"James, if it's not bad enough to have the same name as a creepy stuffed animal that cusses out Mark Wahlberg in bad movies I have found myself short of female companionship as a general rule of the nerdish existence. I'm not some weirded out caveman like you or some black thug so women don't exactly flock my way. But—through becoming a more interesting guy and not trying to push my opinion on people I have not only learned more from the human debris with which I am consigned to spend 48 hours a week of my miserable life but have become interesting to women. So, this has resulted in me having sex with someone other than my hand which has really gotten complicated. I have a question for you and you seem arrogant enough to address it honestly. If you answer this in such a way that it helps me maintain a hold on this wet crevice I stumbled into I pledge to buy a copy of Your Trojan Whorse which I have niggardly been reading online.

"Okay, it amazed me that I didn't cum right away—and amazed her too, because she's been around and I haven't. Well, eventually, it happened. Then I fell asleep and she is chattering in an insecure fashion saying, "Now that you got my pussy you don't want any more conversation. You're just like the rest—just blow your load and roll over. Is there something the matter with me?"

Ted, I have deleted your page of recriminating commentary, self-loathing analysis and vaginal worship, because, frankly it's embarrassing. But more importantly, because the only thing that matters right here is what your bitch said—because, you know, it's all about her. Really, every word that comes out of your mouth in her presence must either ignore her and her sensibilities unapologetically or be sculpted for her consumption. You cannot engage in information exchange with a woman—not even your mother—without either being an asshole or a master manipulator. Conversations with women can go wrong at any moment, so resist the temptation to say too much in regard to her attention to your obviously adequate body. You see, this dumb bitch thinks she is attached to your nerd mind, when in fact she just stumbled upon some porno cock dressed up like a collectable card geek. Women cannot think on their feet, their knees or their back.

You see, she is in crisis. This is what went off in her mind when she actually experienced good dick for the first time in her life. Keep in mind that as few men can fuck well as can fight well. It is a small club, and if your narrow-assed, dweebish self has managed to morph into Jake Steed in the confines of her ill-appointed bedroom she has just said to herself something like:

"All of those retarded black guys and fat white rednecks I blew to find a nice dick, and here it is—fucking like a porn star and looking like the revenge of the nerds—I can't let him know—oh, shit, I screamed when I had the triple-O—this fucking geek knows he's the bomb and will be lining up black rap dancers in a week and will have forgotten all about Little Old Me, who just wanted to be able to cum without the hand nozzle attachment on the kitchen sink...what the fuck, I've got to get him on the defensive. He lacks confidence, or he wouldn't have had sex with the chick who blew the football team—They ought to outlaw Gatorade, that shit tasted like bleach—so it won't be hard to beat him back down—but I like it when he treats me like a sexual conquest, and this motherfucker could actually make some money, maybe buy me a house and if I beat him down too far he might start fucking Asian stick-figured bitches to feel powerful and, Oh, Aunt Jane, why did you have to have a stroke right when I needed your advice on men..."

Okay, Ted, the above thought pattern is why we don't let bitches negotiate with Iran over nuclear armament!

Fortunately, all you need to do is concentrate on the little bit she said, because the mess in her head is far beyond repair in any case and the best you can do is earn your peace and quiet.

So, if I'm laying there after dropping a load on a bitch that says, "Now that you got my pussy you don't want any more conversation. You're just like the rest—just blow your load and roll over. Is there something the matter with me?"

I would and have, typically—listen up, Bro—roll over like a predator fetus and growl under my breath.

I guarantee you that this will get her to repeat the last line, "Is there something the matter with me?" which is really all bitches think about. So, you have to accomplish two things with your response, (1) get her to accept the fact that she is a bitch and (2) convince her that you, uniquely, have no idea how fucked up in the head she is and that you think she is just fine the way she is [Hello, because she's sucking your dick she is, by definition, just fine the way she is], and that she is therefore not just any bitch, but your bitch.

Ted, here it goes, the fewer words the better. As she peeks over your shoulder, trying to examine your face for any sign of insincerity and repeats, "Is there something the matter with me?" you snarl slightly in irritation and say, "Bitch, nah!"

You then try to get some more sleep, to which she will—relieved that you don't know about her sucking off all 64 members of your university football team—say, "But you're normally so talkative, so intelligent, and now you just want to curl up and sleep and I'm all energized and want to plant flowers, and clean the house—"

You now cut her off with the karate-pimp-hand chop-wave and intone, sagaciously, bringing out the nerd when you need him, "These are both chemical responses to the consummated rape and insemination of the female human by her conqueror, who, having slain her menfolk, is now prevented by the hand of Nature from slaughtering her children, as lions do. If you're feeling energetic, go cook me dinner or blow me. I'll eventually wake up."

Ted, this really works, sets the wench back on her heels, and results in human symbiosis. Back around 2004, while in my savage prime, I once used this exact same line on two chicks in the same week, who were both regulars. Mrs. Bedwrecker was so thrilled about the final suggestion that she just started having my roommate [a lady who liked ladies] let her in and she would have sex with me while I was asleep. Now, that is a symbiotic relationship and totally cut out the need to discuss draperies, purse fashion and eye-liner on my part. The other chick, though, Tannika Rita, would have actually fit into the primitive barbarian setting I was evoking in my Genghis Khan-like boast, to which she snarled playfully over my shoulder as she tugged on my chest hair, "Yeah, Mother Nature puts you bastards to sleep after you use us so just in case the dick wasn't good, we can slit your throat!"

I never fell asleep under Tannika Rita again, just in case she had a sudden rise in expectations.

Ted, it worked for me, so it can work for you.