How to Hone Your Gaydar to Perfection
Of all the gifts that God supposedly bestowed upon gay men—a dandy fashion sense, preternatural design abilities, a predilection for the word “fabulous”—the gaydar is both the handiest, and the most elusive. To an outsider (read: straight person), the ability to instantly catalog and assess a litany of small signs and signals and determine whether any old person on the street is gay or straight might seem innate in all who enjoy homosexual romps in bed, but it is actually a learned skill, like algebra or injaculation.
And you can learn it too! These days with more and more social circles becoming sexually diverse, how can you tell if the guy swinging a glow stick next to you at some Bushwick “rave” is looking to put his pole in a hole or looking for another pole to pole all over his face? [Wait, what?—Ed.]I enlisted the help of Jeffery Self, the author of Straight People: A Spotter’s Guide to the Fascinating World of Heterosexuals. He turned his sociological skills around and instead of telling us gays how to detect breeders, he’s teaching everyone the best practices for finding queers and dykes out in the wild.
VICE: At what types of places or events is it easiest to spot a gay guy?
Self: Oh! I’m so glad you asked, Brian! The easiest places to spot a gay are: Broadway open calls, boutique gyms, one man shows, any major city with a bar named The Eagle, SoulCycle classes, and Kevin Spacey’s Annual Memorial Day BBQ, which, as an FYI, is being moved from Ojai to Brentwood this year. Please read the invitation VERY carefully as no one is allowed to bring more than ONE guest. Last year simply got out of control and Taylor Lautner is literally just NOW able to ride a bike again.
What’s one sure giveaway that the guy you are looking at is gay?
Nowadays it’s very hard to tell the difference between straight and gay men, probably because gay people control the media and ultimately the world. If the guy you’re speaking to refers to screenwriter Dustin Lance Black as simply “Lance,” he is without a doubt homosexual. Another rule of thumb is that if you look at a gay man VERY closely you will see the off kilter glare of a guy who has genuinely wondered why Monique hasn’t made a movie since Precious.
How to Fake It (for Girls)
I rarely fake orgasms because I don’t believe someone who is fucking you poorly deserves that kind of payoff. More importantly, faking an orgasm is the biggest dick move you can pull on another girl. A faked orgasm during shit sex only serves to perpetuate a guy’s misconception that he has “moves” when he doesn’t, which he’ll likely use on the next girl unlucky enough to fall into his bed. By faking an orgasm, you’re inflicting a disservice to sisters everywhere.
That said, there are occasions when it is essential to fake an orgasm like when a) love or intense “like” is involved (ew); or b) the guy is doing a seriously good job, and it’s your purely non-physical disposition that’s in the way of coital finality.
I should point out—because even grown men don’t yet seem to grasp this concept yet—the path to orgasm relies as much on mentality as it does on physical acts. So you can fuck all the right buttons, and hover just near or around climax for a bit, but unless your mind is completely present, it’s not going to happen. That doesn’t mean the sex isn’t lovely. It just means it’s been a long ass day and everything is distracting right now.
Here’s how to fake an orgasm when the penis in your vagina deserves it most, but you have that instinctive feeling that it’s just not going to happen tonight (or this morning, or this afternoon, or whenever you happen to be fucking)…
Baby, Arch Your Back
OK I got this one out of a Miguel song, but if you’re going to fake an orgasm you may as well make it as cinematic as possible. When you’re having a real orgasm you are so removed from the moment in your ecstasy that you might not concentrate on the inherent sexiness of your movements. Use this opportunity to inhabit those moves. Writhe around, push your hips up (or down if you’re on top), and be all lithe and serpentine, the way movies would have you believe people look during sex. BONUS: The dude fucking you will be so enraptured by your alluring posturing that he probably won’t even notice you’re faking. He’ll think he’s hit the jackpot, which he has, duh.
Lips are another part of your body that you can luxuriate in your deception. You’ve probably never seen your face mid-climax, but I’d bet good money it looks similar to the face you pull when you’re struggling to lift weights at the gym. Pout your lips, half close your eyes in that hooded, seductive bedroom way, and grab your own hair like a stripper mid-dance (where it would usually be matting into dreadlocks at the back by this point, flick it about like there’s a fan in front of you instead, but not too much, because you don’t want to look like you’re having a fit).
The DOs & DON’Ts of Coachella
At 5:00 AM on Monday, I jerked myself awake and looked down at my body to find I’d fallen asleep nude in a large hotel bathtub under a steady stream of scalding hot water. My contacts were dried out and suctioned to my eyeballs, and a ring of black dirt outlined my frame. Half of my hair was knotted up into one massive dreadlock so gnarly it would’ve put the bass players in nü metal bands to shame. Yet despite my broken body and haggard appearance, I was overcome with pride: I’d successfully survived the first half of the two-weekend-long adult spring break known as the Coachella Music Festival. Coachella is the annual desert-music event held in Indio, California, which happens to be one of the most physically grueling places this side of the equator. This was my third time attending, so by now, I’ve seen it all: from Rave Dad to a technologicallyreincarnated Tupac Shakur. For those of you who are going for the first time next week, or are just insane and attending for a second time, here are some tips to making it out of Palm Desert in one piece.
DO BUY VIP
Music-festival passes are extremely overpriced. However, if you’re baller enough to blow half a month’s rent to see a bunch of bands you could watch live on a laptop from the comfort of your own home in the sweltering hot desert, it only makes sense to shell out a couple more duckets to obtain VIP status. There is little to no cell reception at Coachella, so your phone battery is guaranteed to die. But VIPs have multiple charging stations. It’s hot as Satan’s taint in the desert, but VIPs have shaded areas, misting fans, and an air-conditioned bar. When you’re in GA, you can’t drink alcohol on the fairground. But the VIPs have more than one bar spread out in a closed-off section where they can easily watch bands and get plastered. And let’s not forget that parking is a bitch, but VIPs get to park closer to the entrance, so you don’t have to walk a mile to your car in the dark and possibly get stalked by bros in tacky tie-dye T-shirts. Plus as a VIP, you have a better chance of conning your way backstage into the artist areas if you keep yourself from breaking character when lying to security guards about how you’re part of the Earl Sweatshirt entourage, when really you’re just trying to creep on guys with guitars and the topless girls who are having them sign their tits.
DON’T WEAR INAPPROPRIATE FOOTWEAR
Considering that everything is far away, and you’re constantly walking around in circles in a bunch of dirt, your footwear choices will really make or break your entire festival experience. Unless you’re there with the sole purpose of having a bunch of sleazy “blog photographers” snap photos of you for obscure fashion sites that no one has ever heard of, dressed in a bunch of weird outfits you’d never actually wear at home, don’t bother sporting high heels. It’s already bad enough having to trip over the blacked-out idiots laying on the ground in the middle of the crowds at the main stage, but it’s even worse when you sprain your ankle and have to sit in a hot medical tent with a bunch of kids who ate too many brownies and are screaming to EMS workers that they think they’re going to die. Even more retarded are the people who wear sandals or choose to walk around in bare feet, as there are no proper bathrooms; you have to pee in Porta Potties. Between that and all the cop-horse manure you have to walk through, you’re setting yourself up for a pretty shitty experience.
So you’re lying on your back and two beautiful girls with waxed pussies are tending to your dink’s every need. They are necking with each other and 69ing and one of them even has high heels on. You will be beating off about this moment for the next 40 years. Even some of your friends are going to touch their areas thinking about it. Or what if you’re a girl being rubbed and kissed by the sweetest indie-rock-guy best friends this side of Eden? This isn’t the date-rape gang bang you thought it might evolve into. These guys truly care about you and they know how to keep their mouths shut. It’s pure bliss. Right?
No, it’s not. It’s fucking boring. The truth is, threesomes are lamer than doing cheap coke with your parents at a Linkin Park concert, in the rain, on your period, with a really itchy rash, during a breakup, in broken sandals. The question is: Why is something you looked forward to your whole entire adolescence so shitty?
IT’S TOO HARD TO SET UP
Some blame the awesome task of organization when analyzing the shittiness of the threesome. It’s OK if you’re poor, though. Blue-collar girlfriends know tons of strippers and they have no problems bringing them home, but try having a college education and pulling off regular threesomes. It’s like organizing a wedding for a very religious Sikh. It takes a lot of planning, a lot of luck, and a shitload of lies.
“I set it up with two ex-girlfriends. It was so rational and pre-planned we all had plenty of time to become really, really nervous and uncomfortable. One of the girls drank an incredible amount of red wine to relax and ended up vomiting all over the living-room floor. I went with her to the bathroom to see if she was OK and she just said, ‘I’m such a loser. I’ve ruined everything.’ I said, ‘Don’t worry. Just come to bed when you’re ready.’ Then I had to go back to the bathroom a bit later on and say, ‘Er…I know this may sound pretty awful, but when you do come to bed do you think you could remember to brush your teeth?’ When we finally got down to it the sun was coming up and the whole fiasco ended up being so hard to maneuver, I just ended up jerking off on her butt.”
—Noah Ross, 24
“I took home these two girls last Christmas. (People in New York like to make fun of LA but at least we get laid.) Anyway, it took a lot of drinks to get this girl to come home with me and my girlfriend, so by the time everything was ready to go I was drunk out of my mind. I fell asleep as they were both giving me a blowjob right at the beginning. You don’t know how many times I’ve been masturbating and asked God to send me back to that moment.
They ended up fooling around on the couch while I slept. Me and my girl have probably had about five threesomes since we met seven years ago and I barely remember any of them. Having a sober threesome seems impossible.”
—Chris Carlson, 30
How to Sext without Looking Like an Idiot
There are a few things in life that everyone over the age of 16 should be able to do: cook a few decent meals, navigate a new city without Google Maps, enjoy a hangover, and, bear with me here, send a decent sext. Anyone who thinks they’ll be able to track down The One without knowing how to turn their phone into an object of lust has another thing coming. Sexting is practically a requirement for living in the 21st century, no longer the reserve of predatory creeps or girls who HJ exchange students, being able to communicate just how horny you are over iMessage or Snapchat is a life skill and you’re going to have to learn how to do it.
According to TIME magazine, four out of five college kids sext on the regular. As Benjamin Franklin once said: “In this world, nothing can be certain, except death and taxes and that you will at some point be awake at 3 AM struggling to think of a fourth non-gross synonym for vagina/penis.” Frequent sexters are no longer just a bunch of teens furtively sending each other dick pics with the caption “u like? ;)”—the sexting landscape is now dotted with old marrieds, yuppies, and regular everyday humans like you and me.
Especially me. I do it a lot. So, on the off chance that you and I ever bump into each other in sext land, here’s how to keep me interested.
DON’T GET AHEAD OF YOURSELF
If you’re just starting out, three to four words are all you need. A length limit forces you to get straight to the point and eliminates the possibility of embarrassing yourself by using adjectives like “pulsing,” which makes your pussy or dick sound like the still-beating heart of a butchered mammal. I guess if you were really fucking twee, you could imagine your sext as the 21st century equivalent of a candy love heart, but instead of “Fax Me” you’re writing: “I wanna fuck you in a bodega.” If you’re still nervous or super stuck, just mash a bunch of buttons as though overwhelmed with desire. Or, IDK, hold the phone against your underwear and type with your pubic bone. “Asdaoh23rghhsdhudffffffffff.” That sounds lustful, right?
It’s 2013 and I know you’re not typing out every letter individually on your Motorola Razr, so Y R U choosin 2 talk lik a tween? Who culd eva b trnd on by dis?? No one wants to be deciphering your sexual hieroglyphics when they could be quietly shifting in their lecture seat so the seam of their jeans hits things just right. “RU horny” is the text message equivalent of giving someone a wedgy as a flirting tactic. It also implies there’s a 14-year-old on the other end of the phone, which, again, is not ideal in this situation.
Karl Welzein is the President and CEO of Bad Boy City, USA. Follow him @DadBoner.
’Sup. Karl “K-Money” (for mad swag) Welzein here. Comin’ atcha hot ’n ready from Grand Blanc, MI. I’m pretty much the man, and that’s a natural fact, you guys.
February 14th is a stressful time of year for guys in the USA. That’s why I keep it single and ready to mingle until the 15th. It just makes good financial sense. I ain’t one to blow bread on babes just ’cause a calendar says it’s ’Tines Day. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m a big spender. Everyone knows that in my area. Ol’ Karl likes to really spread it around. Gotta respect the ladies, you guys. Whether I’m at Olive Garden with a smokin’ babe who’s got bangin’ chest beefers, or just keepin’ it chillin’ at ’Bee’s with a dynamite gal who’s got a caboose piled high with all the toppings, it’s always my treat. I’ve got class. That’s just how I operate.
A couple nights ago, I kinda felt like shovin’ a gun barrel in my mouth and endin’ it all. No real reason, just the winter blahs I guess. Everyone feels like endin’ it all sometimes. It’s just part of life and shouldn’t be too concerning. Most times, you just need a good Chili’s cheer-me-up. Remember, no need to eat a gun barrel over the winter blahs when it’s sunny and 70 at Chili’s, you guys.
A few nights ago, me and my roommate Dave were rockin’ it at Chili’s with the heat of a thousand suns. Just poundin’ top-shelf margs, bad-boy style. Well, I was. Dave got distracted with some nighttime babe. The big difference between nighttime babes and daytime babes mostly comes down to sunlight bein’ a revealing factor. Dave’s supposed to go out for coffee with her this week. So stupid. Coffee’s a daytime situaish. I think he’s just gonna get roped into some V-Day crap, but he won’t listen. Idiot. Dave’s just blinded by his backed-up guy poison. Gotta be extra careful around ’Tines. There’s alotta lonely ugg-a-mugs out there lookin’ for a free hot meal.
HERE’S K-MONEY’S TIPS ON HOW NOT TO GET BURNED BY SOME LONELY UGG-A-MUG BABE JUST LOOKIN’ FOR A FREE HOT MEAL ON V-DAY:
1. Make sure the babe isn’t some street animal. My wallet ain’t a soup kitchen, you guys.
2. Never go out for coffee. It’s just a waste of time where you sit there listenin’ to boring crap about someone’s “life.” Plus, no carnal passions EVER came out of “gettin’ coffee.” Real adults get bombed together at nighttime. It’s more polite as well ’cause the lighting is more conducive to the appearance of the bod and the grill area of both daytime AND nighttime babes.
HOW TO KEEP IT CHILLIN’ WHEN VISITIN’ A PIECE-OF-GARBAGE PAL IN THE HOSPITAL - by @DadBoner
’Sup. Name’s Karl Welzein, comin’ atcha live and direct from Grand Blanc, MI. Caught some pretty nasty D from a *Totino’s Party Pizza that may or may not have gone bad. Fell out of my grocery bag from Kroger and sat in my backseat for a week or so. Could be longer? Or less longer? Hard to tell. Time just flies when you’re livin’ the all-freedom lifestyle, 24/7, 365, open on Sundays, you guys.
Was kinda questionable ’cause it’s been real cold and crap so anytime the heat wasn’t on in ’Bring, the Tino’s was probably in a safe situaish. But I like to cruise for various purposes including business ventures as well as peepin’ babes on the regular, so in those times the ’Tino’s coulda thawed out and then got refroze several times. No way to be 100 percent. Anyway, pretty sure it gave me ’rrhea, so I gotta write this from the john. Heard a lot of the greats like Hemmingway wrote crap on the toilet for peace and sanctuary. Kinda cool?
So, sometime around when I first purchased the ’Tino’s ’a, we were rockin’ it with the heat of a thousand suns to show respect for my main man Guy Fieri’s b-day. Everything was on point. Then my pal Crazy Cooter came by with two fifths of Beam. Said he “brought one for the slizz and one for the dampness!” Guess he wasn’t informed that no babes were at the celebraish. Cooter got kinda steamed and pounded a fifth himself. Then pulled a copy of the XXX guy mag, Cheri—pretty raunchy… I’m more of a Penthouse man. Always have been, since way back—out of his waistband and said, “If you don’t got no slampigs comin’ by, then I’m just gonna rock it,” and went in the john for solo carnal passions.
Cooter was in there for a while. Figured he was havin’ guy troubles with his peener & veggies so I just made myself a tall Beam & ice and hit the sack. Smooth sippin’ with Jim + a soft pillow = dreams of majesty. Do the math, your highness.
Introducing Power Moves by Karl Welzein, a new column from twitter’s @DadBoner.
HOW NOT TO GET BURNED BY FAKE COMPUTER BABES LIKE THAT MANTI TE’O WEIRDO
‘Sup. Name’s Karl Welzein, hailing from Grand Blanc, MI. If you’re chill, pretty much everyone knows me as “Captain Karl,” but on the streets, the smooth soul brothers call me “K-Money” due to my mad swag.
A few ticks back, I decided to get into the online computer dating scene ‘cause I kinda burned through all the local babes in my area. I style and profile 24/7, 365, open on Sundays, so they all crave my touch. It’s natural and consensual when you’re livin’ the bad boy lifestyle.
Also, my roommate Dave told me he’s on a break from solo carnal passions ‘til he has a nocturnal emish, ‘cause he heard Sting does it to cleanse his bod from erotic clogs of the past. Dave’s such a grossout. I told him, “past eroticisms shouldn’t be purged from the mind. A real man saves ‘em up for when you’re in a situaish without babe opportunities.” Can’t live that way. Dave maybe can bottle up his guy urges, but it’s not healthy when you’re 100% all beef with High-T like myself.
I’m turning 30 in a few weeks. My marriage countdown clock is doing that beeping thing time bombs do when they’re closing in on zero. I’ve been dating the perfect guy. We’ve known each other for a long time, but we just started taking things to the next level. He’s smart, funny, and great in the sack. Plus, he’s close with all of my friends, so it’s easy for us all to kick it together. The problem is, he’s a little too close.
I fell in love with him three years back when I saw a shirtless pic of him on my girl’s phone. Since then, he’s had his way with most of my girlfriends. But none of them understand him like I do. Am I making a mistake trying to turn this man into a one-girl guy?