There are lots of unfortunate people in this world. From North Korean citizens to “occupy movement” protestors, some people are just dealt a shit hand. They were born with their ball in the rough, and either can’t improve their lie or choose not to because they are lazy fucks. This column isn’t about those people. This column is about the guy who can’t close.
I’m not talking about that asshole who always made you close at the bullshit part-time job your parents forced upon you in order to teach you work ethic” in high school. I’m talking about the poor mother fucker that, for one reason or another, can never seal the deal with even the sluttiest of slams. Hear me out. I realize there are a lot of SHIT individuals in college. However, this ill-fated individual I speak of is not the hemp wearing, hacky sack kicking waste of life you might be imagining right now. He is an upstanding gentleman, and I’ll be damned if you further diminish his already cursed circumstances. In all other facets of life he succeeds. He might even be funny, rich, intelligent and attractive, but something always manages to get in the “fucking” way. He might say he had whiskey dick. Maybe it’s crippling social anxiety that no amount of alcohol can cure. It could even be God himself having a laugh by fucking the kid over, but whatever the reason…this kid can’t buy a ticket to Pound Town, and he is one of the more bizarre enigmas that exist in college.
For instance, he and his date could have the time of their young lives at formal in New Orleans, avoid mood-killing puke disasters, navigate Bourbon Street without being mugged by the guys who sell bags of sugar as cocaine, lose the room key but find the spare before the couple they’re splitting the room with gets back, and by some sort of divine intervention this guy would still have a story the next day about how he managed to not get any action. He still wakes up fully clothed, facedown on the floor while his date sleeps comfortably in his bed. This guy can’t throw one down the middle to save his fucking life. Now I’m not going to sit here and pretend I’m the Mariano Rivera of closing, but I will sit here and pretend I’m the Ricky Vaughn of closing. So for the guy who can’t even close on the shitfaced sorority version of Snookie, here’s some fucking advice: STOP THINKING.
What do I mean by stop thinking? If you just asked yourself, you’re already fucking blowing it. Just like a closer who can’t seem to find the strike zone, your lack of splitting legs is getting to your head. You haven’t gotten laid in a while, and it might really have you wondering about what you need to do to break that god awful dry spell. All of that wondering and those pointless conversations you have in your mind where you evaluate whatever-the-fuck a girl might be doing in order to “read” her “cues” are exactly what a woman does in her head when she’s trying to read you. Drop the Cosmo and be a man you jackass.
In all honesty, I don’t have some sort of trick to tell you about making the first move, or reading her eyes, or any other advice like that, because there is none. I don’t remember how exactly I got the last girl in my bed, but she ended up there. Probably because I wasn’t twiddling my thumbs wondering how to get her naked and making a fool of myself in the process. I just let her do all the work. If she wants to have sex with you, your instincts as a red-blooded American male should kick in and take care of the rest. Now quit blowing saves and find a way to close, or stay the hell away from me because your disease is contagious.