Because you asked!
Well, because ONE of you asked, and did so in a such a snotty way that I feel it necessary to respond, if only to rub your offended, feminist, Snowflake, out-of-joint nose in it.
The first installment of this series can be found here.
One of my e-mail correspondents has accused me of holding out. Certainly, she says (it was a She. It always is) I can find more ways to degrade women and reinforce negative gender stereotypes. She also had many more things to say about my post, and me, personally.
I wasn't certain if she was being merely sarcastic, or throwing down a gauntlet. It's soooo difficult to tell, sometimes.
So, I prefer to interpret her expression of displeasure as if it were a challenge.
I most certainly CAN find more ways to reinforce negative gender stereotypes, my little Snowflake, but one should always remember: those stereotypes exist for a reason, and often bear a close relation to reality, notwithstanding your ability to question the size of my genitalia (I'll bet you stayed up all week thinking of that one).
Boy, won't you look stupid(er) when this is done, self-appointed e-mail gendercop?
Yes, I must confess: in the interests of brevity, The Master of the Galaxy deliberately withheld vital information from you, My Minions. There aren't merely ten (10) types of woman you must avoid, there are, in reality, many, many more. I'm also certain that male readers will be happy to inform me of any heretofore-undiscovered species they have the distinct misfortune to encounter.
Without further ado, here are an additional ten (10) types of women you should avoid as if they were simultaneously on fire and shitting plague-bearing rats.
1. The Vampire
She's lovely. She's interesting. She seems well-adjusted.
However, she casts no image in a reflective surface.
The Vampire is an insidious creature with a dual nature. She can appear to be very charming; she can be very alluring. However, this is a smoke-screen that dissipates slowly over time, for what she is is two different people (based upon circumstances) and at least three kinds of crazy. The main crazy is a form of manic-depression (which nowadays is called "Bi-polar"). The second crazy is typically some form of addiction. The final mental disorder is some form of Borderline Personality Disorder, and a particularly dangerous kind, at that.
You usually catch this one in one of her "up" periods, which might last for several months, if you're lucky, and which tends to obscure the downside long enough to lull her potential victim into a false sense of security.
Eventually, the "down" phase begins, and her true nature is revealed. This woman is miserable, and the only thing that makes her happy is making you more miserable, which, predictably, makes her even more miserable. She slowly drains you of your energy and emotions, and then throws the hollow shell away.
Having served her purpose -- sucking the life force from you one confrontation or one contrived, embarrassing public incident at a time -- she no longer has a need for you.
It begins innocently enough; you have an argument or some very minor disagreement. She gets offended. She actually will go out of her way to create offense where none was given or intended. Her goal here is to create a deeply depressing, dramatic crisis of trust and feelz out of whole cloth.
Your attempts at apology or perhaps to compromise are rebuffed, strange, considering you haven't done anything. She is literally incapable of forgiveness; there is no excuse you can offer; there is no overture you can make. She is determined to remain offended, and to make you suffer for it, taxing your patience, testing your resolve.
For testing you is exactly what she's doing. She wants to see just how miserably fucked up she can get before you finally give up and leave. Should your resolve prove remarkably strong, she'll leave (or ask you to leave). She needs to do this. It's a pattern of behavior she is compelled to repeat. It gives her the excuse she needs to do what it is that she really wants more than anything:
Because, you see, the purpose behind the trumped-up drama, the deliberately-picked fight, the obstinate stubbornness of refusing to see no offense was meant or to just get over what was a minor thing, serves a higher purpose: it provides a means by which she indulges in the fantasy that she isn't totally fucked up, that she isn't a drunk or a junkie. You see, her life is spinning out of control and it's NOT her fault. Even when she deliberately fucks it up just to justify the high.
Of course, the high only makes the next round of insanity that much worse.
Your job in this relationship is to be the reason why she's an addict, and the cause of all of her misery, so that she can continue to wallow in denial that she's both a moonbat and a miserable piece of shit. Because let's face it, if she had an honest bone in her body she would have recognized that she was not right long before you came along.
I've known two women like this in my lifetime, and the typical modus operandi was to make mountains into molehills, rant, rave and scream, demand to be left alone, only to call you back a few hours later somewhat more serene or obviously drunk. And horny.
And then one day you'll be in her apartment, and in need of a band-aid or some mouthwash, and you'll open the medicine cabinet and find every prescription opioid or anti-anxiety medication known to man, prescribed by doctors, psychiatrists, and even her freakin' dentist...and it will all finally make sense.
This woman uses you to create misery which feeds her own addictions and afflictions.
Carry garlic, and have a wooden stake handy.
2. The Museum Piece
Also known as "The Antique" and "Look, But Don't Touch".
Of all the narcissistic, self-absorbed, stuck-up, egotistical, self-loving, imperious pains in the ass you could ever imagine meeting, THIS one is perhaps the worst.
Perversely, you will meet this one just when YOU are at your worst. You've hit a skid, a dry patch, you couldn't get lucky in a women's prison with a fist full of pardons. Your lack of confidence, of recent female companionship, and the associated drought of Beast-With-Two-Backs-making makes you an easy target. For this one can almost smell the desperation coming off YOU.
She outshines the sun. She is Aphrodite personified. She comes to you at the exact moment when you begin to believe that you just might have better prospects by turning gay, or decide to eschew the carnal life and retreat to a monastery. Like the welcome beacon of a lighthouse after a long, stormy and tumultuous sea voyage, she appears, and hope is rekindled!
(Be careful: for it is at exactly this moment that your fortunes might go the other way, and you might be captured by the other extreme, the Eeyore, see below).
Alas, it is always a false hope.
For no matter what you do, no matter what you buy, no matter how charming, dashing, romantic, toadying, self-effacing you get, you are NEVER getting any. In fact, you aren't even getting a sniff, Boy. She may drop hints; she might suggest; but something always "comes up", some excuse is made, a mood suddenly shifts.
She's a cocktease, par excellence.
Primarily, this is because in Her Other Life, she's a whore. A raging nymphomaniac, who has suddenly come to the realization that the reason all of her other relationships haven't worked out is because she's given it away too easily, and NOW is the time to rein it all back in. She is also driven by a need -- which is both recognized by refusing to hand any out, and unrecognized as the flower born of the seed of low self-esteem -- to use sex as a weapon.
She has become conscious of the fact that her previous strategy of using sex as a means of manipulation didn't work out. She is now determined to do the thing right, and go all Fort Knox with the Bearded Clam.
And she picked on you because you were an easy target.
She's enjoying playing with you. She wants to see you beg for her attention like a puppy; she wants you to buy her stuff as a bribe; she wants the flowers, the little gifts, the cards, for no reason at all, because this is a test of wills and she's determined to win....at least once.
She wants to see just how far she can push you, and in return, find out how "strong" she is. You are the means by which she will restore her own self-esteem, and the more desperate you become, the more work you put into trying to break into the treasure room, the more sad, pathetic, and ridiculous stuff you are willing to do for -- or take from -- her is one more brick in her castle wall.
This relationship ends in one of two ways: either she gets bored of making you jump like a trained seal and dumps you, or you get wise to her bullshit and start fucking her sister and girlfriends.
3. The Eeyore
Everyone knows Eeyore, the beloved, sad-sack, pessimistic, gloomy, donkey, held together by poor stitching and a nail through his ass, from A.A. Milne's Winnie The Pooh.
Unfortunately, Eeyore has a human female counterpart, and you're likely to have one cross your path at some point in your life.
You can easily spot them; they either take the form of something like Amy Farah Fowler from the Big Bang Theory (only without the intellect), or a chubby Goth Chick thisclose to cutting herself on a daily basis, surrounded by a dense cloud of too-affected disaffection and non-conformity and the disgusting smoke of Gauloises.
As previously mentioned, you meet either during one of your dry spells. The Law of Averages dictates you will have one at some point, perhaps more than one. The main attraction in this woman is that....no one else is attracted to her, and that misery loves company.
Your male survival instinct of opportunism kicks in, driven by a backlog of testosterone, desperation, and extraordinarily-poor judgement. This is low hanging fruit. Damn, gravity is already conspiring to have the fruit drop off the branch and right into your lap.
For all intents and purposes, this is batting practice. A chance for you to work on your swing. An opportunity to get back on that metaphorical horse.
It's rehab sex.
The unfortunate part of this whole thing, however, is that the Eeyore is usually a very nice person, perhaps just misunderstood and as lonely as you are, and you are about to shit all over her. Of all the female types I've outlined to this point, the Eeyore is perhaps the only innocent victim.
You should be ashamed of yourself.
4. Sperm-Burping Barbie
Also known as "The Barfly", or "That chick who wakes up after closing on the Men's room floor with her panties around her ankles, in a puddle of vomit and urine -- never her own -- with used condoms hanging from every orifice, wondering where the fuck her girlfriends went."
And the really, really nasty part of it all is....she'll be back at that same bar, same time next week, to do it all over again.
Oh, she will protest: why does this always happen to me? I can't understand how this happens! God, I hope no one I know finds out about this! But she doesn't really mean it.
She knows full-well why this always happens to her. She is quite cognizant of the reasons why this happens. Her plaintiff wails for secrecy and dignity are complete bullshit, an affectation, a part of the game she plays.
The reason why this always happens to you, My Dear, is that you are a whore. You have no shame about it, and you don't care who knows it. In fact, your protests to the contrary cut no ice, considering you repeat the same patterns of behavior.
You get piss drunk before 9, you flirt before 10, flirting becomes physical about 11:30, and then you pretend to be an innocent. And then you do it again. Often, you do it again with the same people. Often, multiple times in the same evening. The extended "cigarette breaks" are merely the excuse you use to step outside into the parking lot and into someone's back seat.
The fact is, Sweetheart, that you really just like to get drunk and screw. However, you feel that admitting that openly might bring you some sort of stigma or social approbation, but, honestly, you don't care, for if you did you'd stop, and if you had any shame you'd move to a new city where no one has had to face up to the recurring failure to fill up all of your stretched-out holes. And when you've exhausted (literally, in both the physical and numerical senses) the supply of equally-immoral men in one local watering hole, you'll begin frequenting another, and starting all over again.
Like the circus, you travel from place to place, entertain the masses for a few weeks, and then move on.
The only reason to get anything like "involved" with this woman is if you like playing Russian Roulette with STDs.
5. The Antiquarian
This may be the saddest person you will ever meet in your life. I mean, like so sad it will break your own heart, if you're not careful, and perhaps, that is the attraction. This is a soul crying out for comfort, and it tugs at your heartstrings. You can be forgiven, for this response -- pity -- is a normal human reaction.
We are all, on some level, drawn to help those who seem to be most in need of it.
However, pity is a poor foundation upon which to build a relationship, and quite frankly, a fucking disgusting excuse to get some. You're taking advantage of this poor soul, if you take it past a certain point.
Her problem is that, for her, time has stopped.
She has suffered some kind of traumatic loss, a dead husband, parent or child, a divorce, for example, and she is unable to put the event behind her and get on with her life. That is NOT to say that doing so is an easy thing to do, but the Antiquarian is either someone still in the midst of dealing with her grief, or someone who has been completely consumed by it.
Eventually, the Grief becomes a part of everyday life, it becomes comfortable, a routine. There is no tomorrow here, only an endless yesterday; her attachment to what she's lost makes her incapable of forming an attachment to you.
Every conversation you have will eventually come back to her trauma. She will mention the source of her pain at every opportunity, even when it makes no sense to do so. She will see a reminder of her loss everywhere, in the most mundane and disconnected of things: someone walking a dog, a rainy day, a passing reference to someplace she vacationed with her Lost Soul once on TV. Her focus, at all times, is squarely on the past.
Primarily, this is because the future frightens her. Particularly a future in which the Lost Soul is not going to be present. Her fear is mostly rooted in a subconscious belief that any future happiness she might have, any possibility of forgetting the Lost Soul, is something of a betrayal.
If you find yourself in the company of an antiquarian, I have but one word of advice; gracefully back out. Your purpose in this relationship is to serve as an audience for the Greek Tragedy that is playing out in her head, day after day. You will be assailed by tales of the dead person's virtues; something they said 20 years ago; a memory that, frankly, you could give a shit about. All you'll eventually discover is that even while you're there, she isn't there with you.
This woman needs a psychiatrist or a therapist, or maybe the parish priest.
And besides, your name isn't Indiana Jones.
6. Calamity Jane
I have two competing theories on the concept of Luck, Success, Good Fortune, what have you. The two theories, in a way, are diametrically opposed, one being based on what seems to be a logical, scientific thought process, and the other bordering on New Age, pseudo-spiritualism. I don't know why I continue to entertain this second possibility, but for some reason I can't seem to shake it.
The Overlord's First Theory of Good Luck is simply this: there are no such things as "good" or "bad" luck, and no true "victims of circumstance". Much of what happens to us is the natural result of good or poor decision-making, the ability to formulate a good plan of action and follow through, or conversely, follow a poor plan in a haphazard fashion.
In this way, a good result can be said to be the fruits of making better choices, while the opposite stems for making really bad ones.
The Overlord's Second Theory of Good Luck is that, cosmically, good luck is a resource, and that it must be doled out in proportion to everyone, once in a while, and that whenever we are the beneficiary of good luck, someone, somewhere, gets the deleterious effects of bad luck, thus balancing the scales.
To expand the theory, assume there are an infinite number of planes of existence (dimensions), all populated by exact copies of ourselves. If there were but one plane of existence, then the ratio of good to bad luck would be 1:1, someone gets good fortune, someone gets ill luck, and the Law of Averages states that everyone gets at least one dollop of good luck, sometimes.
However, if there are multiple planes of existence, and there are multiple copies of all of us, then the ration of good/bad gets all fucked up, and the mathematics, likewise, so that it is possible that a You in Dimension A receives a drop of good luck, but that has to be paid for by You in Dimensions B-Z taking 25 loads of bad luck. Or even, as must sometimes happen, the same You in one dimension taking all 25 at once.
And this explains, for good or ill, Calamity Jane.
For she is the poor schmuck who must take all the bad luck in this plane, so that all the other Hers in all the other planes can live happy lives. Or, alternately, she's just a complete airhead who never gets anything right; shit just happens to her, usually avoidable, but because she's never prepared, because she's never paying attention, because she's not willing to change her modus operandi, something bad always happens to her.
You can count on something terrible happening to her in the same way you can depend upon 99 preceding 100. You can almost set your watch to her disasters, and if you manage to stick around long enough, eventually her disasters start to become your disasters, too.
This is the woman who manages to have multiple car accidents. While parked.
She's the one most likely to fracture an ankle stepping off an escalator. Or trying on shoes at the mall.
Calamity Jane's life will revolve around most of the following: stitches, burns, missed promotions, lost opportunities, missing pets, bones crushed by elevator doors, unexpected house fires, bad hair cuts. At some point her clumsiness or thoughtlessness will strike at the most inopportune time -- say, when you're about to board the plane for your vacation in Spain, and Jane has either lost her passport or forgot to pack it after you reminded her 117 times -- causing everyone to go into immediate crisis mode, culminating in Jane fracturing a vertebrae entering the taxi to go home and get it.
If you don't get it after the first slip and fall on a dry floor, the first time you're stuck on the highway without a spare in her trunk, or the first time she gives you food poisoning while trying a recipe she found in Ladies Home Journal, you'll probably find out the first time you have sex, and she's managed to leave an open wound on your junk because she accidentally chipped her tooth with the medicine cabinet door just before bed.
There's two issues here:
She's either extremely careless in all aspects of her life, or she subconsciously hates herself, causing her to find new and unexplained means by which to hurt herself. Maybe both.
Buy insurance before you buy condoms, Son.
7. The Pincushion
Also known as "The Cum Dumpster" and "The Newspaper" because she basically delivers herself to your doorstep.
Of all the psychobitches you are likely to encounter over the course of your lifetime, this one is perhaps the most dangerous of all. Particularly if you happen to be a younger man who hasn't had the seasoning that comes with experience, and which sometimes (not always) allows some possibility of self-control.
This woman is simply consumed with self-hatred. She has no self-esteem, whatsoever, and definitely a host of other problems which might include schizophrenia. Her first, and most glaring, problem is a severe form of emotional disorder in which she believes she is worthless as a human being. Most likely this is the result of sexual or physical abuse, and the result is that she has been conditioned to believe that the only way to get men to like her is to put out on an industrial scale.
And because she has no sense of self-worth, she's putting out to everyone in the neighborhood.
I knew one of these (in the Biblical sense) and was startled to discover that no matter where I went, no matter who I was with, if there was any collection of four or more men in the same place at the same time, a show of hands would indicate that at least 50% of us had experienced sexual congress with her. Sometimes more.
The Pincushion is easy to spot; she's easy, she's suggestive (sometimes embarrassingly so), she's eager, she has no boundaries, she has no prohibitions. "Anywhere, Anytime" is her motto, and she treats that with the same respect and reverence that the Post Office reserves for "neither rain, nor snow, nor dark of night...".
She literally cannot help herself. This is not merely nymphomania; this is an act of self-erasure, of self-destruction, she literally cares so little for herself, her reputation, her social standing, her own well-being, that she'd fuck a doberman in broad daylight during the St. Patrick's Day Parade.
This is a mental disorder so deep and so dark that not even light can escape it's gravitational field.
Typically, people don't even call her by her real name. Her carnal adventures have earned her a nickname by which she's generally known. Something salacious, like "Juicy", "Bam-Bam", "Puddles" or "Bubbles". Start talking about "Jenny Smith" and people look at you confused; tell them you're talking about "Sunshine", and suddenly everyone knows who you mean.
If you should somehow forget to put her number in your cell phone, just find the nearest, convenient Men's Room: her number is probably is written on the wall, somewhere.
Because this woman does not see herself as a human being, she most likely will not see you as one, either. Best hope she's not near a sharp object when she finally comes to that conclusion.
There's nothing messier -- figuratively and literally -- as when "Bubbles" finally pops.
8. The Gold Digger
There is a predominant type of this one, but she also might have a streak of The Museum Piece, Sperm-Burping Barbie or the Pincushion in her, but this is not the result of any deep psychosis, but rather a conscious strategy that revolves around being a smartass and master manipulator.
The Gold Digger exists for a single purpose: to part a fool from his money. It would seem that no other endeavor -- i.e. the collection of cash or valuables -- is so perfectly aligned with the idea of sex, and no bait was ever so perfectly optimized for it's quarry.
The Gold Digger operates on a very simple premise; that if she puts out, or in the case where she's found herself an especially timid mark, promises to give, that she should receive in return.
For all intents and purposes, the Gold Digger is a prostitute. She's just not walking the streets. She believes this elevates her morally, but this is part and parcel of the denial that she lives in.
Her main attribute, if you can call it that, is that she typically has no visible means of support., and yet, seems to live a rather comfortable lifestyle. It doesn't even need to be a lavish lifestyle, for much like baseball, there are different levels of Gold Digging; you have your Bush Leaguers, your Triple-A farmhands, and your Major Leaguers. Who is what depends largely on a variety of factors; her looks, the economic status of her marks, her skills in playing The Game, her ability to remain one step -- and many dollars -- ahead of the poor doofus shelling out money.
She dangles sex like a bright shiny lure in front of a fish, and then she reels them in. The really good ones are experts at throwing them back and then reeling them in again, because Men can be really stupid when their cognitive process is interrupted by inadequate bloodflow to the brain, if you get my drift.
It begins simply enough: you've gotten some, and suddenly, she's short on her rent. Could you float her a few bucks? She's just done something that you've only read about in Penthouse letters or seen enacted with donkeys in Tijuana, and she's got a sob story about how she has a job interview next week, and can't afford a decent outfit. As one ascends the scale of Gold Digger, the sex gets more outrageous, and regular, the requests get more extravagant.
Perhaps the worst class of Gold Diggers are the ones with the Museum Piece gene. They tend to prey upon older men with money, who should know better, and then wind up as defendants on Judge Judy, where we discover the poor old fart has shelled out for plastic surgery, a few luxury vacations, has proposed marriage with a ring and all, and made thousands of bucks in (retrospectively) "loans" for everything from cars, to dental work, to smart phones, to apartments.
And the poor old bastard got nary a peck on the cheek.
Simply put, you'll know you're in the presence of a Gold Digger if she begins a sob story that ends in a request for something valuable before you can get the post-coital cigarette lit. If you didn't get the message then, it'll probably come later on when you're trying to call her, only to discover that she's never home. In fact, she will most likely never invite you over to her home, either.
What? You thought you were the only one she was sleeping with for Cartier, Sucker?
9. The Flower Child
Also known as "The Hippie Chick", "Organic Poontang" or "The Free-Range Blowjob".
Strictly speaking, there is nothing (seriously) wrong with this woman. She just has a different set of ideals and values than you have, and perhaps a streak of independence or "free spirit" that you might find very attractive...for about, oh, 10 minutes.
It has been my experience that the Hippie Chicks tend to be very cute. They tend to exude a sense of liberation that a Man who does something straight-laced and confining, say, working on Wall Street or in a stuffy Law office, might find exhilarating and refreshing. In reality, this is not really about her, it's about you.
There's still some psycho in there, but it's of an entirely different, more passive-aggressive sort.
The first thing that strikes you about the Hippie Chick is her frankness. She says what she means and means what she says, because her entire psyche revolves around the ideal of "authenticity". Her honesty and openness is often an energizing change from what you're usually used to dealing with in a woman. It's almost child-like, sylph-like, and perhaps this, above all things, is the main attraction. Her attitudes and activities, her demeanor and earnestness, her sense of humor and worldview (however skewed it may be) has an innocence to it, a simplicity, a freshness, that can be very attractive. The woman, herself, is often attractive, and usually very young.
You can have a lot of fun with this one, for a variety of reasons, most of them having to do with the fact that she actually enjoys taking you out of your "establishment" mindset (like she was luring you into a cult or something), and because you most likely never had a woman who was so open with her body.
The problem comes however, as it must, when the reality of her lifestyle begins to clash with your "establishment" mindset, for say whatever you will about that "establishment" mindset, it has some pretty good things to recommend it. I'll explain it like this (this is an actual experience I had with a Hippie Chick):
You have been invited to the Hippie Chick's apartment for the first time. You walk up the stairs (no self-respecting Hippie Chick would live in a building with an elevator), and the first thing you notice upon arriving on her floor is a distinct, very pungent odor. It's the combination of pot smoke, cat urine, vegan cooking, exotic spices from the Pakistanis living next door, or maybe the West Indians living down the hall, and a few other aromas that you just can't identify.
She answers the door in a towel, because she has just finished washing...in the kitchen sink. Because showers waste too much water.
You enter and notice the 17 stray cats she has taken in, some with obvious sores around their eyes (she's treating it with Coconut oil), a few with bald patches (from fleas; she treated them with Tea Tree Oil), and the remainder seem to be immobile from catnip, like it was a Kitty Opium Den. Litter boxes abound, most of them almost full. She doesn't empty them she explains, until they're full, passing the litter through a sieve so that she can "recycle the good stuff" that is left at the bottom of the box.
She'll need some time to get ready, so you ask to use the bathroom. She points it out, and asks you to heed the warning sign. This reads:
"If it's yellow, let it mellow...If it's brown, flush it down..Save Water, Save the Planet!".
You cannot tell if the bowl is that peculiar shade of half-brown-half-yellow because something's mellowing, or because she doesn't bother to clean it for fear of letting bleach, ammonia, or soap leach into the Ecosystem. You decide you can hold it, and desperately avoid touching anything, if possible.
The crazy begins to show itself.
Long story short, between the smells, the dirt, the possibility of catching fleas, the 90+degree heat in an apartment without air conditioning (air conditioning ruins the environment!) and the fact that you've just noticed -- for the very first time -- an unshaved armpit, which despite being recently cleaned in the sink smells like fried onions, you're pretty much done with your mini mental health day in the 1960's, and would like to leave, rush home, hit the shower and scrub yourself down with a Brillo pad.
To hell with Gaia: I'm showering for a few hours, and I'll flush whatever I like, thank you.
10. I Need A Daddy
Also known as "Little Orphan Annie".
I've had two of these in my past. It is NOT pleasant.
Your Overlord must admit to a couple of lapses in judgement, which are usually described as "a mid-life crisis". While most Men will enter this period of their lives under the shadow of divorce, approaching middle age, The Master of the Universe happened to slip into this lamentable phase in his mid-30's, while he was still single. The problem here, initially, is biology.
For the male of the species is biologically hard-wired to seek out certain qualities in a potential mate, one of these often being youth. Bad things often happen when Men of 30+ years start chasing 20-somethings (or younger), and no amount of wild sex can overcome the feeling that something here is not quite right, if you retain as much as a shred of anything describable as conscience.
It starts out quite well. You're getting it just about every night; everything on her is still in the right place, and has not been ravaged by age and gravity. It's a bit of a rush, frankly. It's a big goddamned ego trip. There's just one issue; eventually, you start to think of her not so much as a lover, but as a child. It's bound to happen: the age difference is too great, the maturity levels uneven, the differences in tastes and preferences too obvious.
Her birthday comes: you'd like to get her a tennis bracelet, but she wants Rollerblades.
You'd like to stay in and watch that documentary, she wants you to take her to the Amusement Park and buy her cotton candy.
You like museums, she whines it's boring and can we go home now?
You bring her to a black-tie corporate affair, and she dresses and behaves as if she's going to the Prom.
It gets embarrassing.
So, you have a frank discussion about "where this is going". The discussion is really about you more than it is her. Eventually, you discover the REAL reason she's chosen you. You were "nice" to her. You've treated her like a lady, and given her her first "grown up" experiences. She looks up to you; she thinks of you, in some ways, as the father she's lost (or never had), only with sex.
And that creeps you the fuck out.
It's difficult enough to keep a woman in your life, sometimes. It gets infinitely harder when you have to raise her, too.
It gets really difficult when one of them accidentally calls you "Daddy" during sex, and she doesn't mean it in the "who's your Daddy?" sense.
You have to wonder what horrors are lurking in HER background, then.
Any other easily-triggered wanna-be Gloria Steinems out there want to challenge me again? I can do this all year. It's too easy.