Women are Stupid


Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, .

Desc: Sex Story: (#13) a political manifesto (whatever that means)

It's OK to forward these stories to other people. I mean, as long as it's OK with the other people. I wouldn't want you to send it to your 9th grade homeroom monitor or anything. Unless she really was fucking the Science teacher like we all thought.

It's also OK to print the story out and make a copy for a co-worker. I'd be careful not to leave it on the secretary's desk, especially if her Rolodex is open to a lawyer's phone number.

Make sure the person you give it to is over 18. Otherwise you could be in deep shit. I don't know exactly how deep; I'll measure it and get back to you.

Yes, I know the title "Women Are Stupid" will cause an uproar. It's bound to in today's world. And when an author is assailed by critics - as I am sure to be - he inevitably backs off or tries to weasel his way out of the controversy or claims he's misunderstood. Or misquoted. Or something.

Not me. I really believe it. Women ARE Stupid. I'll take it a step further. Not just some women, not even most women. All Women. They're ALL stupid. I have a story that illustrates it. I don't know how else to prove it, but I think it's obvious. The story starts below. Spare me a few sentences for the logic:

Men will do anything for a piece of ass. I mean anything. We'll fly across the country for an illicit rendezvous; we'll revisit a bar and hope to meet a girl we saw there last Tuesday and don't even know; we'll even pretend to like Yanni, or whatever the fuck his name is. Do you think women behave like that? Shit. You can barely get them to sit down in front of a porno movie. Even a good one, where the girls have big tits.

Think about it. Women have all the pussies in the world. 100%. They *OWN* the market. And yet men have most of the good jobs, big cars, best toys, political power and prestige. If women just all snapped their legs shut for a couple of months every man on the planet would be a whimpering fool, and would happily chuck his power and possessions for a little snatch. It's true.

The funny thing is that every man knows it and women apparently don't. Now that's a worldwide conspiracy of silence if I ever saw one. I wonder if Oliver Stone has thought about this?

That's why I say Women Are Stupid. All of them. Well, maybe hookers have it figured out. But nobody else.

I was the luckiest guy in the world. For about a year. When I was 28.

A friend of mine was looking through the front of a major men's magazine and for some reason was reading the credits. The masthead, they call it. I never spent much time on that page myself.

Anyway, my buddy called me and said, "I didn't know you worked for Playboy."

"What??" I barked into the mouthpiece.

He said, "Your name is here on the masthead. Do you have a copy? Take a look."

I went to my living room and got the latest issue. Sure enough, someone with my exact name was the Assistant Photo Editor. It was a funny coincidence, and I pointed out it out to friends over the next few days. Within a month I was convinced that women are stupid.

Like, I could start up a conversation with a pretty girl in a bar, confident that she would eventually ask me what I did for a living. Now my choice was to tell her that I was an accountant for a small CPA firm or to lie and say that I was a photo editor for a magazine. You guess. Right. So when she asked which magazine, I would reply "Playboy."

I was rarely challenged, but if I was it was simple to find a recent issue and produce my driver's license. Voila! I'm him! I got one of two responses. The first was cold, like I was some kind of dirtbag. That happened maybe 2% of the time. The other 98%, well, that's what this story is about.

One time, I was hanging around a bar that had girls in T-shirts serving beers and chicken wings to guys. The bar was called "Jugs," or something subtle like that. They served their beer in jugs, get it? It was kind of a slow day, and I was chatting with a couple of the waitresses. One was cute and one was pretty. There's a difference. One was short, one was tall. One had a big bust, one was pretty. You understand. It was three minutes of "Where did you go to school?" and "What movies have you seen?" and stuff like that. Thank god "What's your sign?" went out in the 70's. And then, "Where do you work?"

I paused. "Playboy. Local office. I handle the northern part of the state."

"You're kidding," the blonde piped up.

"Nope. I get that a lot. Why doesn't anybody believe it when I tell them?" I asked.

"I never met anybody who worked for Playboy," the cheerleader said. "I never even met anybody who *knew* anybody who worked for Playboy." I could have written cue cards last October for this conversation.

The other girl looked up at me and asked "What do you do there?"

"I'm Assistant Photo Editor. I scout talent, go on shoots, you know..."

"You scout for talent? You mean..." she said with wonder.

"Girls. I find models for the magazine. Centerfolds, pictorials, other stuff." I shrugged. She was fascinated. Pretty girls usually are when they think about the fame and fortune that can come from being photographed in a classy men's magazine. I mean, she'll happily take off her clothes in front of a stranger with a camera. But do you think she'll let you unbutton her blouse in the back of a Ford? Not likely. Well, not without a fight, anyway. Women are stupid.

The second waitress was taller and had dark hair. She was more of a classic beauty, either Italian or Greek, I decided. Her deep tanned "look" didn't seem to jibe with the hot pants and the T-shirt tied under her tits, still, given a little direction she could be a real piece of talent herself. She was quieter, surveying me, deciding whether this was just a line.

"How do you do that?" the sis-boom-bah girl asked. She was doing most of the talking. "I mean, I guess I know how you do that, but how do you decide?"

"Usually just a quick test shoot. I send 'em in to headquarters with my recommendation. Usually they follow it... sometimes they don't." Hey, not my fault if you don't show up in the next issue.

"Where do you do the shoots around here?" the European flavor asked.

"Oh anywhere, really. The tests are only of the girls. Just Polaroids, you see. We spend a lot more time thinking about the composition and theme of the articles when they're actually going into the magazine." I'd said this maybe a hundred times before. I was even starting to think I knew what I was talking about. "You can never tell. Sometimes you'll find the prettiest girl, but it just doesn't translate through the lens. And sometimes you'll find a girl who's, well, sort of average, but the camera loves her." I shrugged again. "You never know until the test."

I casually looked them both up and down. "You know, either of you girls could make it. You're both quite pretty, in very different ways of course. But actually I'm not working at the moment. I just came in to get a beer." I smiled a lopsided smile. That's how I always looked when I lied.

The beauty turned to the cutie and said, "Do you think..." She restarted. "Would you, uh..."

The cutie said "Sure. In a minute." In a New York second, I thought.

"Yeah, well, I suppose I would too, come to think about it." The girls looked at each other and giggled.

"Hey, I suppose we could arrange something," I said with practiced nonchalance. "What's good for you?"

They haggled with each other. They wanted to be there at the same time; they were friends or something. But California girl got off shift in a half-hour. Dark Hair had to work til 9. Couldn't tomorrow, had to visit Mom. Dentist appointment Thursday. Date for a ball-game Friday night. The schedules just wouldn't mesh.

I finally interrupted. "Why don't we just do it when you can each do it? Whoever isn't in front of the camera is going to be bored anyway. And you'll probably just make the other one uptight." They thought it over. The cute blonde said "I'm off shift in 25 minutes." I took the cue.

"Fine. I'll just nurse a beer until you're ready to go. We can go wherever you're comfortable. You'll need a bathing suit or T-shirt or something."

The bronzed babe looked disappointed, like there was only one lollipop and I had given it to her friend. I turned to her. "I'm REALLY looking forward to working with you too," I said with emphasis. "You both have such totally different looks. Variety is the spice of life, right? That's what we look for in the magazine: exotic beauty from all over the world." Her eyes glazed over, and I arranged to call her the next day. Tall and Tan put her name and phone number on the corner of a napkin.

I figured I'd have my dick in the blonde's snatch in 90 minutes, two hours tops. You could call Morty in Vegas and make book on it.

The cheerleader and I left together. She asked if I had a studio but I explained that I didn't since I traveled all over the state. I knew how to engineer the conversation into a sophisticated "my place or yours." I'd done it dozens of times, and we had to go to my apartment to get the camera anyway. It usually worked like that.

She didn't have a bathing suit with her, of course. But just telling the girls that they wouldn't have to undress completely made them comfortable and then they stripped naked. Stupid. I told her she could stay in her bra and panties, or even in her T-shirt, although it would make the pictures pretty useless back at the mansion. For Hef to look at, I meant.

.... There is more of this story ...

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