Under The Wagon

I am the Perfect Woman.
 
I’m fairly attractive, with a pleasing rack.  You can tell your friends you’re sleeping with me and expect a thumbs up, rather than a disappointed shake of the head.  However, I’m not so drop dead gorgeous that you’ll worry about me leaving you for a Gold Coast day trader, nor will I inspire bar fights.  You will never get the shit kicked out of you at 2 in the morning because you feel obliged to defend my honor (and your masculinity) from the 200lb linebacker who grabbed my ass.  No, because I am the perfect woman.
 
I don’t enjoy playing video games, but I love watching them.  I’m really good at finding secret levels, too.  Rest assured I can sit happily for hours watching you play Grand Theft Auto, and after you’re all x-boxed out, I will most likely give you a blow job while you watch a televised sporting event of your choice.  In the absence of a good sporting event, we can watch the Three Stooges and I will actually understand why they’re funny.  I’m that perfect. 
 
I hate talking on the phone.  I love beer.  I can quote The Simpson’s for hours.  I own 3 pairs of shoes.  I refuse to patronize any club with a velvet rope and $40 cover charge, but love drinking in dirty dive bars, where you will be allowed to ignore me completely while watching the last quarter of a football game.  I buy all my own drinks.
 
I am educated enough to carry on conversations about politics, drama, philosophy and science, but I also know about 200 dick jokes.  I don’t wear underwear, but I will wear lingerie upon request.  That one thing that you thought was just an urban legend, even though your college roommate’s brother swore he knew a girl who tried it…I can do it.
 
I hate talking about my feelings. 
 
I have an insatiable sexual appetite, but a horrible fear of commitment.  If you want to keep seeing other women, I will most likely be relieved, and even encouraging.  I will never call you out for looking at an attractive woman when we’re together.  In fact, I will frequently point them out to you.  You won’t have to hang out with my bitchy girlfriends because I don’t have any.  I can hold my own when we’re with your friends, but I won’t make them feel stupid.  I am funny, but not funnier than you.
 
I orgasm easily.
 
I enjoy fishing and camping.  I enjoy fine dining.  I enjoy art films, I enjoy movies where lots of shit gets blown up.  I watch porn.  I know that men masturbate, I know that men cheat.  I won’t freak out when you do either because I know it’s not really reflecting your feelings for me…It’s just your biological makeup.  I won’t yell at you when you don’t call for 3 days.  I’ll never give you the silent treatment, cold shoulder or withhold sex.  I won’t say “I’m fine” in that horrible, chilling “nothing is fine, nor will it ever be” tone of voice.  I won’t ask what you’re doing with your life or where you see yourself (or us) in 10 years.
 
I will never ask you “what are you thinking?” 
 
I am the perfect woman.  But I think it’s just because I act like a guy.