Dear Christy,

I went home with a guy I met at happy hour and the entire time we made love, he was watching himself in his ceiling-to-floor length mirrors. He kept adjusting positions to make himself look better, flexing his muscles and winking at himself. I’m not joking. I was totally turned off. I should’ve known better since all he did was talk about himself at the bar. WTF is wrong with people? I don’t think there’s a normal guy alive.

— Slim Pickins

Boozy Banging:

I wouldn’t call sloppy stranger slamming “making love,” but sorry about your rough ride.

“Normal guy” grievances to Fantz in Your Pants overfloweth at my clown feet daily. I wish I had an answer, but you’ll have to keep fishing. Or phishing. Whatever it is you kids smell like these days.

At least abnormal makes for a Technicolor society. When we have missionary in the suburbs, we dream about sadomasochism in the city. Our privates can’t win. We’d probably all be better off with a little help from our power tools.

Although you plowed a very vain main vein (like that? say it three times fast), mirrors can be a good time. It’s like starring in your own smut flick.

At stage right, we have the broads watching their jugs bounce like a rent check (see: endangered currency), pretending the strong man they’re getting split by is a fireman who sprays compliments and sweats diamonds.

Meanwhile over at stage left, dudes are eyefucking their biceps, clenching their three-packs and imagining the broad they’re boning bathes in coconut oil and gushes beer cans.

You should know better than to bargain hunt during a Friday happy hour. Alas, shit happens. You roll the dice and see what a half-dozen two-for-one well whiskies awards you: Sometimes it’s a Harvey Wallbanger, Bushwacker or Snakebite — but most of the time it’s a good old-fashioned redheaded slut. (Bushwacker.)

Plus, you met him at free-pork-egg-roll-with-booze-purchase night. Don’t expect a king. Prince Charming is over at free wing night at Hooters.

The fact that he’s buzzed and desensitized to his surroundings (i.e. your genitals) may not make him a “normal guy,” but you probably didn’t catch each other’s names prior to the plow, did you? Try not to go into these situations expecting the one who will one day jam you with babies, a wedding ring and a house on river. I’m not saying it couldn’t happen — just don’t expect it.

Next time, just close your eyes, desensitize and enjoy the ride. Or wait a few hours when the pickins get extra hoppy sloppy from triple IPAs and high-gravity sours. That way, neither of you will know you’re in the room. Plus, you’ll forget about the mirrors, see double and think you’re in a gangbang.

Read more Fantz: Stalk her:

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