Anyway, Jeremy is a 28-year-old University of Michigan grad who claims he makes $300,000 a year hosting such events as "Rich Guys & Hot Girls" — for which interested gentlemen submitted W-2s and women submitted five pictures. He claims his defining influence was the movie National Lampoon's Van Wilder. He drives a Segway. And he has an alterego, Richard Nouveau, who he claims is a "mockery of the white upper class." A mockery, eh? See if you can tell the Nouveau quotes from Jeremy's own, below!

1. "Society has taught us to not publicly acknowledge the obvious. Women want money in a man, men want beauty in a woman—this is a factual force of nature."

2. "It's sad and disgusting and it's superficial. [But] the only victims are the poor and the ugly."

3. "This genetic cleansing is how the wealthy stays beautiful."

4. "There are no more powerful things in our culture than wealth and sex. It's a female's best asset and a male's best asset."

5. "I started sleeping with a girl on the student council — not the most attractive girl, but she had an incredible libido."

6. "I lifted my dating embargo on Orientals. (I've decided to overlook the constant squinting.)"

7. "I'm here for the eye candy."

8. "I'm not looking for anything long-term, I don't think you'll find anything too high-caliber in fashion."

Confession: I added a quote from a 27-year-old investment banking intern attending Fashion Meets Finance, just for fun. Do you see the point? You wouldn't date a dude who said any one of these things, except maybe #7 in the context of escorting a nephew to a Magic The Gathering convention or something. Because nothing is more depressing than listening to the stillborn attempts at humor of people whose percentile in the ranks of relative social/educational/cultural/financial privilege is rivaled only by the score they got in "How Unexamined A Life Can I Lead." Well, nothing except the thoughts of a 20-year-old handbag designing attendee of "Fashion Meets Finance":

"You might ge a nice dinner out of it, so why not?"

• We agreed we would lie to our kids about our debauched pasts. There will be fewer than eighteen of them, trust.
  
• You could do a lot of debaucherous damage with these crazy underoos from the International Male folks.
  
• We didn't just talk about International Males, we discussed international and race relations, and vowed to try harder.
  
• We also gave some real talk about sex writing.
  
• More real talk: forgetting there's a tampon in your twat.

• We got to know virgin-hoarding cult leader Michael Travesser and his band of wack jobs.
• We got some LOLs out of douchefessionals John Fitzgerald Page and Paul Janka.
• We said goodbye to our own Jennifer, who is departing for greener Polo pastures. She will be missed!
• This weekend, pour one out for all the white wine drinking, on-the-toilet phone talking, track suit wearing mommas out there. Happy Mothers Day, moms; we love you!

A picture's worth 1,000 words. Check out some of these ladies' reactions shots.

Earlier: Paul Janka Did Not Rape Me Last Night

Phil knows this is a good show.



And what's this one wearing?

Earlier: Proud Player Paul Janka Talks About Sluts On Tyra
Paul Janka Did Not Date Rape Me Last Night
"Casanova" Paul Janka (Maybe) Admits He's Damaged Goods

• Slut Machine took one for the team and Intern Betty filmed her getting a colonic. Crappy hour indeed.
  
• Speaking of Crap: If Aliza Shvarts smears her uterine lining all over Boot Barn and no one is around to see it, did it really happen?
  
• We learned why mommy's face no longer moves.
  
• The kind of mommy who reads Baby Couture!
  
• Paul Janka + Tyra = Our pop cultural worlds colliding

• We met Sarah, an American journalist in Yemen. She misses booze.
• The American economy through the lens of hand jobs and Dov Charney: a treatise.
• The conspiracy against curls must be stopped.
• Even though Mark Ronson might be off the market, get your ass effects out on the town this weekend! It's been a doozy of a week.

He thinks Naipaul subject his mistress to a "species of soul murder," and that the book will destroy his reputation. What becomes of a widely-accepted genius who is later proven to be a colossally horrible person? Wrong question to ask, guys!

So, to put you in the mood, is a story the Washington Post ran back when he won the Nobel in 2001 after writer Linton Weeks had tea with Naipaul and his fourth wife Nadira Alvi

He has never had children. "Never wanted any," he says in his
tea-with-cream tone. His first wife probably did want kids "at some
stage," he says, but "the thought was very disagreeable to me."

Laughing, Alvi tells of Naipaul seeing a baby in a carriage not too
long ago. He pointed and exclaimed, "Look, look, look! What an ugly
little brute!"

The mother, Alvi says, was mortified.

She holds this up as an example of her husband's wit.

"Quality of wit is something that is with someone all the time," Naipaul says.

He offers two more examples of his wittiness: Novelist and critic
Elizabeth Hardwick once asked him why Indian women wear the bindi mark
on their foreheads. He told her: "It means, 'My head is empty.' "

Naipaul and wife laugh and laugh.

Okay, so also in that story, Naipaul is quoted saying he didn't know why he had been awarded that particular year. "It remains a mystery. I think that perhaps the prize had run a little bit into, kind of, the doldrums." See, he'd sort of given up on winning in 1988, when he said: "Of course I won't get it - they'll give it to some nigger or other." He grew up in Trinidad, which he also blames for his lifelong distaste for music.

After years of using prostitutes, the turning point in Naipaul's life comes in 1972 when he finds a woman he desires: Margaret, whom he has met in Buenos Aires. She apparently refused to be interviewed for the book, but her archived love letters supply the missing narrative. They are rapturous, despairing, pleading, speaking of "his cruel sexual desires". She acknowledges that he is her black master, that he regards his penis as a god, that she will worship it, abase herself.

This word "master", used often in the letters, is interesting. It is a slave word. In role playing - and most of these love letters refer to highly eroticised power games - the master is regarded as dominant; but, paradoxically, it is usually the submissive person, the masochist, who has the ultimate power - maddening for the sadist.

Here is one instance. Margaret shows up unexpectedly in Wiltshire. Naipaul is displeased with her. He beats her and afterwards explains, "I was very violent with her for two days with my hand; my hand began to hurt . . . She didn't mind at all. She thought of it in terms of my passion for her. Her face was bad. She couldn't appear really in public. My hand was swollen."

"Margaret was Vidia's ideal woman," French writes. "He could string her along and mistreat her with her abject consent." He later writes, in paraphrase, "She said she had done things to Vido that would have made her sick with anybody else, and yet she longed for the time when she could do them again." It is no exaggeration to describe the relationship between Naipaul and Margaret as a version of The Story of O.

Eventually Naipaul told his wife Pat about the relationship, divulging some details and showing her intimate photographs. She was devastated but stayed with him and he was reluctant to offer a divorce. He gave her literary jobs to do, went on reading his rough drafts of his fiction to her - in which the sex scenes were based on the rough sex he enjoyed with Margaret.

And here's some more of that Post story:

He offers two more examples of his wittiness: Novelist and critic
Elizabeth Hardwick once asked him why Indian women wear the bindi mark
on their foreheads. He told her: "It means, 'My head is empty.' "

Naipaul and wife laugh and laugh.

Another time he was conducting an interview on the radio and he asked
an author a question. The author answered it. "Laudable, most
laudable," Naipaul said. "Now coming back to your wretched book . . ."

Naipaul and wife laugh.

...
He does cry. When he watches old movies like "High Sierra." And the
scene in "The Roaring Twenties" when James Cagney is dying and Gladys
George says, "He used to be a big shot."

One morning Alvi heard her husband weeping as he woke up. He was
remembering how hard it had been to get a start as a writer.

He likes for Alvi to read to him. She will pick up a book by her
husband and read aloud. "He's amazed by what he's written," she says.

And sometimes he's so moved, he cries.

I know, I know, I kind of want to read his books now too! Good thing I am lazy.

Paul Theroux claims new biography reveals monster inside V.S. Naipaul [Times of London]

While Straight's exact identity is still unclear — I'm hoping he turns out to be the same Benjamin Straight responsible for writing The Two-Finger Diet, because that guy looks like a studddd — I'm nominating him tentatively for the title of "Douche Du Jour." Because unlike the more exotic/pathetic brands exhibited by Paul Janka, John Fitzgerald Page, the Drunken Stepfather and such, there is something all too genuine and familiar in his misogyny. Note the special brand of contempt he seems to reserve for people (men and women) who work out and yet remain somewhat chubby in parts! Think he was rejected by a girl at the gym? Or does it take the military contractor to fuck a dude up this bad? Read and ponder, below.

From: Benjamin Straight Date: Feb 6, 2008 9:03 AM Subject: I am a law school girl To:

This accounts for some 80% of the gunch at law school. Of course- if you are a chick and read this- you will say, "He's not talking about me...." Yeah, just like Lil' Jon ain't talking about you while you are in your slut outfit at the club dancing to 'skeet skeet skeet' at 2 in the morning.

I am a law school girl (snatch, gunch, clam, whisker biscuit- pick your subject synonym).

Let's get one thing straight up front- I am not here to learn. I am here to prove something.

As you pretend to listen to me so that you can fuck me, I will probably tell you that either my uncle molested me or that I was raped when I was 15. I also never knew my father. I was high school class president, president of my sorority, student body president of my undergrad, a 4.0 student in my psychology major, maxed the LSAT, but chose UF because it is the cheapest for the best education. I also earned the money to pay for the brand new BMW that I drive (even though I am only 22). I am under-valued, overly-perfect, and haven't bothered to audition for American Idol because it would be unfair to the rest of the competition. I have tried every diet, perfect to the direction, but still can't lose the extra 5 lbs. stuck on my ass. However, I will pretend that the weight doesn't exist by sticking out my tits and dressing fashionable.

I am here to prove my fashion sense. I watch Sex in the City, therefore I am. Miranda and Charlotte wear Prada and carry Fendi bags, so do I- but just don't tell anyone I got them as knockoffs from a Chinese seller on Ebay. Miranda is a big-city power attorney and so am I- just in rural northern Florida. I wear the big Paris Hilton sunglasses because I want to look important. In fact, I am Paris Hilton. I am even this important in class, on rainy days, and at 8 in the evening. There may be a barrage of paparazzi just around the corner and I have to be prepared for their snapshots.

I hate Britney Spears, but I carry my Starbucks around like her and check the gossip columns every class to see what she is doing now. I even have a pet rat dog that I carry in a purse and bring to school to show how Bohemian I truly am. There is something I love about becoming rich for being a sex symbol, and I secretly want old men to jerk off to my image at 3 in the morning. Speaking of being a sex symbol, respect me for my mind. I may have fake tits, lips, and cheeks, but you are never to look at any of my plastic snap-on parts or I will consider bringing a sexual harassment claim against you with Dean Inman. I wear just enough clothing to cover my fake tits and love to show them off, even when it is 32 degrees outside. They are my table centerpiece. Every day is a Thanksgiving Spread and my tits are the stuffed turkey. I also love showing my legs that are either too skinny from starving myself, too tan from being fake baked in January, or have enough cottage cheese on them to make salad bar complete- so that you can look at them when I walk up and down the stairs in my high heels.

I wear high heels because I have to announce my coming and going and warn the paparazzi and fat girls to move out of the way. I also wear them to lift my ass so I can be 'bootylicious' like Beyonce. High heels make me feel important. Fat girls can't wear high heels, so I wear them to let the blind students know that I am not fat and an important person.

I have a tit job and botox, but I am constantly outside by the bike racks smoking cigarettes. This is called self-improvement. I smoke so I don't get hungry. I then lose weight and my fake tits look bigger. Now I just need a face lift because the years of tobacco abuse have likened my face to an old catcher's mitt. I have my priorities straight, so don't question them.

In the end, I am only really here to catch a good dickin', or hot beef injection. You see, my biological destiny is to whelp out a few puppies and use them as excuses as to why I never made it in the legal world. The law world is a man's world, and I will continue to remind people in class discussions that women make 75 cents on the dollar that a man makes, even though the areas of law I am concentrated in (Family, Pro Bono) are the lowest paying. And I will leave the workforce to shit out a few kids, feel my calling as a mother, stay out of work for 5 years, and then expect to come back as if I had never left (especially after my husband is sick of not getting blow jobs and trades me in for a newer and less-broken model). I figure that any guy that throws me a dick here will at least be on the hook for child support and will make enough money, by default, to pay me a modest monthly salary for purposely skipping my birth control the night he spent 200 bucks on me at the bar and then took me home. But I got Cosmos out of it, and Miranda and Charlotte love their Cosmos while out on socialite scene of 13th Ave.

My favorite hobby is shopping and cars should stop for me when I run out into traffic, with my Ipod on, during rush hour. What would your vagina say if it could talk?

Oh, bonus fact! That last bit refers to a female law school student who had been killed by a car during her morning jog. Stay classy, Straight!

So anyway, I was thinking, wow, this story sure seems like an apt metaphor for corporate America, yeah? But it turns out he was known for being pretty honest in the business community.

"He would give you the good news along with the bad news," Carroll said. "If he said something, you could really hang your hat on it."

So yeah. Forget all this. David Colby is just an apt metaphor for all other douchebags. Also: an insurance company executive. I think that's pretty much it.

Ex-CEO Accused Of Womanizing [AP]

• It goes without saying that the biggest news of the week was Jamie Lynn Spears' underage spermination.
  
• But she's not the only one! Fantasia and Lily Allen are also up the stick.
  
• Stars are also pregnant with hair. A look back at the year in weaves.
  
• In other news, ur-douche Paul Janka did not date rape Moe. Imagine that!
  
• But if he had, British politician John Redwood probs would have let him go, but not without a stern talking-to. Because it wasn't stranger rape or anything.
  
• The beauty and fashion industries are still trying to sell us a lot of whitewashed models and junk science.
  
• But it's the holidays, bitches! So go fall into an egg nog coma whilst watching the Spice Girls, you fucking dykes!

Flavia Monteiro Colgan is a Democratic strategist, who is an active political contributor on MSNBC and serves as a special correspondent for Extra.

Her mother, Maria, is Brazilian and her father, Kevin, is Irish American. They divorced two years after her birth. Shortly thereafter, Colgan's mother wed William T. Coleman III, a partner at the law firm of Pepper, Hamilton & Scheetz and son of William Thaddeus Coleman, Jr. (former Secretary of Transportation under President Gerald Ford, the second African American to hold a cabinet post, and winner of a 1995 Presidential Medal of Freedom). They moved from Philadelphia to Detroit. Later, Coleman would become General Counsel to the United States Army when his law school roommate, Bill Clinton, was elected president.

Colgan's father taught in the School District of Philadelphia. Every weekend she flew from Detroit to Philadelphia to be with him. At age 11, Colgan's mother moved to the Dominican Republic where they lived in Santo Domingo.

Returning to Detroit when she was 13, she attended four different high schools. She spent her tenth grade year in Fairfield, Iowa, while her father attended graduate school. Colgan returned to school in Michigan for her junior year at The Roeper School and completed high school at The Shipley School, a private school in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania.

Colgan's latest endeavour is "Miracle Quest" a program on the Travel Channel. Miracle Quest will take Colgan to Europe where she will examine the stigmata of Padre Pio, the healing waters of Lourdes and the miracle of San Gennaro as she interviews locals, churchmen, believers and skeptics.

For once no! In fact, when I first saw the Today show clip, I had zero interest and zero outrage. I saw him as the latest in a string of douchebags held up by the media to be stoned and eviscerated for the sins of all dudes. I wasn't interested. "I wouldn't even do him," I told Anna. She thought I was, like, letting him off the hook. "Even if you fall for a guy like that," I said, "he can't really hurt you. That's not real hurt. This is real hurt. The only thing some douche like Paul Janka can hurt is your pride. And all I can say for your pride, my friend, is that pride is like cholesterol; it comes good and it comes bad, and most of it is bad, and if it comes from the affirmation of dudes like Janka it's fucking trans-fats. You have to give up your pride to have a truly meaningful relationship. And even then, you're still going to break up. And that, my friend, is genuine hurt."

Except I didn't say it quite like that; I think I said something more dismissive and mean and she thought I was being too harsh on women and I agreed to stop being harsh on women because, my god, they are so much better than men, and there is probably no better testament to this than motherfucking How To Get Laid In New York, Paul Janka's little manual — he's the Thomas Paine of date rape! — on how to screw as many chicks as possible.

Then I got concerned. I felt bad for Janka, because honestly, he's clearly overcompensating for something — and worse for girls who might let a head case work out his issues on their, um, assholes. But because we're all prisoners of that human condition thing, and I didn't quite think he was a sociopath, I wanted to figure out what was going on with him. Why he needed to screw so many girls, what he wanted out of life, where everything had gone wrong, what I could learn about evolution from the whole thing, etc. So I asked him to get drinks.

Anyway then I went to his house and scratched that whole plan because some shit is too funny and bizarre to ruin with some sort of search for Deeper Meaning.

Also, pageviews!

Oh, and P.S., when I say "fun" I mean in a "because I enjoy absurd experiences" way, not in a "there's stuff I'm not telling you" way. Nothing went down! He is, um, not exactly my type.

I was sitting at a bar at the intersection of Second Avenue and 69th Street, feeling relieved that Paul Janka had stood me up and wondered if I a trip to the Upper East Side could possibly constitute a post. Certainly, it was bleak and desolate. "There's nothing here, " said the three guys sitting next to me apologetically. "You have to get up to the nineties." Maybe Paul Janka was just the product of his surroundings, fucking women for sport because there is literally nothing else to do. An older British man to my right engaged me in conversation about W.H. Auden, the merits of vodka vs. gin, my father's prostate cancer. "God bless your father," he said. It was seven nights before Christmas. I felt a pang of guilt for considering skipping out on a pre-holiday family dinner to attend the Harper's Christmas party. It was 11:09, one hour and nine minutes and three separate text messages after my appointed meeting time with Paul Janka. I had not heard a word.

I got a text. "Still there?" it said.

"Come over for a bit."

I went. I briefly mistook his building for one with a doorman. His had no doorman. It smelled like Ramen, or perhaps chicken and dumplings or something the elderly are more likely to consume. HIs apartment was on the third floor. The stairs creaked walking up. His door was one of maybe four in a little vestibule, suggesting that I was maybe in a converted flophouse.

He opened the door. He is hot, but you knew that. He smiled a little bit and kissed me on both cheeks. He was wearing an American Apparel gym T-shirt in dark heathery gray.

"So you're Maureen. Why do you go by 'Moe'? Maureen is much sexier."

Dudes invariably say this to me. They do not want to fuck "Moe." It's boring but I don't mind it if they bring it up after I have already considered fucking them because once you have started considering fucking someone your conversation is bound to get objectively more boring. However, I had no interest in fucking Paul Janka. I think he could sense this, because he immediately commenced trying to change my mind or trying to get me to think he was trying to get me to change my mind.

He took my coat. I surveyed — um, looked at — his apartment. I have seen a lot of apartments but I have never seen one so small and I have been to Japan. There was a closet to the left and a ladder to his loft to the right, and a leather chair. Beneath the loft was an antiquey-looking desk that looked like it belonged in a Ralph Lauren store, covered with those shirts with the horrible rat-sized Polo logos. Next to the leather chair was a gorgeous, impeccably well-maintained redwood armoire, atop which a crimson candle glowed.

"Take off your shoes," he said when I sat.

"Okay."

"Look, my shoes are off." He pointed to his socks.

"What are those, boots?" he asked.

"Yes."

I took them off. He squatted beside me, and took one of my feet in his hand and placed it to his nose, inhaling deeply.

I laughed. He started rubbing my calves. Approximately eleven seconds into that process, he began kneading my thigh. What is this, the Iron Chef of date rape?

"Don't cross your legs!" he said.

"You're insane!' I replied.

"So what is this, you want to interview me?" he asked. "Are you somehow affiliated with Gawker?"

"Yes and yes."

"Are you willing to sacrifice your journalistic integrity?"

"I'm not here to fuck you. I'm interested in you as a phenomenon."

"How tall are you?" he asked.

"About 5'7."

"Really? I don't believe you, I think you should stand up."

"Oh Jesus, you know? You're going to have to take my word for that because..."

"Because you have no reason to lie about it. Okay. You know, you're really cute. You have a sort of, robust sexiness about you. So what's your last name? Are you Jewish?"

"It's Slovak."

"Is that like Czech? My father is Czech. Is Slovak the same thing?"

"It used to be the same thing, but uh, they broke up."

He commenced pawing me. The weird thing about this is that generally I would probably feel uncomfortable, afraid I might succumb to a level of physical intimacy I might regret with Paul Janka, but even though I am totally ovulating right now I did not feel this fear while he relentlessly caressed my legs and arms, or on any of the ninety or so occasions he attempted to access my breasts from the neck of my shirt. "You know I'm not some rapist, he said at one point, and he had a point. My instinct, when he'd try to paw at my crotch, was to find a gnawed-on piece of rope and throw it down the hall hoping he'd go fetch. The point is, you don't think the dog diving into your crotch every time you come in the door is going to rape you. Of course, there was no place to throw a rope in Janka's miniature bachelor pad.

And dogs aren't evolved enough to properly masturbate; Janka went to freaking Harvard. What was his excuse?

I couldn't really find out. "I was a late bloomer," he admitted at one point. He'd lost his virginity at 20. By this point I was up on his bunk bed thingy. He has this rule about "no street clothes" on the bed so he had kindly offered me a pair of his Dolce & Gabbana boxer-briefs, folded meticulously in the armoire, to change into. "

Are you going commando right now?" he asked as I changed by his tiny closet.

"Ew no."

"Did that letter I sent, were you turned on when you read it?"

"I don't really get turned on by erotica."

"What turns you on?"

"I kind of actually like conversation."

I tried to pursue one with him. What about the adolescence that had left him so warped. He'd grown up in Santa Monica. Where'd he go to high school?

"See, this is the thing about conversation. Who cares where I went to high school?" he said.

"I'm just trying to apply my extensive knowledge of cultural stereotypes and gross generalizations to analyze your behavior," I said, or something like that.

"I went to a big public school."

Okay, in brief: his mother's feelings about his vocal Casanova-ness are "mixed" — she disapproves but approves if he can "monetize" it. His attempts to "monetize" it have thus far consisted of talks about a reality show. He will appear at some point in the future, he says, on Inside Edition. He refused to talk much about his employment history, claiming he had been a technology analyst for a hedge fund but he never really "liked, like working." He likes to write; there's a screenplay he's shopping around.

"I also wrote a lot of college essays I really think are good. I have those." He did not share them.

He owns some books, but neither of the titles I inquired about — The Prize and the Book of Mormon — were ones he claimed to have read. Julia Allison is the one who first "discovered" him. He finds Julia Allison "cute" and "attractive" and "cute." He broke up with his girlfriend of two years a month ago, the event that seems to have precipitated the resurgence in interest surrounding his self-internet published 2004 work How To Get Laid In New York.

"I still love her; I'd love to have children with her, but we were just at different times in our lives," he said, or something along those lines. He found a picture of her (incredibly pretty) on his computer; when the screen first alit I was treated to a picture of a man — I believe it was Paul — holding his erect penis, perpendicular. It seemed large enough. He also shared with me photos sent to him by girls who had befriended him on Facebook since his appearance on the Today show. I could not tell if they were attractive from the photos, because they generally only displayed their asses. Like so many men of his generation, Janka is obsessed with butt sex. "29 years old and you've never had anal sex," was a common refrain, after I revealed to him I had never been penetrated there.

This paltry bit of information came at a price; once up on his bunk bed his frenzied touching grew more aggressive and strategic. "Don't break the TV," he would say, if I got too far away from him and too close to the flat-screen television mounted on the wall opposite his pillows. "I'm worried about the TV." He tried to grab at my crotch. When I covered myself with his blanket for protection, he said, "oh, I'm cold too," and covered himself with the blanket.

Once underneath the blanket, he felt at ease to start jerking off while looking at me and squinting while I asked questions. I don't know for a fact that he was jerking off, of course, but he was moving up and down rhythmically and it was the only period during our encounter during which he seemed to find a use other than probing me for his hands. It was a relief, but he got even worse at answering questions. I began to see holes in his stories.

"Please, please will you just...touch it?" he asked.

"No. Why do you like to fuck drunk girls if you're not drunk?" I asked.

"That information is outdated," he said. "I don't do that anymore. I ran the numbers, and it just wasn't worth the cost. "Three drinks for her, plus seltzers for me, that's sixty bucks, times five times a day is $300..."

"Five times a day?"

"Five times a week is $300...and then you don't even really know if you're going to get a girl back home. Especially now, in the winter, you'll leave the bar and suddenly the cold air hits her face and she says, I'm just gonna go home..."

And then he began to contradict himself.

"But seriously, when I did that the girls were never drunk. They'd usually have one drink, two tops."

Suffice it to say his new strategy has been working very well since his appearance on the Today show. His most recent conquest was a Polish model in a loveless marriage who contacted him on Facebook in search of no-strings sex. But sometimes it backfires; the day before a girl had come over and he was, unbelievably, untempted to have sex with her. "The chemistry was off," he said. "She was kind of overweight."

Sigh.

Anyway I left pretty quickly after that. It was getting sort of boring. The one admirable thing about Paul Janka was that, unlike most oversexed pervs, he was not enough of a narcissist to seem to desire any analysis or tolerate introspection. He seemed driven purely by an insatiable need to get laid constantly. So insatiable was his need last night that he actually donned his American Apparel jacket and left his apartment when I did, headed for some destination across town. We hugged goodbye. On the way downstairs he said it was a shame we hadn't met under different circumstances, that he thought we could have a lot of fun with one another, blah blah blah blah. "What happens to us?" he finally asked, hilariously, before begging me to kiss him.

I abstained.

Tell the bartender how it is— she works for you for the two hours or so you'll be there. I tell them I don't drink but that I am meeting a lady, and that I don't want her to feel uncomfortable so could they please bring me seltzer waters, in a high-ball glass, with a lime. And call it a Tom Collins. Or a Gin and Tonic if you prefer. Never leave your drink, and don't let the girl sip it— she will freak out, I guarantee you. If you go to the bathroom, take it with you.

Both dudes are the same, it's just the generation and geopolitical situation that have changed. Romney's a typical psychocapitalist Boomer hawk, and Janka is one of those predators whose victims don't really care because he's just sort of an autistic version of all the other date rapists they've fallen for. One wants to conquer the world, the other will settle for the world of pussy...

But it's only really depressing if either one wins.

The six-minute ride from my favorite lounge to my apartment is a crucial testing period. If I have my hand in her panties and her mouth is around my cock, she passes the test. Everyone's happy. That isn't often the case. More usually, they're coming back to your place, a bit tipsy, and now would be a good time to test the physical boundaries a bit. Kissing, breast and crotch action is explored. Also, their willingness to put their hands on my alerted member is usually telling.

Is Paul Janka A Wee Bit Rapey? [Radar]

But Paul's just sort of sad. Isn't he? Well, Meredith Vieira doesn't think so. And some doctor thinks he could be victimizing poor young girls! Dear young girls, if you are letting dudes like this victimize you, feel better bc it could be so much worse!