>>> Primal Urges
By staff writer Nathan DeGraaf

March 20, 2008

Nathan: Some of my readers have been complaining that I don’t write about sex enough anymore. I think I’m getting too grown up, maybe too serious or something.
Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke—wait a minute…
You have readers?
You know, we’ve known each other five years.
And yet I feel like you’re leading this secret life…
Anyway, I guess I’m gonna have to write about sex again.
Dirk: You ever write about the Melters? You used to babble on about them for months.
That’s it. Dirk, you’re a genius. Thanks.
No problem. You should buy me a beer for that.
Go neuter yourself.
Well then.

One of the many great aspects of the male fantasy of women is that none of the crap that ever comes up in real life ever affects the dream. In fantasy, there are no granny panties, no bad outfits, no cellulite, no arguments, and no chick flicks. There are only beautifully toned, tanned bodies, made-up faces covered in cum, and perhaps a whip or a chain or maybe even a horse (don’t judge me).

The male fantasy is perfect, untouched and completely unreachable. However, there are many women out there whocome close. I call these objects of ejaculation, Melters. And not because they melt your heart (come on, this is my perspective from which I’m tapping the keys), but because they melt your logic, your sense of right and wrong… hell, sometimes your whole value system (assuming you have one). These women are typically dimwitted,vapid shells of human beings, but they have great shells. Beauty may only be skin deep, but how much deeper you want to go really only depends on penis size. The rest is all sandwiches and stray beers found in the back of the fridge.

“Melters don’t have compassion, and they use sex to get the one thing they crave: attention.”

At least at first.

You see, dear reader who may or may not be naked right now, there are women out there who, for whatever reasons, don’t really have informed opinions on things like politics, white-collared careers and/or the English language. Most of these women are stupid not because they chose to be, but because a male-dominated system encouraged them to be. They learned early on that they would get by on their looks. And when your looks land you in a mansion, sipping mimosas by the pool while watching the sunset… well then looks become the most important thing in your life.

I’m just saying….

Spotting Melters is very easy. They typically work at Hooters or in strip clubs or as Budweiser girls, and sometimes, on those rarest of lucky days, you can find them at the beach. Melters have perfect bodies. And when I say perfect I mean, “Playboy can put away the airbrush” perfect. They spend thousands of dollars a year on their skin, their makeup comes from foreign countries, and their perfume costs more than you make in a month (you fucking loser—seriously, get a real job). If they haven’t had plastic surgery, it’s only ‘cause they don’t need it yet. Their breasts are too large for their frames, their asses too toned to be acceptable to the rest of the female population. They put fruit on their eyes when they lay in the sun and they often start pointless stories with unnecessary name dropping like, “So my friend Camille and I were at this party at Derek Jeter’s house…”

They never wear granny panties or flats and they’re usually unaware when it’s an election year. Abortion is simply birth control to them and all births they may give in life are done caesarian style (because Caesar respects the pussy). They call and ask for help with things like setting their clocks and Googling directions. When they’re hungry or thirsty they simply dress up and go out. They love watching men fight over them and they never seem to understand the callous nature of their own emotions.

They’re basically sex robots powered by drugs.

They love cocaine and Xanax and Vicodin. When they bother to talk, they’ll bitch about their friends, talk about famous people, and/or ask you if you’re holding. Between sugar daddies, they usually date drug dealers.

And they’ll set your dumbass back a few years if you ain’t careful.

You see, Melters will get you into bad situations. They often recommend that you buy that something you can’t afford, that you drive twice the speed limit, that you leave that important meeting with that important client (or that important test in that important class) so you can help them move their furniture (have sex) or go shopping with them (have sex in public) or clean their husband’s pool (have sex then fear for your life as you run away shirtless while dodging gunfire). Melters don’t really have compassion, and they use sex to get the one thing they crave more than coke: attention.

They need constant attention, constant verification of their hotness, and constant appreciation for the fact that they love to look as great as possible. They need this because they stopped thinking back in junior high when Mr. Man Teacher said, “You’ll pass, baby. You’ll pass so easily.”

They’re products of their environment so maybe it’s not their fault. (Note: European Melters from first world countries tend to be too educated to qualify under this definition so let’s just limit this to the American women for now—love that U.S. public education). After all, thinking is work for a lot of people and receiving a Get Out of Thought Process Free Card shortly after puberty makes it hard for them to care, but still…

(But still..? That’s all I got as an argument against stupidity? But still..? I’m such a fuck up.)

Melters never fuck you too much too early on if they recognize you have a brain, because they know you’ll leave them once you realize you’re basically fucking a professional shopper without a profession. But if you can come off as a dumbass ready to be manipulated (and I recommend this if you meet a Melter—they love the dumb), you’ll basically get to bang them until the bank account is gone or a new guy shows up with tighter abs and better coke.

And that really is the male fantasy. If money is no object to you, and you have no goals of making a connection with a woman, you might as well just do your best to find you a Melter.

And if you manage to keep one, leaving them is the easy part. You see, they hate their appearances (hence the need for constant beauty verification) and they know you’re not staying with them for their brains, so all you have to do to dump one is look at her body disappointingly in the morning and mention something about how great she “used to look.”

She’ll get the hint and start banging the next coke-happy stock broker she finds at the ten dollar martini bar.

The sad thing is that the Melter is the female fantasy. She’s always what we think we want until we realize that eventually, we’ll have to talk to them.

And then the whole thing gets shot to hell.

I guess what I’m saying is, fantasies are fantasies for a reason, but still, I mean, the prettier the face, the better it looks splattered with my cum.

And I guess the same goes for tits, ass, legs, hair, and torso too.

And I guess I should hate them a little for representing all that is wrong with America, but I mean, dude, those legs.

They’ll get you every time.