15 Things You Don’t Know About Men

Remember my Things You Don’t Know About Men posts?

They were a rebuttal to Esquire’s Things You Don’t Know About Women series, where ladies advise us on dealing with the opposite sex.

For instance:
Minnie Driver: “When you hug a woman at the end of a date, if you have any romantic intentions whatsoever, do not ‘bro-pat’ her on the back.”

I’ve decided to share a few more secrets with the ladies.
____________________________________________________________________

1) If we say, “I’m not looking for anything serious…” we really mean: “I don’t quite think you’re girlfriend material, but we can have sex and catch a movie occasionally.”

 

2) FOR THE LOVE OF GOD: please don’t wear those hideous gladiator sandals EVER again. We need you lookin’ sexy in the summer—not like you’re about to do battle with a tiger in the Roman coliseum.

 

3) When you say you’ll “be right out,” after we arrive to pick you up for our date—we know you won’t really be ready for another 20 minutes.

 

4) Since we know yo’ ass is just gettin’ out of the shower when we get there, we’ve learned to call and say we’re outside waiting—when we’re actually a few miles away. Hopefully, you’ll be ready when we really show up.

 

5) When you say, “I’ve taken a vow of celibacy to get my life right with the Lord,” we hear, “Some dude fukked me the hell over—and now I’m gon’ take it out on YOU!”

 

6) Can we please watch a UFC fight without you saying it’s gay and homoerotic? Maybe it’s me, but I ain’t never seen a dude kick another man in the face because he wanted to have sex with him.

 

7) NEVER show up at our place unannounced. Unless, of course, you want to see the horrific, unspeakable condition of our bathroom. ’Cause the only time we clean it is before you come over.

 

8 ) If you chose Turn My Swag On as your phone’s ringtone—we’re definitely “not looking for anything serious.”

 

9) When you ask which purse goes with the dress and shoes you’re wearing—realize that we’re probably 30 minutes late for where we’re supposed to be. Therefore, we’re probably gon’ tell you anything to expedite the process.

 

10) When we take you to dinner and you nag, bitch, and complain to the waiter all night—we envision you doing the same to us five years from now when we’re attempting to watch the game.

 

11) If you’re considering chopping off all your hair because you need a “new beginning” after some dude played you—please don’t do it. You’ll regret it in the morning.

 

12) “Honey, I’m going to the gym. Wanna come?” really means, “Uh, I’ve noticed that you’ve gained a few pounds—and this is the safest way to tell you.”

 

13) When you pop up for the first time in weeks and say, “Hey, stranger! How’ve you been?” we hear, “Things didn’t work out with the other dude. Good thing we have YOU as our fall-back option.”

 

14) That being the case, we’ll tell the aforementioned young lady we’re “not looking for anything serious.”

 

15) Beyonce is not a philosopher whose music should be interpreted as gospel. Thus, if you’ve ever asked your guy to “put a ring on it,” told a man you can “upgrade” him, or dumped him by saying, “to the left” twice—you’re automatically disqualified from being the future mother of our children.

 

What happens at the gentleman’s club—STAYS there

She grabbed my hand and led me to the “champagne room.”

 

One could only imagine what glory awaited once we reached our final destination.

This particularly aggressive sista was thick and curvy. Her bikini top barely contained her medium-sized breasts, while her thong showcased her round, shapely ass.

Ol’ girl was born to administer a fierce lap dance.

 

Why should I resist? Even though it was my future brother-in-law’s bachelor party—why couldn’t I have a little fun too?

 

Speaking of my brother-in-law, I’d last seen him moments earlier—slumped in a bar stool, inebriated from the the prior drinking session.

 
Yeah, it was gon’ be a wild night.

 

Funny thing is: we weren’t even supposed to be there. My brother-in-law was marrying my sister the following weekend.

He vowed to her that he would, under NO circumstances, have any adult entertainment at his bachelor party.

Yet, here we were. At a strip club.
We’d originally planned to celebrate the end of his bachelorhood at a plush bowling alley.

 
However, my brother came into town and scrapped everything at the last minute.
He insisted on a titty bar—and none of us protested.
I guess, deep down, we all really wanted to go. He simply provided an opportunity.

 

Our destination? A seedy suburban strip club, once featured on the news for being raided by cops. Apparently the dancers were “a little too friendly” with the clientele and engaged in illegal acts.

We arrived at the establishment with our 6-man entourage, which included me, my comrade, my brother, my brother-in-law, and his best man and best friend.

Upon entering, I noticed several lingerie-clad women mingling with the patrons.

My brother, a strip club vet, was impressed: “This is my kinda place, bro.”

Later, my comrade was informed by a dancer that, for the low price of $300, he could take her home at night’s end.

 

Yeah, this wasn’t no ordinary gentleman’s club.

Soon the dancers mingled with our group. I noticed my brother-in-law, already destroyed from the pregame drinking festivities, slumped in his chair from drunkenness—it was time for his lap dance. I paid the dancer, who led him to “the champagne room.”

Soon I was being escorted to a separate room by the aforementioned dancer…

 

After some small talk, she got down to business: A lap dance would be $20.
However, “upgrades” were $40 or $60.

She wasn’t explicit in defining these upgrades, but she hinted that the $40 dance would include “oral satisfaction.” It wasn’t difficult to decode what the final upgrade entailed.

It’ll be A COLD DAY IN HELL before I pay for some sex; a simple lap dance would suffice.
She removed her top and thrusted her ass into my crotch, gyrating and bouncing to the music. She insisted that I upgrade the dance, but I declined.

Soon it was over. I returned to the group trying to conceal my huge boner.

Between the overpriced drinks, lap dances, and cover—my funds were drying up spectacularly.
My last singles were spent on a stage dancer with the prettiest, roundest ass known to man.

I was so distracted by ol’ girl that I barely noticed my drunken brother-in-law being pulled into the champagne room yet again. The dancer returned shortly thereafter; she wanted to give him a $40 dance. Obviously, I couldn’t allow that to happen. I paid for a lap dance.

However, in a shocking turn of events—my brother overheard us and insisted that he get the upgrade.

Dude was adamant that our brother-in-law get some head. And even pulled out his money to pay for it.

I had to calmly remind him: “Dude, he’s marrying OUR SISTER next weekend.”

He got the point.

 

Moments later, in the parking lot, everyone agreed that no one could know about the debauchery and sin that took place that night—the results would be catastrophic!

If anyone asked—we were at the bowling alley.

 

So, imagine my bewilderment when I got a voicemail from my distraught sister the next day—she knew EVERYTHING!

Apparently, my brother told a family member—who proceeded to tell her.
Upon hearing the news, she completely lost it!

The aftermath:
My brother-in-law was in the doghouse for a few days.
The best man was almost kicked out of his own home by his enraged wife.
And my brother was attacked by both my sisters for orchestrating the whole thing.

I’ll be damned.

After a few days of damage control, everything’s back to normal.

However, this entire fiasco could’ve been prevented had my brother obeyed the sacred man law: what happens at the gentleman’s club—STAYS there.

 

The Maxwell Experience

It’s hard to fathom that anyone could mistake Maxwell for anything other than a heterosexual male.

 

And yeah, I’m referring to that Maxwell.

The multiplatinum recording artist who’s released some of the most soulful music of our generation.
The heartthrob/sex symbol who once sang about making sweet, passionate love to a woman until law enforcement came to intervene.

 

But now, because of a little misunderstanding with an autographed poster—my lady friend now thinks Maxwell, the man she’s admired for years, is gay.

Worst of all—she thinks I’m the object of his affections.

So, what shocking turn of events could lead her to such an outlandish conclusion?

 

This disturbing tale began about a week ago.
Maxwell, after an 8-year hiatus, was in town to promote his new album BLACKsummers’night.

The event was billed as The Maxwell Experience—an affair that completely sold out in less than a day. Luckily ol’ girl was able to secure two tickets and invited me along.

We were given Maxwell posters upon entering the venue, which he’d sign at the event’s conclusion.

I gave her mine; I enjoy dude’s music and all—but what the hell am I gon’ do with signed Maxwell memorabilia?

Make no mistake: this was an event for the ladies. Yeah, a few gentlemen were in attendance—but most of ’em accompanied women (is there anything more demoralizing than witnessing yo’ woman act a damn fool at the sight of another man?).

 

Soon Maxwell took the stage to a raucous ovation. For the next hour he talked about his life and music.

However, it was a miracle that dude could complete a sentence, ’cause he was constantly being interrupted by rabid fans.

“We LOVE you, Maxwell!”

“WOOOOO! MaxWELLLLLLLLL!”

 

At one point, the host asked about his favorite meal. When Maxwell hinted that his favorite thing to eat wasn’t food…the women went absolutely apeshit! COMPLETE AND UTTER PANDEMONIUM!

At the height of the madness, a young lady threw her panties onto the stage.

It got me to thinking: I wonder how it feels to wield such power—to have a woman so worked up that she feels the need to throw her panties at you (hopefully not Target panties though).

Must be nice, Maxwell.

 

Soon the Q&A session ended. And Maxwell’s security team rushed him to the area where he’d be signing the aforementioned posters.

The autograph line was long, moving at a snail’s pace. Thirty minutes later we were finally close to reaching Maxwell. As I exited the line, Maxwell’s label people objected to her getting both posters signed. Apparently, I’d have to get mine signed for her.

No big deal.

 

Seconds later, I was face-to-face with Maxwell himself.

He shook my hand. I gave him my poster.

Earlier I noticed that he was wearing the hottest wingtips I’d ever seen. While I had the opportunity, I told him: “Your shoes are killer!”

 

He seemed genuinely moved by the compliment. I know I would be. Stylish men like to know that someone’s paying attention. He scribbled something on my poster and gave it back to me—which I promptly gave to her. And we were on our way.

After inspecting the poster, she asked why Maxwell signed mine with a heart.

 

What? I looked at it; she was right.

It had to be a misunderstanding.
Maybe he couldn’t think of anything else to write. Maybe he knew I was giving it to her.

 

I tried to explain—but she was having none of it: “He didn’t sign a heart on mine?!”

In this era of the rampant DL brotha phenomenon, she could only come to an unspeakable conclusion: Maxwell is gay.

And that the heart he signed on my poster was a sign of his interest—in me!

 

I tried to convince her that such a suggestion was crazy talk.
It’s Maxwell.
MAXWELL!

The guy can have ANY woman he wants. At any time.
I’ve encountered DL men before, and trust me, this wasn’t the same.

 

However, despite my protestations to the contrary, I couldn’t change her mind. And her girlfriends, who were told about what happened, now refer to me as “Maxwell’s honey.”

 

Who knew the Maxwell experience would turn out like this?