Check. He was a doctor. Not too shabby.

Ability to maintain conversation? Also check. And he was a sex-positivist. Rather refreshing. We had several interesting conversations before ever meeting.

But then we had our first ‘date’. Which was really just hanging out in his apartment in the midsummer heat. At first we just chatted about our aspirations, beliefs, activism. It was pleasant. And then…

I knew he was into me and wanted to do more than talk. I knew it before I even went on the date. But I wasn’t really feeling it. I was feeling the conversation. It was stimulating. It was what I wanted in that moment. When he leaned in to kiss me, I went with it. Because I like kissing.

But oh my god ew! He just so happened to be the worst kisser ever. Well, maybe not ever, but it was bad. It was too much mouth… like he was going to swallow my face or something. He was far too eager. And the slobber. Ugh. I shudder to think of the amount of saliva involved. It was horrifying.

A lot of women dream about dating doctors. I don’t really care what a person does, vocationally, as long as they are able to keep up with me in conversation, have passion in life, and are interesting and decent human beings.

I do, on the other hand, care about one’s making out abilities. If you can’t kiss, I will expeditiously show you the door. Or find the door for myself (given that I was at his apartment).

It was interesting because The Doctor had an enormous ego. He thought he was a catch just because he was a doctor. The thing is, vocation doesn’t really mean that much to me. I like to date someone who is at least employed and preferably someone who either does something they enjoy or is striving toward doing something that is fulfilling for them. Other than that, I am neither impressed nor deterred by one’s vocation, per se. And, in fact, there seems to be an inverse relationship between attraction and earning potential for men I’ve considered dating. The more a man earns, the less I end up being attracted to him (not because of how much he earns, but typically because these guys are often self-absorbed, Conservative, ignorant jerkwads). In my experience, that is.

Anyhow, my point was – I hate the let down of that moment where you lock lips and it’s horrifying rather than electrifying. Slobber and face swallowing quickly put a damper on any thoughts of attraction or future dates.

And that is the story of the time I made out with a doctor!

*This post was inspired by the fact that The Doctor is still single, as evidenced by his continued presence on the online dating website where I met him! I wonder how many poor women he’s slobbered on?

My Name is NOT Cutie

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I am not fond of monikers. Well, that’s not entirely true. I enjoy exchanging monikers with those I’m close to, meaningful names that stem from an intimacy between two people. But, I rather despise monikers applied by strangers.

Do not call me Sugar. Do not call me Honey. My name is not Cutie. I am not your Sweetie. I am not your Dear. You don’t know me, so until further notice, you can call me by my first name. That’s it.

What is with people thinking that it is okay to greet another human being with names like “Cutie”? I’m not going to respond. Okay, I might. But if I do, it’s not going to be a pleasant response.

See, here’s the thing about calling a woman (or anyone) “Cutie”. And I know before I even start that I’m going to have the common arguments against the assertion I’m about to make:

How are we supposed to know you don’t want to be called Cutie?

Different people like different things.

So nobody should ever talk to anybody ever is what you’re saying?

Now that we’ve got those inane objections out of the way, the thing about calling a woman you don’t know ‘cute’ monikers like Sweetheart, Darling, and Cutie is that they’re setting up a certain dynamic between the two of you. Particularly if you’ve not ascertained that the recipient of said cutesie moniker actually enjoys being called such things. I’ve never really seen the converse. I mean, I’m not a man so maybe I’m just not cognizant of this problem amongst males, but I know that I personally have never approached a strange man with

Hi Baby, you’re looking good today.

or

‘Sup, Cutie?

So, if this is a common occurrence for men, someone enlighten. Because I will amend my conclusions from that knowledge.

People question why I get up in arms about such seemingly harmless or innocuous behaviours as calling a woman by something other than her name. It just shows a profound disrespect for another human being to remove their name and apply a moniker that you do not know will be received well. Maybe the intent isn’t insidious. But the thoughtlessness behind such a gesture doesn’t make it any less irksome. It doesn’t take long to make sure someone will be receptive to any name that you might desire to call them.

I am aware that I don’t speak for all women. I don’t profess to. I’m sure there are many out there who delight in being called Sweetie. But I’m not one of them. And so, if you respect women – heck, if you respect people – you’ll take that moment to make sure that it’s okay before calling someone something they may or may not want to be called.

I think you’re sweet. Do you mind if I call you Sweetie?

And I know some people think that’s silly. Respecting another human being? How ludicrous. But starting with how you speak to someone and respecting what they are comfortable with is conducive to respecting a person in physical relations, as well.

Also, I fucking hate when someone calls me Sweetie and I would like to not have to constantly be the ‘defensive bitch’. So can’t you just ask me if it’s cool with me first? Save me the trouble of being the jerk? That’d be great. Because I find Sweetie/Dear/Sugar and  so on to be condescending.

Except for when I don’t. Which is sometimes. But you’ll never know if you don’t ask, will you?

Lonely Traveler

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Neato! I discovered I can write posts from my iPhone. I’m still not keen on this device, but being able to write this post right now while in the bathtub is making it rather more endearing.

I feel a great deal like the ‘lonely traveler’ pictured above. Although not so much lonely as delightedly traveling alone.

I have been vacillating the last few days about my current relationship status. I seem to have a profound need to be independent and I find being in a relationship to be inhibiting. I’ve tried to not be too rash, to give it a chance, but then I began to wonder if doing so was having the opposite effect of its intent.

My position, in sticking things out to see where they go, was that perhaps I too readily give up. Perhaps what friends and strangers alike have been telling me for the last year – that I have fears of commitment and really should give a relationship a shot – was accurate. But I suspect that it’s not, especially now that I’ve done some experimental research regarding that hypothesis. I must confess that my methodology is weak and my sample limited, but I am becoming ever more convinced that I am simply happier single.

See, people base their advice to me on the basic and widely accepted cultural tenet that I should want to be in a relationship, that it will inevitably become my goal at some point.

But that’s not me. I think that love can happen and I can enjoy it for a time but essentially I inevitably want to be alone again. Because the biggest love affair of my life is myself. Which sounds perhaps a little bizarre but really I’m happiest when I’m solitary.

While I can appreciate a fleeting affair, I fear that not everyone is as transient as I. I appreciate the moment, that I had love for another human being, if even just briefly. But then I’ve always said that nothing lasts forever.

Judgment Day

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I am attempting to finish up this set of revisions on my thesis, I swear I am, but I just had to stop to write this post. Because this just happened and the world needs to know (I may be too full of self-import; I am aware of this).

So I may not be actively online dating but I couldn’t bring myself to completely deactivate my profiles. I did have one hidden for the past month, but I recently reversed that. I’m incorrigible, I know. Anyhow, there are some people I converse with that I like to keep in touch with. And there is always the ability to indicate that I’m just looking for friends. And who can ever have too many friends?

I digress. As per my usual, tangential self.

So I get notification that I’ve received a message. I log in to check it out. It reads:

i find you quite striking, however you are a little too revealing by the standards of the Koran

Seriously. That’s copy and pasted. I can’t make this stuff up, folks.

I don’t know why I sometimes feel compelled to engage, but I was in a cheeky mood, and so this is the brief conversation that transpired:

Me: Good thing I don’t live by the standards of the Koran, then!

Judgey McJudgerson: youre very pretty, however we all accountable to the Koran

Seriously. The only word this dude appropriately capitalized was ‘Koran’. I feel like the only text I’m accountable to is one on appropriate spelling, grammar, and punctuation. I may be pretty, but I also uphold the laws of the English language, enthusiastically. I bow before literary standards!

My reply: Not I, but thank you?

Judgey McJudgerson: so how are you this evening?

I just love how he jumps right into the religious conversation, and then allows it to taper off into small talk. Probably the best way to begin any conversation with any new human being ever is to begin with a discussion of your religion, and it’s especially good if you admonish someone for not complying with your beliefs! Try it. That’s what you’ve all been doing wrong this whole time, single ladies and gents!*

I entertain his conversation: I’m lovely. Just working on my thesis. You?

Judgey: im enjoying herbal tea and relaxing after my Koran studies

(It physically pained me to type that. I had to type the ‘im’ repeatedly because my natural inclination is to type it properly…).

Me: Oh, well that’s nice.

Judgey: yes it is isnt it.

And that ended that conversation. It also solidified for me that I ought never to give up online dating ever because where would I find entertainment in my life, otherwise? This stuff just doesn’t happen in the ‘real world’; at least, not to the degree it seems to happen to me on online dating websites. I need to maintain my source of entertainment!

*Please note that this is not real dating advice. I would never realistically suggest that someone would be successful in their romantic pursuits by judging another’s lack of compliance with their own religious traditions. In fact, if you think me too scantily clad for your religion… well, we’re probably not a good match then, anyhow, right? “How’s the weather” might have been a less caustic approach!

Also, you’ve angered my spelling, grammar, and punctuation gods. You better watch out. Those guys are volatile.

The Asshole

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So there’s this guy. You know the type – egocentric, pompous, pretentious, ego the size of… something that’s extraordinarily large (like a planet or something). And of course he puts it off as though he’s really just being a genuine person; not a real asshole.

*He is, however, aware that he’s an asshole. He just attempts to act like being an asshole is part of being honest and genuine and shit. Perhaps he thinks it endearing.

********************

I often use the first letter of a person’s name in talking about them, but since I can’t remember this guy’s name, we shall call him The Asshole. In fact, I don’t remember if he even divulged his name. I think he may have, but it would have been at that point where I didn’t really give a shit (which is most of the time in opening communications with someone; it takes me time to have any sort of vested interest in another human being), so whatever his name was, I’ve long forgotten it, if I ever knew it at all. Jeff? Clause? Clifford? (I seem to be gravitating toward C names… I doubt it even starts with a C). Anyhow, The Asshole will suffice. (In fact, I bet he’ll enjoy that he’s The Asshole… not just An Asshole… because anybody can be an asshole).

To be honest, most of the details about his life are hazy. Where does he work? Don’t know. I think he’s a doctor (and that’s usually something I would remember). What does he enjoy in life? Other than himself? Don’t know. Is he from this area? Don’t know. See, I’m kind of an asshole, too. Sorry for not caring about your life, asshole. I promise to be more genuinely engaged from here on out. If only to be the lesser of two assholes.

But here’s the thing about The Asshole. While I find him genuinely aggravating, caustic, offensive, and sometimes annoying as fuck, I’ve actually found myself recently enjoying conversing with him. Because beneath that caustic, asshole exterior, he’s actually a decent conversationalist, genuine, and kind of a nice guy (but don’t tell him I told you that).

And also, The Asshole is a lot like myself. I have a great deal of self-confidence. He has self-love (seriously, that guy can proselytize on his superiority for hours, I bet). You’re not converting me (or maybe you already have?). And I guess good for you for having that much love for yourself. I feel inclined to consider it obnoxious, but then I guess perhaps that’s just my inculcation into Western culture where we are permitted to be confident but not without humility… otherwise we’re perceived as assholes (The Asshole is a case in point).

I find myself actually intrigued by The Asshole, suddenly. Before, I thought he was aggravating. I would see a correspondence coming in from him and roll my eyes. I was never disappointed by the level of asshole he brought forth. Recently, however, he’s shown a different side. He’s more than just an asshole. Let me be perfectly clear, however, that he is most definitely still an asshole… but a tolerable asshole. Maybe even something of an endearing asshole?

As egocentric as he is, he’s also somewhat perceptive. He gleans things from what I say that not everybody might get from conversation with me. And because I’m rather egocentric myself, I like that.

He’s interesting. He’s poly. He’s kind of me in male form with a slightly larger ego, less beautiful hair, and a beard. So perhaps that is why I both simultaneously find him horrid and appealing?

Anyhow, I’m sure The Asshole will revel in being the subject of an entire post. He loves himself. I guess it’s not the worst thing, to be one’s own biggest fan?

I think The Asshole and I may just become good friends, in time.

A Glass of Wine and Some Reminiscing…

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I can’t sleep (an exceedingly common problem in my daily life), and while there are a million other things that my time would be better allocated towards, I am sipping a glass of Cabernet and reminiscing about online dating… because I love it and I miss it.

Now about this time (i.e., a couple of glasses in), pre-relationship, I would have likely been perusing profiles of cute guys and randomly messaging them with witty little remarks about their profiles, or their photographs. And by witty, I mean I would read what I’d sent the next day and laugh my pants off at my ridiculousness. But for some reason, my drunk messages were often my most successful. I have a fabulous email buddy who came of it (haven’t heard from you in a while; you know who you are) who even came to visit me for a weekend of fun… which ended up being much less fun and a lot more me whining and moaning and sniveling and sleeping – I had the dreaded plague (for those who don’t know me, this translates into mild cold, but I am about the whiniest human being on the planet when afflicted with such irksome ailments).

I feel I’ve gotten off track… my point? Ah, right. Reminiscing.

I loved online dating. My blog was inspired by my online dating adventures. Online dating is fun and exciting and sometimes hilarious (you’ve read my blog, right?).

It’s slightly ironic because I’d taken it for granted and become rather disenchanted with the whole experience, just a couple of months ago. One can only have so much fun before all of the fun gets sucked out of one’s fun. You know? Okay, not really. But I was getting a little bored of it all.

So, in my boredom, one night when it was just myself and my glass of wine, I sat down and edited my online dating profile. I felt it to be a bit bland. In reading it, it seemed like some sort of business proposal. And I had come to the realization that I wasn’t serious about dating. I’m not out there looking for ‘the one’. I wanted fun, dates, to meet new people, some excitement. So, I made the tone of my profile a lot more jocular. I talked about beards. A lot. (I mean, I really do like beards, but the extent to which I spoke of the beard was clearly sardonic). Clearly!

I remember, though, getting a message from a reeeeeeally attractive guy inquiring seriously about my beard ‘fetish’. Only he didn’t say fetish, because as pretty as he was, he was also extremely daft. How did you not get that the tone of my profile was facetious? Seriously, pretty dude. You just made me lose faith in humanity.

And so it goes. He wasn’t even polite in his criticism of my ‘odd’ love of beards. I’m actually not sure why I haven’t written about him before.

Online dating is the best for when you’re just a little drunk, and you’re alone and feeling a little lonely. There’s always someone online, late at night, when you are plagued with sleeplessness and are half a bottle deep. I mean, what is there to wake up and regret in the morning, without the online dating fun?

I feel as though, in its absence, I am proselytizing on all of the things I loved about online dating while ignoring all of its flaws (although I did acknowledge rude hot boy). I guess it had its downsides, too. Like guys who showed up for a date who were far less attractive than their photographs, or men who told you things they thought you wanted to hear so they could sleep with you (when what you really wanted to hear was the truth – I want to sleep with you - which really would have been so much easier, guys!!), or guys who didn’t text back suddenly and unexpectedly. Ugh!

Really, I should probably attempt sleep again. And dream about online dating?

Sigh!

Singleversary!

RemcoBoerma / Love Photos / CC BY-NC-SA

Not too long ago I stumbled across a post on Thought Catalog called Thank Your Ex. It called to mind the time that, in a drunken, messy conversation with my ex I genuinely thanked him for cheating on me, because in doing so, he’d released me from the misery that I had been denying for so long that I was living in. But also because the entire experience brought me to exactly where I am today, and I love where my life is, so how could I lament anything that had transpired before?

And now, today, marks one year of freedom. The weeks leading up to the moment where I knew I had to walk away were some of the toughest moments of my life. In an instant, my world had been shattered. Everything I thought I knew was turned on its head. I knew my ex would never be unfaithful. So when things were strained between us, I had a lot of things running through my head, but that never once entered into my consciousness. Imagine my complete and utter state of shock when finally, after several agonizing days of my begging him to talk to me about whatever it was that was going on between us, he, via Facebook, said these words:

I’ve been unfaithful.

And then he refused to talk to me on the phone because he ‘couldn’t face my anguish. He couldn’t bear to hear me cry’. Which somehow I guess he’d not thought of before sticking his penis in another human being. Repeatedly. For months. Until he knocked her up. All the while stringing me along with his professions of love (intermittently peppering in insults about what a slut I am for having discovered and opened up about being polyamorous). And all of this on our 6 1/2 year anniversary – to the day.

My friends couldn’t fathom why, but I spent a number of weeks trying to repair the relationship, trying to figure out how to fix it, to move forward. I was clinging to the future I’d always imagined – because until that point, he’d always been a part of it. Not that it was necessarily a happy or brilliant future that I’d imagined. It was just that I hated change, so even a miserable future seemed better than one I’d not planned. (Yes, I am aware that this seems nonsensical).

I remember so vividly the moment my life changed, forever, for the better. It wasn’t when D told me he’d been unfaithful, or when he told me that his mistress was pregnant. It wasn’t even over the following weeks where he strung me along, telling me we would work it out and find a way to raise his child together. My best friend, R, came to visit me during this time, and tried to talk sense into me over several drunken nights of her kicking my ass on Wii and having heart-to-hearts. But no, it was the moment he blamed his infidelity on me. He was drunk, and we were chatting on Facebook.

I’m still in love with her, you know.

I had no reply. I was emotionally exhausted. Up until this point, he had told me repeatedly that he didn’t love her. That he’d developed feelings for her, but that he wasn’t in love with her. So for him to ‘still’ be in love with her meant that every thing he’d said until that point had been a lie. And somehow I wasn’t surprised. But I realized that my forgiveness did have a limit. He became irate, it seemed, that I hadn’t commented on his still being in love with her. I think, really, he wanted me to continue fighting for him. I hadn’t any fight left, at this point. Thankfully.

Did you hear what I said? I’m still in love with her.

My reply:

Yeah. I heard you. But given that up until now you’ve denied ever having loved her, I’ve really got no response.

And then the gem that ended it all:

If you knew how to keep a man happy, this never would have happened.

Thank you, D, for those words. Thank you, sincerely. Because it was then and there that I realized that I was done, that I was able to walk away, that I no longer had to fight to repair a relationship I hadn’t been all that invested in for a long time. It was then that I gained the strength I’d never had before. And I’ve never looked back.

There was a brief moment in the aftermath where I lamented ever having entered this relationship – given that he left me with tremendous financial burden when he stiffed me for bills he’d wracked up in my name, the mortgage that was in both our names, and abruptly left me to deal with it all on a single person’s income. But, being that I’m resourceful and impossible to keep down, I can now only thank him.

Thank you for the experience.

Thank you, for teaching me exactly what I require in future relationships – with men in my life, friends, and family.

Thank you for showing me that I can not only survive heartbreak, but come out stronger and better for it.

Thank you for reminding me that I need to demand respect in my relationships. I will never allow someone to tear me down as you did.

Thank you for finally ending a relationship that was severely toxic for us both in the only way you knew how, even if it was the coward’s way out.

Thank you for allowing me to see my own strength and beauty.

Thank you for helping me to evolve.

Thank you for allowing me to discover the joy of embracing change; it freed me from a crippling fear of uncertainty that I had previously possessed.

Thank you for showing me that I hadn’t been living life; I now am happier than I’ve ever been and embrace experience. I live every moment.

Thank you for the life lessons; next time I buy a house, it will be mine and mine alone.

Thank you for freeing me.

Thank you for showing me that I can walk away when I have to. I had never been able to do that, before.

Thank you for bringing me so much closer to some of the people in my life who saw me through my heartbreak.

Thank you for allowing me to forgive you (even if you didn’t believe my forgiveness; I think that was more because my forgiveness made your transgressions harder to bear).

And thank you for the good moments, because in six and a half years, there were bound to be a few of those. Thank you for being a part of my life. Thank you for inspiring me to excel, even if only to prove you wrong when you told me I’d fail. Thank you for introducing me to some wonderful people who have enriched my life, Gouda cheese, and Long Island . Thank you.

And now, one year later, I am happier than I have ever been. I have the love of a man who thinks the world of me (it’s fresh, and a little scary, but also exhilarating) and who builds me up every single day. I have my health. I have my wonderful friends, who saw me through one of the lowest points of my life. I have my education and my career aspirations. I have so much. One year ago today was the first day of the rest of my life, and so far what a brilliant life it’s been!

Dick Pic Backlash

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I was apparently very mistaken in thinking that it was pretty straightforward that acquiring consent before sending pictures of one’s genitalia is an issue of common courtesy and respect. Upon posting my last post on the subject to my Facebook, I received this glib retort from a dissenter:

You should always ask before anything. Before sex, before kissing, before holding hands, before pictures, before talking to someone – not asking is rude. Unless they like you to initiate things – then it’s rude for you to not respect that they want you to initiate (side note: when you are rude in this way, you’re also “less of a man”). There are a bunch of other blogs that address this issue elsewhere.

In short, choose wisely based on how things will be perceived, since you always know in advance. Or don’t choose if you don’t always know, if choosing is rude. Or always ask, if not asking is rude. Or be rude, if that’s what she responds to – meaning if not being rude is rude. Or remove the concept of “rude” from your decision making since everyone’s preferences are completely different from each other, and no one blog’s rules for how to go about life will necessarily resonate with any other blog or the people behind them. Seriously, there are so many size queens (some of whom have blogs) that would completely disagree with the OP’s take on penises.

Okay, so I get your point. Not everybody is the same. We get that. That’s pretty much a given. I didn’t think it was implied otherwise in what I wrote. But how does one not see that sending uninvited pictures of one’s penis is disrespectful? This is the exact problematic attitude I was talking about. It’s not cool to send pictures of your penis to an unsuspecting individual. It doesn’t take a great deal of effort to ascertain whether or not a photograph of your appendage is welcomed or not. It might go something like this:

Person with a penis: Hey, you want to see a photograph of my penis?

Recipient: Sure, I’d love to.

Proceed to send picture of your penis.

Or…

Recipient: No thanks. I’d rather not.

Do not proceed to send picture of your penis.

It’s really that simple. Why is it such a controversial thing to suggest that people behave respectfully toward others? Like seriously, I have to say “no” before it becomes harassment? Seriously?? That’s the same nonsense bullshit that suggests a woman who doesn’t say “no” has implied “yes” in sexual relations. That’s just not the case. An absence of no doesn’t imply yes. And why would anyone want to put themselves in the position to sexually harass somebody or be a sexual aggressor? Why wouldn’t someone just want to be clear right upfront that their advances are wanted and welcomed before proceeding? This type of backlash makes me want to explode in rage because it’s SO FUCKING STUPID! As far as I’m concerned, assaulting my eyes with a picture of a penis I didn’t want to see is the online equivalent to shoving a dick into my hand that I didn’t ask to touch. And that’s not cool, guys. So when people are saying “Hey, don’t send me pictures without making sure I want them” to then turn around and say “Man, we have to ask before imposing ourselves upon another person for everything these days. What a pain” makes you a douche.

Don’t be that douchebag!

Did I Ask to See Your Dick?

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I’ve written about this before, but given the persistence of the issue, I feel inspired, once again to write about penises. It would seem that men really like to send pictures of their dicks. And that’s all well and good. I mean, if you’re confident in your penis and want to share photographs of it with (consenting) men and women, all the power to you. But dudes, and I am absolutely serious right now, stop sending surprise penis pictures.

Before hitting send on a particularly fantastic photograph of your phallus, ask yourself a few quick questions:

Did this person ASK me to see my penis?

If the answer is no, then make sure that they actually want to see it. Because if they don’t, and you send it, you’re not only being a dick, you’re sexually harassing somebody. Don’t do that.

Is this picture going to be a surprise?

Yes? Don’t do it! Get consent, first. Because as sexy as you might think it is, I’m here to tell you it’s not sexy. It’s annoying and disrespectful and no matter how nice your penis is, it will not make up for how much of a dick you are for sending a surprise picture of your penis that wasn’t wanted and actually probably made the recipient feel creeped out. Resist the urge, guys.

Did you ask your recipient if they wanted a photograph and they declined?

This should be a no-brainer, but in my experience, it is not. Don’t fucking send it. If you’ve offered and your offer was declined, sending it makes you about the douchiest guy on the planet. Seriously.

You have a spectacular dick and think the world needs to see it?

That’s great. I’m happy for you. But the world doesn’t need to see it. Not really. Sometimes you’ll find consenting persons who do want to share in the joy of viewing your spectacular cock, but you’ll also find those who don’t. So just respect each individual person, and you’ll be golden.

I think these all go without saying… but surprisingly there are a vast number of men who are entirely ignorant of dick pic etiquette. So the next time you’ve got your penis out and you’ve snapped yourself a stunning photo, please think before you send.