New York City. It's the city that never sleeps. But also, it's the city where the women never sleep with YOU. Any guy who has spent any decent amount of time inside this wonderful metropolis would attest to this assertion: it's damn hard to get laid in New York (unless you're a millionaire).

What? How can this be? How can I say such a thing? Am I some sort of a psychopath or utter troglodyte? Well, if you are somehow offended by that statement or disagree with it, please hear me out before shutting off your brain and/or navigating to another node.

Okay, first off, let me qualify the above statement: In any other city in America, if you are an average-to-good-looking guy in his 20's or early 30's, who is responsible, has a job and a stable income, is healthy, normal, and doesn't have any major personality or other types of disorder, it shouldn't be a problem to find a sex partner. In fact, if you are on the good-looking side of the spectrum, women should be figuratively beating a path to your door to fuck you. Good for them! And, probably, good for you too! (Unless you are a gay dude, then it can get annoying I suppose). However, in New York, this is *not* the case! In fact, it's really hard to get laid here. It's like pulling teeth. And the girls that are willing to fuck you are probably sub-par.

The reason is simple: All the hot chicks are looking for a millionaire. It's true.

Okay, maybe not a millionaire, but they are definitely looking for some amazing super-hero of a guy. And they will probably find him sooner or later (or so they think).

The problem with New York, fundamentally is two-fold:

(1) Women get hit-on CONSTANTLY in New York

New York women get hit on a LOT by a small subset of men. Especially if they are even mildly sexy.

It's not clear why this is, but it's definitely true. It could be because of the population density or large number of utter hornball players and assorted nutjobs that end up here. But women are constantly being harassed and/or flirted-with by a small subset of the guys here in New York.

This has two effects: They become immune to come-ons, and they also get overly-large egos. When you get hit on at least a few times a day, it's hard not to think a lot of yourself.

Getting hit on constantly also makes them bulletproof -- they have a skin so thick you need to be REALLY smoothe to get under it. Cassanova himself probably has trouble smoothe-talking his way into a date with a New York woman. Forget about him getting any sex. That's like winning the lottery.

(2) There are too many really, really 'amazing' guys to compete with.

There are a lot of really rich celebrities, Wall street types, sports stars, business tycoons, and other assorted nietzschean ubermensches in New York.

All these guys are visible or at least in the public consciousness, and thus every guy that isn't some sort of superhero seems like a poor catch to a woman.

The reasoning to a woman goes something like: "Why should I go out with this relatively normal guy? I mean, he's cute and all, but here in New York he's a dime a dozen. Get me one of those Wall street millionaires. I know they are around because I saw one the other day getting out of a limo and wearing a $3000 designer suit. I mean, why go out with this 'loser' when maybe I can get a guy like that? I would be selling myself short, I would!"

The moral of the story:

If you're a guy who has a girlfriend or wife, and you live in New York, then hang on to her. Appreciate her. She's a woman that has been able to overcome the above obstacles and appreciate you as a person and, quite importantly, give you sex. Treasure her and don't screw it up or else it could be many a lonely night spent making love to your hand for you!


I'm not an ugly mofo or anything. I don't have simple chronic halitosis, nor am I fat, acne-covered, or otherwise undesirable. Nope. I am actually a pretty good-looking guy who under normal circumstances should have more poontang than he knows what to do with. However, I live in New York, and thus the little bit that women do give me I savor and cherish. It sucks, but as Winston said about New York in the film Ghostbusters: "I love this town!!!"

It can’t possibly be as easy as living clean, not eating meat, smoking or doing drugs, and being reasonably sane. But maybe it is.

“I’m Lia,” she tells him. “You really don’t eat animals?

He shakes his head, trying not to look too holier-than-thou, holding the bottle of orange juice tightly. Marvin has discreetly disappeared, leaving him alone at the bar with this unbelievable girl.

I don’t either.” She stands so close to him that her breasts are brushing his chest, and smells his breath. Thank God for padded bras, he thinks giddily. He might have burst if he had felt a nipple. It’s been a long time. He’s sweating buckets, but her hands are as cool as a statue’s.

She smiles. “Let’s get out of here. Come home with me.

It can’t be this easy. Can it? Hell, maybe it can. This is New York, right? Wild things happen here. And people do tend to go to clubs hoping for sex. Except for sad cases like him, who go because their cooler friends drag them along, and spend the entire night wishing they could be at home, out of this noise, out of this reeking, roiling air.

Maybe geeks are cool again, he thinks. Maybe somebody changed the rules to let an average-looking guy get a shot.

It can’t be that easy, but he follows her back to the ratty walkup which is very, very not clean living. Ten minutes later his cock is in her surprisingly cool mouth. It’s been years since he felt anything like that. He closes his eyes ecstatically, listening to her slither out of her clothes while she sucks him, and it’s paradise until the teeth lock down on him like little needles. His eyes pop open and he grunts, looking down at her.

The slithering noise wasn’t her clothes. It was her skin.

She’s watching him with an eye of reptilian yellow. Her body, her cool, firm, nipple-free body, is now a fifteen feet long tube of scale-covered muscle coiling around him, squeezing the air out of his chest in another series of animal grunts. There will be no screaming.

A rib cracks painfully, and her tail twitches in front of his face. It’s the last thing he sees.

He was right the first time. It’s not that easy to get laid in New York.

Because it is the season...

This thing right here
Is lettin’ all the ladies know

I go to the coffee shop across from my synagogue for two reasons. One of them is fresh, sweet and warm. The second reason is men like the one sitting by the plant. Thick black lashes framed his dark blue eyes . Two small holes about an inch apart from each other dotted the front of his shirt. An open notebook sat out on his table. Maybe he was a struggling student. A brown paper napkin unfolded in front of me. He had the hands of a healer. Or an artist

What guys talk about
You know, the finer things in life

Before I could introduce myself two things happened simultaneously. The man in front of me made a comment about the economy while another set of eyes stared at me over the edge of a laptop. My eyes lingered on the shirt standing next to me. The man looking over the laptop smiled. My mother has been a dental hygienist for longer than I’ve been alive. I know what a beautiful smile looks like. More importantly I know what it means when a smile lingers in the air.

She like to dance at all the hip hop spots
And she cruise to the crews like connect the dots

Before I could make my way over to the ladies' room another man caught my eye. Bright black eyes captured my green ones. Black and white newsprint fell to the side. Everything about him said class. From the fountain pen sitting in his shirt pocket to the corners of his square tipped shoes. I wanted to run my fingers through his hair just to see if I could disturb his well ordered life. His coffee was so strong I could smell it from five paces away.

Not just urban she likes the pop
Cuz she was living la vida loca

Cute laptop boy smiled at me again. Three men. Three choices. A triple diversion for the quiet coffee shop I frequented. The man with the paper pulled a bill out of his money clip. The guy with the torn shirt was still standing next to me. On my way back from the restroom I had a chance to see what the guy with the laptop had on his screen. The words "LOVE ME" jumped out at me. Apparently laptop boy had been asking his internet friends for relationship advice.

See ya shakin that thang like who's da ish
With a look in her eye so devilish

The Alamo contains the undead brain eating corpse of General Santa Anna. LOVE ME!” Intrigued I kept reading. “If we have sex we have to be quiet or my mom will come in and beat us with brooms. LOVE ME!” The guy in front of me turned around when I laughed out loud. The next line made me laugh even harder: “I contain 100% of the daily recommended allowance of hot sex. LOVE ME!” Lines of text blurred before my eyes as I wiped the tears away. I couldn't remember the last time I had laughed that hard about anything.

Let me see that thong

The fictitious coffee shop faded from her mind as she picked up her mug of lukewarm tea. Outside it was gloomy and overcast. The kitchen was a short walk down the hall. A flick of her wrist started the stove under the teapot. Warm lavender scented water filled her porcelain sink. Sunlight brightened her window as she picked up her dishcloth still thinking about meeting her imaginary friends at the coffee shop. It was good to be smiling again.

Summer breeze, makes me feel fine, blowin' through the jasmine of my mind

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