I am a sycophantic, needy, groveling, naïve, man-child, looking for a mothering smothering woman to support my every decision, right and wrong. I have no pride, so I don’t care how many chins, nor children, she’s got, as long as she takes care of my every need. She doesn’t have to work, because I won’t either. Even if she works, I’m still not going to.

Most people would not define me as a “clean” person. I prefer a weekly “whore’s bath” to actually stepping into a shower. I own underwear that is older than my teenage son. What many call malodorous, I find is more aptly described as “earthy,” or “musky,” depending upon the source. I don’t care if the woman I end up with bathes, either - everything, certain things, or nothing. In fact, I trust she is pragmatic enough to appreciate the warm utility of a rousing “Dutch Oven” on those cool nights between the sheets.

I really have no hobbies, nor interests, and I am not what one would call an “active” person. I spend most of my time in a recliner in the garage, looking at the ceiling, when I’m not laying on the stiff sheets of my bed. The last book I read was a copy of the Thrifty Nickel. I have spent days in front of the television, watching “Extenze” infomercials.

My ego demands instant gratification and I must be patronized, daily. The woman for me understands that her job is to regularly blow hot air and empty platitudes up her man’s skirt to bolster his fragile self-image.

I am not what one would call competitive, and I am keenly insecure. While many men on this site may claim to be a "real man,” a “man’s man,” or your “knight in shining armor,” suffice it to say that, while I am certainly “real,” i.e., “palpable," I am more of the castle leper, than Lancelot. I have no virtue, charity, courage, reverence, ambition, nor dignity. In fact, I am quite resigned and content being wholly dependent upon the grace of men superior to me in every conceivable way.

Finally, my alarm clock plays, "I'm a loser." Beatles.


(Yeah. It's a joke.)

I think a first date should be something one can talk about for years, whether things work out, or not. I know that women like dating the "bad boy," so I propose meeting in a convenience store parking lot, seeing how well you handle a piece, and how much money you can "borrow" from the cashier, so we've got money for the rest of the evening. Before committing credit card fraud at one of the finer restaurants in town, maybe you'd like to go dancing. We could break and enter a nice vacant house in one of the gated communities, and you could show me how well you move. We could then steal your dream car, and go for a drive down the beach. Once we've dined and dashed, and the night is winding down, I'd take you to a remote area of town, behind several vacant warehouses that I know of. And then, I could go home.