by TC
The Atomic Dog is a weekly feature that isn't necessarily about weight training or bodybuilding. Sometimes it's about sports in general, sex, women, or male issues of some kind. At times it's inspirational, but it can also be informative, funny, and even a little weird, but hopefully, always interesting and a little controversial. We hope it reflects the nature of Testosterone magazine in that, just as no man is completely one-dimensional and only interested in one subject, neither are we. If it makes you think or laugh — or even get angry — it's served its purpose.
So I was outside on the patio sunning my schlong — you know, for the Vitamin D — when the doorbell rang.
I got up and walked back into the house, simultaneously pulling on my pants and doing one of those awkward one-leg-in, one-leg-out hopping motions that are usually more characteristic of the professional sack racer.
As I buttoned up, I peered out the peephole.
Standing on the other side of the door was something delightfully blonde in a tight pink tank top with a neckline so low,so expansive, that even Shaquille O'Neal could fit his fat head through it.
And speaking of Shaq, my vantage point was kind of like what he must experience every day, only instead of peering down at other basketball players' heads, I was looking down at the crown of a beautiful Kobe and a beautiful Lebron, but these superstars were white and bedecked by a hint of lacy pink bra.
I love this game!
And it got plain silly from there, because I viddied this wide swath of smooth, downy belly, bordered way down South by a pair of low-rider jeans that some clothing designer-slash-engineer-slash-genius on the same plane as Da Vinci had sewn together, figuring out exactly just how much opposing tension the hips and ass would have to exert to keep the whole rig from slipping down and exposing her no doubt smooth and hairless hoo-hah.
I remember thinking how a tattoo artist could have easily inked a little pubic kitty kat tattoo on this girl without having to remove any clothing at all. Hell, he could have given her a vaginal piercing without removing any clothing at all.
Wondrous.
Granted, the view of this creature was a little disproportionately magnified because of the lenses in the peephole — all giant tits and basset hound nose peering back at me — but even the peephole couldn't hide that there was a spectacular ass-bunny on the other side of the door.
I stood up straight, puffed out my chest a bit, brushed my hair back with my hand and opened the door, a somewhat toothy, hopefully not-too-creepy smile on my face.
"Hi, I'm Jennifer," she said.
Jennifer! Of course! Could it be anything else?
"Do I have a booger in my nose?"
That I wasn't expecting.
"Because I feel like I have a booger in my nose. Can I use your bathroom?"
I must have said sure because seconds later she was in my bathroom, presumably examining the reflection of her inner nostril.
I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have let a guy into my house if he feared he had a booger in his nose, but I said sureto Jennifer because I'm a man and I'm a sucker for anything soft and smooth with a voice like a nightingale and, well, breasts.
And I looked, and behold, a pale breast, and her name that it sat on was Jennifer, and hell followed with her.
Jennifer, it turns out, is a member of her high school volley ball team (of course!) and she was trying to earn money to send her team God-knows-where because I'm not hearing any of the yammering; I'm in the Testosterone grips of plak tow, and like Spock, if I don't mate soon — or at least whack off furiously — I will surely die.
All I was thinking was Penthouse letter, Penthouse letter... well, that and I'm going to jail... I'm going to jail....
Jennifer talked and talked and talked, not coming up for air even once. In between pleas for money and promises of a tactile reward ("I'll give you a hug"), the little vixen even asked if she could move in with me because, you know, "living with your parents is such a drag."
But nothing happened. Except that somehow, I gave her alleged volleyball team 80 dollars. I was left with nothing but a signed receipt (she dots the "i" in her name with a heart!) and a rapidly receding hard-on.
Even so, I kept reliving the moment for hours if not days, thinking how, for sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, "It might have been." Oh yeah, she might have beenbent over my vintage naugahyde couch grunting like she'd just whacked a succession of jump serves over the net; I might have been driving the lane with Kobe and Lebron; she might have been in the bathroom clearing something out of her nose other than boogers.
I don't know exactly when it happened, during her short visit or afterwards, but a certain delusion began to form and solidify in my mind: Jennifer wanted me. Sure she wanted money, but that was purely incidental. Yep, she wanted me.
The truth, of course, is that Jennifer didn't want me. She knew that I, along with every other heterosexual male on the block and in fact, the entire tri-county area, would end up falling prey to her bubbly flirtations and give her money, if not the Amex card or the deed to the house.
I don't blame women for taking advantage of men. The wonder is that we continue to fall for it. You'd think that after the thousandth time that Lucy pulled the football away and we fell on our ass, we'd learn.
Of course, we always think women are coming on to us, even if they aren't. The most innocent remark or gesture from an attractive woman is interpreted as flirtation.
We ask her to pass the ketchup, and if she so much as smiles while doing so, we think it's as clear a sign of her sexual receptiveness as if she had stripped naked and writhed around on the floor of the diner while squeezing her breasts together and moaning our name.
I can't tell you how many ordinary looking friends I have who suffer repeated and extreme bouts of this delusion. Mark tells me, eyes afire, that today, two women, on separate occasions, smiled at him!
He can't accept that it's courtesy or that it's a nice day and they're glad to be alive or even the possibility that they're smiling because it's 90 degrees outside and he's wearing his ridiculous Icelandic turtleneck sweater that looks like it was made out of navel lint.
Noooo. They wanna hook up with McLovin.
I'm sitting down at a cafe having a coffee with a friend when a girl I know stops to talk to me. She doesn't say so much as a word to my friend, but when she leaves he says, "You see that? She ignored me. I think she likes me."
Where in the hell does this type of misguided self-esteem come from!?!
If you're a woman, you can have a casual conversation with a guy and mention your fiancé, Lorenzo, a dozen times and it's a pretty safe bet the guy you're talking to still thinks you're coming on to him.
Lorenzo ain't doing it for her in the sack. I can tell.
I have other friends who, while working out, can't accept the notion that a woman is stretching or doing leg curls for any other purpose than to send them a sexual signal. Heaven forbid these women work the seated hip abduction machine:
Look at that! See my hoo-hah? Now you don't. See my hoo-hah? Now you don't. Dude! Could she be any more obvious?
Sheesh. No wonder women join Curves.
"Downward Dog", when performed in the gym, isn't necessarily a come-on.
The most pathetic delusions take place at the strip club. It almost never fails. A man emerges from the back room after having his first ever two hundred dollar lap dance and he's convinced his girl was turned on; that she liked him!
"No, no, she's different! I've got tickets to the RV show at the coliseum this weekend. I think I'll ask her to go with me."
He won't listen to reason.
God help him. God help us.
The sad truth is that she doesn't want to go to the Ice Capades with you.
Listen, the only place where women truly flirt is at the bar on half-price tequila shooter night, or on the Internet. The rest is our imagination.
Speaking of the latter, I've gotten emails from women over the years that would scorch Larry Flynt's soiled paraplegic shorts. A lot of men I know have received similar emails. While they're fun to read and they often cause Jedidiah to rouse from his flaccid nap, I'm pretty sure it's just how women have fun with us.
Sadistic men pull wings off flies; sadistic women send dirty emails.
If I ever met one of these women in person, I'm sure she'd claim she'd never sent those emails, that her snot-nosed kid brother had logged on as her and was playing a prank and that her fiancé, Lorenzo, was going to have a talk to him about it.
I wonder if women truly realize what suckers we are. It's a wonder any of us have any money at all. If women really knew how pathetic we are, they'd simply line up outside the banks on the 1st and 15th of every month holding open empty grocery bags with outstretched hands. All they'd have to do is wear something a little sexy and say, "You're cuuuute!" to every schlub that walked out of the bank.
Of course, with our predilection for self delusion, all they'd have to say is, "Hello, it's a bit humid today, isn't it?" and we'd empty our wallets all the same while extracting megabytes of innuendo from their remark.
I bet they take that money home, empty it on to their bed, strip naked, and roll around on all that cash. I'm pretty damn sure Jennifer is doing the same thing right now.
You know, I betcha' she started thinking about me as soon as she got naked. Oh yeah, she wants me.
"Oh boys! Boys! You're all so cute! Can I have some money?"
[Editor's note: A version of this article first appeared on Testosterone on June 2nd, 2006.]
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