Half an hour after banging we’re all showered up and sitting on Sally’s couch. Sally’s sprawled out, head on my lap, thoroughly engrossed with the reality show about weddings on the TV. I’m sitting there flicking my eyes every ten seconds to the seemingly frozen clock on the wall. Out of courtesy for the otherwise free sex I’m waiting a nearly intolerable hour before leaving. After only twenty minutes of reality television I already feel like a Vietnam vet sitting in my foxhole wishing night would come already and Charlie would just get it over with.

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This look every time I hear Sharp Dressed Man

Like Manna from heaven, a commercial comes on three seconds before I snap my own neck. Before I can implement my brilliant idea to go sit in the washroom and pretend to take a twenty minute donk, Sally walks her fingers across my leg. I foolishly think she’s still in the mood for friskiness so I put off the retreat to my washroom refuge.

“So when’s our wedding already?” she asks.

In retrospect I can see that this was a clear shit test, even though Sally and I were bang buddies and had not gone on one date in the two months we had been messing around.

Without thinking, I jokingly and immediately answered, “Sorry babe, for this guy’s wedding only teenaged virgins need apply.”

I honestly can’t recall what all was said in the ensuing fracas. Five to ten minutes later I found myself standing in the doorway of Sally’s apartment, asking her sarcastically if she was really so stupid to think we were dating.

I said something along the lines of: “We met at the club! Do you think any guy would date some chick he banged before he knew her name?”

WHAP!

A spiked heel hit me dead center between the eyes. Sally had thrown a shoe at me and nailed a bullseye. I was more shocked then hurt – and that’s saying something since the heel hurt like hell. A few minutes before we had been sitting on the couch thinking our insignificant thoughts – then suddenly all was chaos and anger and frickin’ shoes.

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Trigger warning

I felt like a kid from Columbine as I stood there, not really comprehending everything that happening. Seriously, when I look back at the argument Marilyn Manson’s The Nobodies begins playing in my head:

…while Michael Moore sappily narrates the whole thing.

For a very long time I had no idea what set Sally off so badly. I thought it was her realization that we weren’t dating and never would, or that she was just bored and wanted to live out a Taylor Swift song. A few days later she apologized and I accepted but needless to say we never ever ever ever got back together.

A different woman, Erin, was blatantly, annoyingly into me during University but I never found her attractive – at least, not nearly as attractive as the girls I was able to get. Even without my penial knighting ceremonies Erin still got banged aplenty by thirsty dudes. In our third year she got really drunk at a party and pulled me aside. She asked me, crying, why I never wanted to date her. Now despite my internet persona, for the most part I’m nice to girls in real life. Instead of telling her that I was out of her league, I answered with what I honestly thought was a rational response she could understand and appreciate:

“Erin, like, first year before I even met you or whatever you totally slept with three guys on our floor. Why would I date a chick like that?”

A tip for those guys who don’t know it: never, ever, try to be rational with women. Especially overly drunk, recently dumped women surrounded by white knights and some of your former lays. Being persona non grata among some people you sort of like isn’t fun…even if for the most part they all some apologize after learning the full story.

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I know that feel Brazil bro

Looking back on these two events, and the other major fights I have caused with women, there is always one common theme: they only really erupted when I called out their sexual promiscuity, whether sometimes with sublime elegance or more often with a string of four letter words. Accusing a woman of being a slut, skank, whore or any of word for sexual deviant is an emotional Hiroshima for them. Even the tough talking proudsluts feel the sting of such accusations; notice how many girls in slut walks hide or mask their faces, or won’t mention their source of pride to their parents and boyfriends. Usually if you’re actually proud of something you don’t have any trouble talking about it with your loved ones. Or what do I know; maybe these whores do have conversations like this at the supper table of today’s modern ‘family’:

Slut “So guess what daddy? I totally sucked three dicks and got DP’d last weekend! By next month I should be able to take eleven inches!”

Dad “Aw sugar lumps that’s great! Good for you! Someone definitely takes after their mommy.”

Mom “It looks like we’re all going to need a lot more Valtrex!”

Everyone laughs, cue Full House Theme.

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Everywhere you look everywhere you go, there’s a heart, a hand to hold ontooo

For all their bluster and rah rahing about being sexually liberated, women intrinsically know that them sleeping around with men – even if it’s as little as four or five over a lifetime – degrades themselves. This is why women can only use euphemisms when describing their sex lives. They’re not being used by a man who sees her solely as a series of holes for his pleasure; they’re ‘empowered’. They’re not spreading their legs for random strangers who yank their hair, slap their butt so hard it leaves bruises and then drops a load of baby juice on their face; they’re ‘hooking up’. They’re ‘conquering’ these men, even though their conquered foes immediately leave after they come (rightly not giving a squeaky fart about her orgasm) and will outright ignore their mighty vaginally equipped conquerors once any wrinkles on her appear and the inevitable sagging begins.

And really, if random sex is so great for woman how come the vast majority of them have to be drunk or high to go through with it?

I’ve said some bizarre things to women I’ve tired of banging just to see what I can get away with before they go away. I’ve been overtly racist with many (and found a lot of them to be sincerely racist themselves). I’ve told a few that they need to get back in the kitchen. I managed to convince one particularly bright bulb that historians proved the Holocaust was faked. I didn’t even have any preamble. One night we were laying in bed and I straight up out of nowhere asked if she knew the Holocaust was fake. When she asked where all the bodies came from, I told her that the Allies dug up Germans that had been killed and then posed them. “Wow, that’s awful,” she said sincerely. “Totally,” I agreed, unable to stop myself from guffawing. I also taught that one how to do a proper Nazi salute, with the heel clicks and everything. She loved it.

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I had the same ‘seriously’ look on my face as that Nazi officer does

Yet it never failed; any mention of a chick’s promiscuity always resulted in a fight. Whether said accidentally or with sincerity, if one implies a woman is a slut – even if it’s warranted – watch out. I learned it the hard way.

A pal of mine made a bizarre choice and dated a noted whore. He probably heard ample rumours about her infidelity and rampaging cum bucketry but for whatever reason my buddy stood steadfast for six months while they dated. This guy had seen her, before they started dating, make out with other men at parties and often go home with them. One time she took off her shirt and gave out drunken lap dances in the middle of a soiree. It took him finally coming home and seeing her in the middle of being banged on his couch by another guy for him to call off the relationship. Eric, a different friend, and I were at Eric’s place talking about it recently. His girlfriend Alisha was there as well.

“I seriously don’t know how he put up with it,” Eric said. I worded that. “I mean, I’d go crazy every time she was out of my sight. We all knew she was a slut. He knew she was a slut.”

Alisha, normally a cool chick and not a slut herself, cleared her throat. Eric looked like he had just farted in the Queen’s presence and quickly changed the subject. Alisha is not friends with the slut. Alisha is not a slut herself. Yet just mentioning a woman’s sluttiness in front of his woman was enough to earn Eric a reprimand. Eric knows full well the black abyss that opens up whenever any woman’s sexual practices are scrutinized.

For many women the topic of a woman’s sexual deviancy ist verboten, regardless of their own sexual history or views on the subject. Why do you think we at Return Of Kings get so much hate for our articles which center around sluts, regardless of whether they’re written for the purpose of Real Talk or satire?

There is a primeval part of women’s lizard brains that flares up when it comes to female sexual promiscuity, especially if it’s their own. They cannot handle allegations of whoredom even if everyone knows they’re a skank. A Slane girl can blow a guy in front of a thousand people but the moment she gets called out for being a slut the masses will rush to protect her, lest that slut spotlight gets turned to illuminate their skankiness. Woman would rather jail men with false rape accusations then admit that they slept with them. I’ve seen girls reduced to tears by being called a slut – even when the accusations were false and levelled by whores. Women have straight up killed themselves because of being labelled a slut, regardless of whether or not the accused slutdom was true. The label was enough to destroy them.

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I just noticed there hasn’t been a picture for awhile so here’s whatever this is

So gentlemen, save the atom bomb of sexual shame for an enemy that really deserves it. It’s more effective then you think. Sure, the accused might roll her eyes at you or proudly agree that she is indeed just a sperm receptacle but I can guarantee that when she goes home she can’t look in the mirror without feeling shame. You might be mad when your woman ruins dinner, but shouting, “YOU BURNT THE GRILL CHEESE YOU SLUT!” at her is probably going to make things a hell of a lot worse for both of you.

And with that Billy’s out until January! So for all 7 of you who like my articles and the rest of you jerks, I hope your Noel is tres joyeux. And remember; drunk driving is an art and most of you ain’t Picasso. Don’t be that douche that dies during Christmas.

Read More: 5 Things I Learned About Women This Week