I went to a company party last night. The usual quiet, respectable, and completely boring affair where we all pretend we like each other for the sake of the free booze.
And then, there was Amanda.
When I first got here, she was pregnant. Married. First kid. A beautiful, “hands-off” piece of property. You acknowledge she’s attractive, you give a polite nod, and you move on. That’s the code.
But last night? Last night, the baby was out, the body was back, and Amanda was… advertising.
She walked in wearing these skin-tight jeans, boots, and a blouse that was more of a suggestion than a garment. Slightly see-through. Makeup caked on like she was ready for the goddamn red carpet. Hair done. She looked absolutely gorgeous. And when she walked by, every single head in that room, male, female, dead or alive, followed her. You couldn’t not look. You had to gawk. It’s a construction company, for Christ’s sake. We’re animals.
And it made me think. Why?
Why the hell does a married woman, whose husband isn’t even there, dress like she’s auditioning for a high-end escort service at a work party?
I know the answer. The feminist, “I-can-do-what-I-want” bullshit. “I dress for me,” they say. “I like to feel good about myself.”
What a load of horseshit.
You dress like that to be seen. You dress like that to feel the heat of a hundred hungry eyes on your skin. And let me tell you, if I, a man who’s trying to be decent, am thinking about fucking her, then every single swinging dick in that room was thinking about fucking her.
Is it cuckolding? Is her husband at home, getting off on the idea that his wife is out there, turning every head in the room, knowing that other men are undressing her with their eyes? Is that the game? Or is it just pure, unadulterated disrespect?
It reminds me of Amalia’s. “Girls’ Night Out.” The women all dressed up like high-class hookers, leaving their husbands at home to watch the kids while they go out and get “validation.” And I can’t tell you how many of those validation-seekers I ended up taking into the park, bending them over a bench, watching their wedding rings catch the streetlight while I fucked them from behind. That was somebody’s wife. That was somebody’s “I dress for myself” moment.
So, yeah. I see Amanda, and I don’t see a “confident woman.” I see a marriage that’s already dead. I see a woman who has 19 “guy friends” on speed dial, who has convinced her poor, dumb husband that he has “nothing to worry about.”
It’s not jealousy. Jealousy is weak. This is about territory. This is about respect.
I remember a radio host talking about cheating. Is it cheating to let a man flirt with you? To let him open the door? To feel that little spark and fan the flame just a tiny bit?
Yes. It goddamn well is.
Because you’re unlocking the door. You’re letting someone else lean on the Lamborghini. I’m not worried someone’s going to steal the car, but I sure as hell don’t want to come outside and see a bunch of dudes leaning on the hood, laughing, touching the paint, thinking they might get a ride if they just ask nicely.
I remember dating this nurse. We’re at a party, and she’s talking to some guy. He starts telling a joke about a vacuum cleaner… sucking his cock. And she laughs. She giggles. Her tits are hanging out, she’s flirting, and she’s laughing about another man’s dick right in front of my face.
We had a huge fight. Because if she’s doing that in front of me, what the hell is she doing when I’m not there?
And then there was Laura. The South African. We were at a party, and some guy asks her to go horseback riding. Alone. Just the two of them. A quiet, clear invitation to something else. And she got offended. She walked away. She came to me, held me, and told me later what happened. And I was so goddamn proud of her. That’s how you handle it. You don’t entertain the offer. You don’t negotiate the price. You slam the goddamn door.
Because here’s the ugly, honest truth: men and women can’t be “friends.” Not really. I don’t want to watch Hulu with a woman I’m not sleeping with. I don’t have anything in common with them other than the desire to get naked.
Am I fucked up for thinking this way? Maybe. But I think I’m just honest.
Even the girl I was with last night. She’s into sports. Some guy starts talking football, and she lights up. She engages. She gives him the “nudge.” And pretty soon, they’re having a conversation, and I’m sitting there like a goddamn ghost.
”Dude,” I’m thinking, “I’m right fucking here.”
It’s the woman who leads that shit. A woman is supposed to make a man feel like the man. If I’m giving you my full attention, if I’m not staring at the waitress’s ass, then I expect the same goddamn courtesy. You want to talk to the sports guy? Fine. Go home with him. I’m done.
I’ve walked out on plenty of dates for less. It’s not jealousy. It’s self-respect.
And the woman last night? Amanda? She was disrespecting her husband. She was disrespecting herself. And she was disrespecting every man in that room who had to pretend he wasn’t thinking about bending her over the copier.
It’s the day after, and we’re still talking about her. Everyone is. Is that fair to her husband? “Oh, I’m proud she’s so sexy.”
Bullshit, buddy.
Because I guarantee you, somewhere in that room, or in the next one, or the one after that… she already knows the name of the next man who’s going to fuck his wife.
