In the 1920's, flat chests and pencil thin lips were considered the height of sexy. When the 40's hit, men decided they'd rather cuddle up to flesh-filled skirts and big pointy sweaters. In the 80's… well, nobody could see past a woman's shoulder pads. But in the 90's six-pack abs were the standard (incidentally breeding a weird generation of stomach fetishists). And now, thanks to Kim Kardashian's mind boggling ass, we're all squatting ourselves into physical exhaustion. Really. That woman's back pocket could shelter an entire Ethiopian village.
My point is this. There are a smorgasbord of sizes and shapes women are supposed to live up to. Granted, all we really have to be to get a man's attention is naked. But I guess we're just a group of gosh-darn overachievers.
Your girlfriend checks out more women in a single day than you rack up in a month. And no, it doesn't matter how insanely hot your girlfriend is—inside every beautiful woman is a teeming mass of insecurity. Which is where the time-honored tradition of trash-talking strangers comes in.
This deliciously satisfying custom is practiced by females the world over. Shit-talking unknown women's bodies is as healthy and natural to us as breathing while masturbating is to you. It's actually necessary for our very survival. If Bear Grylls was a woman, he'd foray into the wilderness with two toothpicks, a match, and a copy of US Weekly.
Here's another secret about women's genetic makeup: We are more competitive than men will ever be. Only we don't get to release our competitive urges in fun ways like sweaty bar brawls (you lucky devils). And we're not just in competition with members of the opposing office basketball team. No, we're in competition with every other woman on the planet.
At all times.
Your girlfriend checks out more women in a single day than you rack up in a month. And (sorry to build up your hopes and then crush them) there's nothing sexual about it. We have entire spreadsheets in our brains detailing our every physical asset, and we are just waiting for the opportunity to stack ourselves up against whatever whore-ish stranger crosses our path.
The reasons for this are twofold:
1. We need constant, high-maintenance assurance that you think we're attractive.
Word to the wise: The day you stop supplying this is the day we revoke your "leaving the lights on during sex" privileges.
2. We'd like to be reminded that our boyfriends would rather be banging us than whatever melon-breasted Q-tip is standing in front of us at Starbucks.
You both lose. But "C" for effort.It's really not a lot to ask. Mindlessly agreeing with us about a stranger's inferior calf-size is just another sacrifice you make to continue having regular sex. Along with keeping a box of tampons under your sink.
Let's take a look at a typical exchange between a boyfriend and girlfriend.
The Girlfriend's Opener:
"Gross! Don't you think that girl's legs are too skinny?"
Typical Response:
"Nah, they look fine."
What The Girlfriend Heard:
"Mmm… No way. All I can think about right now is wrapping those gorgeous gams around my face. Also, you're fat."
Trying times. As you can see, the miscommunication lies somewhere between her neuroses and his Howard Stern-esque level of physical sensitivity. But since I'm in a giving mood, I'll spell out the secret formula for handling every challenging trash-talking incident.
Step 1. Blindly Agree
Step 2. Pay Girlfriend Compliment
Step 3. Manufacture Pity for Stranger
The Girlfriend's Opener:
"Gross! Don't you think that girl's legs are too skinny?"
The Correct Response:
"Oh, absolutely! She looks disgusting. But with the way you're working that skirt, it's unfair of you to judge. That poor girl. She probably feels insecure around women like you."
To Which Said Girlfriend Will Undoubtedly Respond:
"Oh, God! Do you really think so? Well, I suppose I do have thighs that could crack a walnut. Wanna see?"
(This is assuming her mouth isn't already too full of your walnuts to utter a coherent sentence.) Gratitude plus an ego boost equals a powerful aphrodisiac. And there is no greater turn-on than a man who makes us feel good about ourselves.
So the next time we spy some cokehead with a wonky silicone job, don't begrudge us our measly crumbs of satisfaction. Don't defend the luscious siren of all things high and firm.
Instead, join in the fun. Grab a spoonful of ice cream and rip that bitch a new asshole.
She does have a terrible asshole, doesn't she?