Of the four types of women, the manizer is the most recent in the evolutionary tree of woman. Like the other types of women, the manizer can be engaged with in mutually pleasurable exchanges of—ahem, information, though caution is recommended. Below is a monologue from a successful businessman I just interviewed, concerning the recent proliferation of this aggressive estrogen-based creature.
Brother, I can talk to you about women because you know the score. The fundamental problem is me, namely the fact that I’m an asshole. I shouldn’t be letting the line out there, shouldn’t be fishing for what I don’t have time for. My wife-girlfriend treats me great and is waiting at home, and my partner is always trying to get me to put more time into the business. But, I eat out a lot, and waitresses—when you get to be my age—are mostly all cute, and half of them are gorgeous.
When I sit down for the meal I might not be looking for anything. But when I look over and see, “Whoa, baby, God spent some extra time on you,” I can’t help but smile, and, you know, flirt. I’m sure you know how it is. As ugly as I am, if I’ve got so many young women coming onto me, it has to be a common occurrence in this great nation. At least once a week I get a check that comes back with a phone number on it. Most of the time I don’t call—really, I should never call.
Now, at this one particular steakhouse, there are these two girls that both wait on me regularly, and they have both given me their phone number. One is prettier than the other. You know that movie Crank, with Jason Statham? Well, the one girl looks just like the actress that plays his girlfriend. And the other one—oh, God, she’s the pretty one!
Maybe it’s the suit and tie, but look at this fucking face? Brother, I look like Vigo Mortensen already stomped me out in the sauna!
Anyway, this week, I’m sitting there, having just paid for the check, not wanting to set something up with the gorgeous one because—I shouldn’t to begin with—and also because…I don’t want the even more gorgeous one getting pissed with me. They’re nice girls and it’s nice to have them smile when you walk in. I don’t want to walk through the door and see them groan and get a dark look—not good for the digestion, especially when they’re serving your food!
So she’s standing over the table, offering me desert, which I never eat, and says, “So, Taylor, when are you going to ask me out? What do I have to do to get you interested?”
Interested! Interested!! Holy shit, I’m trying not to be interested and it’s not working!
Well, I loosen my collar and start to hem and haw and her smart phone—you know, they all have one of those, these young broads—her smart phone rings and she hands it to me. It’s a text, a text from the other girl, who is telling her how hot she thinks she is, and how much she likes me, and how she wants to know when we are getting together so she can come along!
Oh, God, I’m out of the frying pan and into the fire now, brother.
So, the next thing you know, they are both walking me outside together, one on either side, one tall, one short, telling me that I ought to hang around until they get off work—an hour maybe. But I’m not one for that. So I’m like, “Hey, you two are beautiful, and we’ll get together some time, but not tonight.”
Then the tall one, the one that the gorgeous one wants to do, asks me, “Hey Taylor, can I see your car?”
Well, honestly, brother, I’m embarrassed at my car. I live out of my car, have so much shit piled up inside that it looks like a homeless person lives in it, like I’m a hoarder on wheels. So I’m, like, “Look, Brittany, it’s just a basic beamer, nothing to write home about, off the lot, nothings special, bought it in an hour, okay.”
They don’t know where it is, because I’m so embarrassed at how it looks that I park it behind the building. This continues for like ten minutes—she uses up her entire break trying to get me to show her my car, and finally shakes her head and goes inside. Then the other one—the one that’s all open about going both ways—says, “Taylor, you fucking asshole. She doesn’t care what kind of car you have. She wanted to see you, not the car. Don’t you even know when a girl wants to blow you?”
So I tell her, “Hey, look, bring an ink stamp next time and stamp my forehead the next time, so I know what you’re talking about.”
So the car, that’s where the hum was going to occur, which wouldn’t have worked out anyway, because there is too much shit in it for her to fit, let alone get busy. There you go, brother, these young girls today are exactly like dudes were when we were coming up. It’s ridiculous. I never thought I would be preyed upon as a sex object by beautiful young women.
Manizer Humming Bird: Warning Label
Common among younger women who seek to use men, for whatever they intend to use them for, is the use of oral sex, which, for most women is not as submissive or intimate an act as intercourse. Some women even have orgasms while going down on a guy—I kid you not—which, again, is probably related to the traditional female attraction to powder cocaine, the intimate feeling of power. Also, the increased interest of women in pairing off two at a time with an older man—which has been a common offering to myself and other middle aged men—is also an attempt to establish control and dominance.
You may very well enjoy yourself in the process, but be wary of their intentions and mindful of the fact that they probably have some young guy their age, in their life, who they treat like crap and use as an errand boy and escort, when she's not busy sucking the will power out of you.
