From The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition

pred·a·tor n.

  1. An organism that lives by preying on other organisms.
  2. One that victimizes, plunders, or destroys, especially for one’s own gain.


You can always tell when someone’s efforts at getting laid are bound for failure.

I saw this happen six months ago – in a party somewhere in Makati. Two boys were flirting (or at least trying to flirt with) a woman with impossibly long hair and an impish smile. The woman wore a little black dress that spoke volumes about its wearer, and of the possibility of it lying in a crumpled heap on the floor of some strange bedroom.

Unfortunately for the two men, the woman’s smile was mostly absent that night, appearing only every now and then to return a compliment or to relieve the boredom that comes with pointless conversation.

Having had enough (to eat/drink/listen? who knows?) the woman stood up said her goodbyes to whatever was left of the party that night, and left with the two boys in tow.

Whether or not they got laid that night with the woman in question is unknown, but I think it’s safe to assume that it was an empty proposition.


Biologists note that lions, despite hunting in packs, have a hunt success rate of one in four. This means that for every four kill attempts that a lion makes, it only gets its prey once.

It must be noted that in a pride of lions, the females usually do the killing, but when it comes to eating, the males come first.


I had been watching the earnest, if amateurish efforts of the two men, and the experienced manner by which the woman evaluated their advances with some interest when the woman came over to our table to say that she would be moving on to other things. Other people said their goodbyes, but all I could manage was a small nod. Of course it didn’t help that I had a mug of ale while greeting the woman.

“Kiko, those EYES!” said my friend Cathy when the woman was out of earshot. “You have a wife sitting right beside you.” Cathy’s eyes were rolling in what I sensed as some mild form of disgust.

“What did you say?” said the wife, in that tone usually reserved for misbehaving children. The wife then moved next to Cathy and stared at me in a manner befitting Tomás de Torquemada.

“Nothing,” I said, but I think my sheepish grin gave me away.


When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws –
‘Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale –
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

The Female of the Species
Rudyard Kipling


On Thursday evening, I found myself in what passes for the default watering hole in these parts when the rain decides to make its presence felt. Normally, time in this place is spent downing unnaturally large quantities of diet beer as fast as humanly possible. However, as I had no money on this particular Thursday (having spent it earlier on the bottomless rice offer of one particular Japanese fastfood joint), I had to get intoxicated on other things, like the libidinous talk of pretty young things.

In order to do that, effort must be expended to help reduce the level of inhibition in the women at the table where one is sitting.

This particular Thursday, I (as well as the perverts listening in around me) had the good fortune of conversing with women who had no reservations shouting about the virtues of semi-caucasian penises, and the proper way to pleasure oneself. Before the night was over, many on the table, including me, were educated on the many ways to achieve female ejaculation using a diagram hastily drawn on paper napkins.

In hindsight, (the best kind of sight according to a good friend), perhaps it was my level of inhibition being lowered. Perhaps I was the person being helped along.


It’s too late
She’s gone too far
She’s lost the sun
She’s come undone

The Guess Who


When I was in college, most of my friends were girls who were known to be easy lays. As such, most boys spend time with them, buying them precious little nothings, in the hope that their attentions would lead to a relatively easy romp in the hay. Most of the time, these boys walk away empty-handed, as my friends were not as easy as other people proclaimed.

However, when they came across a boy they’ve been wanting to bed, or if a particular boy passes a certain unspecified standard (which may be lowered by the proper application of alcohol and wit), it doesn’t take much to bring them to bed. However, if you weren’t the kind of guy they wanted to sleep with, then tough luck for you.


Tough luck for me, then.


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