Ladies, you’re all familiar with the dating tricks that guys use to bed you, right? Rich guys flaunt money they have. Poor guys flaunt money they don’t have. Just about all guys use lines like “you’re beautiful,” even if you’re a bull terrier; or “you’re smart,” even if you’re an idiot. They wine you, dine you, surprise you with trinkets, laugh at your lame attempts to be funny, bring you roses, tell you that you’re “special,” and call you at work to tell you that they’re thinking of you.

But guys’ love arsenals are also stocked with weapons that you may not be familiar with, weapons that slip undercover as seemingly innocent gestures. Some of you ladies are well aware of these smart weapons and the sinister intentions behind them. Many of you ladies have no clue. Regardless, scads of you will find yourselves on your backs because of them.

Girls, don’t go hot tubbing with a guy you barely know.  Want to know why? Imagine this scenario. It’s your second date. Your new guy has invited you for a swim in his backyard jacuzzi. It’ll be just the two of you. You’re thinking, “Hot tubbing!!! Water! Splashy, Splashy! Hip hip hooray!” Do you know what your date’s thinking? “Sucka!” And rightly so. Your date is a genius. He’s the man. His ability to get you to go hot tubbing is brilliant. He barely knows you and he’s already got you stripped down to your bra and panties. That’s right, “bra and panties.” You can call that foot of fabric a “bikini” if you want, or better yet, a “swimsuit,” but who do you think you’re kidding? Face it, you’re wearing a bra and panties. And wearing a bra and panties means you’re half-naked. No, you’re more like three-quarters naked. It takes some unlucky dorks a year of dating to get to the bra and panties stage. But by planning a date with a hot tub, a guy can just about glimpse your goods on a first date.

Maybe you don’t fully appreciate the significance of a guy tricking you into your bra and panties by planning a night in a jacuzzi. Here’s the deal. To a guy, your clothes are like the outer walls of a fortress, with you as the lookout. A guy dreams of bulldozing his way past your walls, but it’s an arduous task. He may sneak past your granite sweater, only to then confront your cast-iron button-down blouse. Then, he must battle through your concrete camisole. If successful, alas, he has to bypass your password-protected, underwire bra. After all that effort, he still finds himself no closer to your coochie. Your spiked heels, your denim-plated jeans, your steel wool nylons, your odor-launching socks—even if these below-the-waist barriers crumble, a guy must still besiege your titanium panties.

Now, if you ladies were all negligent lookouts, such an array of barriers would pose little difficulty. Guys would strut through at will. But many of you are tough. You actually expect guys to halt and set camp after passing each barrier. They then must wait days, weeks, maybe even a month or two to achieve the security clearance necessary to scale the next wall of fabric. Guys often find themselves waiting months just to view you in your undies. But if these same guys invite you into a jacuzzi, they can trick you into your bra and panties…er…your bikinis on a first date. With only two slinky defenses left, you’re sitting ducks. You’re in their crosshairs. They’ve got you on missile lock. You’re as good as screwed.

The reason for your extreme vulnerability during a night of hot tubbing is simple. If you’re fully clad, it can take a guy five seconds to slip off your shoes, fifteen seconds to unbutton your blouse, ten seconds to take off your jeans, five seconds to unhook your bra, and another five seconds to wiggle off your panties. That gives you an ample forty seconds to rethink your actions. A lot can happen in forty seconds. In forty seconds, you have plenty of time to ask yourself, “Do I really believe this guy’s in the CIA?” In forty seconds, you can recall all the times you’ve been used by dudes who repeatedly told you that you were “special.” In forty seconds, you can conjure up a fine excuse as to why the timing just isn’t right.

On the other hand, if you’re in a hot tub and you’re only wearing a bikini, (bra and panties)  a guy could unclothe you in less than ten seconds. That’s right, you have less than ten seconds for second thoughts, not exactly enough time to ponder an act that may lead to stretch marks and eighteen years of babysitting. Ten seconds! That’s all you’ve got while wearing a bikini. If you’re unassertive and indecisive, good luck! Maybe he actually will call you the next day. Wink. Wink.

Want to play truth or dare? I dare you to flash your bra. You’re too chicken to play strip poker. Sound familiar? Dares, bets, challenges, call outs–guys fling them; girls fall victim. All too often, you Ladies see guys’ dares as spur of the moment monkey business, as innocent horseplay. Wrong. “Spur of the moment?” Try premeditated. Some guys plan dares weeks in advance. Others plan dares hours ahead. Most plan minutes before the act. Regardless, most guys plan their dares. “Innocent?” Hardly. Dares are dangerous. Dares are weapons. They are the unguided projectiles, the dumb bombs of a guy’s arsenal. They’re not very accurate. Dares will rarely bed a lady. They probably won’t even lead to a good hummer. But like dumb bombs, what dares can do is break down the morale of the adversary. Translation? They probably won’t bring about a BJ on the spot, but they can trim down the BJ waiting period. They can convert a five-month coochie holdout into a one-month pause.

Dares erode female defenses in the following way. First, they momentarily lower a girl’s inhibitions. If Harry dares Tina to flash her cha-chas and she does the deed, it goes without saying that her inhibitions have momentarily napped. In seconds, Harry’s simple dare has matched the work of two or three beers. But wait. Uh-oh, that momentary lapse in judgment may lead to another lapse. Looks like we’ve got a domino effect. One fallen inhibition may lead to another, then another, then another. Next thing Harry knows, Tina is nude as a newborn with her ankles up to her ears. The dominos fall because accepting a dare wrecks havoc on a girl’s ability to rationalize good girl behavior. If Harry has already seen Tina’s melons because of his little dare, how can she reject him later that night when they’re making out and he attempts to undo her bra? After all, he’s already seen the goods.

Naturally, the dominos are more likely to fall when wild or insecure girls are involved. Wild girls are more likely to play truth or dare or strip poker because, well, they’re wild. That’s what they do. For whatever reason, they enjoy being naughty. Insecure girls are more likely to play truth or dare or strip poker because of their need to fit in. They’re desperate for attention. They’re tired of going unnoticed. If an hour of strip poker will achieve that recognition, then why not? Guys may use dare tactics on all women (can’t hurt, right?), but they particularly seek out these wild and insecure girls. And they’re often rewarded.

It’s night. A secluded lake. Milo puts out a skinny-dipping dare to his friend Angela. Not wanting to seem uncool, she accepts, so long as Milo turns while she strips. “No problem,” scoffs Milo. “It’s not like I’m trying to see you naked or anything. I just want us to do something crazy and fun like skinny-dipping” Angela strips and dives into the water. Milo’s skinny-dipping dare has worked. He joins her with a big grin on his face. And he should be grinning. She’s skinny-dipping! She’s naked! Half his job is done! Eager to seal the deal, Milo vies to breakdown her remaining defenses. He starts off by splashing water on her. She playfully returns the gesture. He then tickles her and dunks her head under the water. Before she knows it, he’s kissing her. Normally, Angela would let weeks go by before allowing a guy to feel up her bare breasts, a couple of months before allowing her coochie to be fingered. But something about being naked and wet beside Milo spawns a carefree spirit within her, so she doesn’t resist when Milo heads for second base. Safe! Before long, Milo tires of lingering on second. He figures his skinny-dipping dare has been successful so far so he speeds toward third. Safe! There’s no stopping him now. Milo races for home. Safe! Home run! Milo’s skinny-dipping dare has worked. Score: Milo, 1. Angela, 0.

Steven bets his friend Carly that she’s too prude to do anything wild. “Am not,” she retorts. “Prove it,” Steven responds. “Grab my wiener.” “Shut up, you horndog. You’re sick,” roars Carly. “You’re a baby,” counters Steven. “You’ve probably never even felt a real Oscar Meyer wiener. Prude!” “Fine,” grumbles Carly. “Unzip.” Steven unzips his pants. Carly hesitantly reaches into his pants and grabs his already stiff hot dog. She gives it a tug. Steven lets out a small moan. She strokes his wiener again. His face clearly shows that he’s at her mercy (or so she thinks). Carly feels in control. She feels powerful. She strokes his wiener some more. Steven attempts to kiss her. She prefers to not kiss her friend, but her hand’s on his wiener! She’s already crossed the friendship line, so why not? Soon, he unzips her jeans and fingers her coochie. She wants to say “no” but she doesn’t. How can she? It wouldn’t be fair. What, she strokes his wiener but her furburger’s off limits? She figures there’s no turning back. Minutes later, Carly’s got her “friend’s” wiener down her throat. Score: Steven, 1. Carly, 0.

Dave and Gena are on their third date. Gena brags about how great a card shark she is. Dave sees an opportunity and pounces. “Okay, if you’re so good,” he snickers, “then why not play strip poker with me.” “Play strip poker? You wish, pervert,” Gena snaps. Dave cleverly responds, “What, are you chicken? If you’re as good as you say you are, then you have nothing to worry about.” Gena gives in and agrees to play strip poker. Dave shuffles the deck. The two play strip poker. Final result–Gena wins, but not without having to expose her tatas. Later that night, the two make out. Dave unbuttons her blouse and begins to unhook her bra. Gena’s not quite ready for this, but “what the heck,” she figures. “I already decided to play strip poker. He’s already seen my tatas anyway.” The bra comes off exposing her tatas. Caught in the moment, she doesn’t resist when Dave later attacks her skirt. Score: Dave, 1. Gena, 0.

Guys hate giving massages. What, you actually think guys offer to massage your backs and shoulders out of kindness?  Ladies, get real. Guys hate giving massages to your backs because your backs are boring. Guys hate giving massages to your shoulders because your shoulders are even more boring. Your backs and shoulders lack the soft cushiony feel of your asses and the visual flair of your tits. Sure, guys do enjoy touching every inch of your bodies; but only four regions warrant extra attention–your jugs, your thighs, your asses, and your coochies. Unfortunately for guys, none of these spots is knotted with tension. If they were, all guys would be masseuses in training. But alas, tension rests in your backs and shoulders, two regions that guys could give a rat’s ass about.

Guys don’t offer massages out of kindness. They don’t do it because they appreciate the stress you ladies encounter daily, because they wish to relieve this stress, to pamper you, to bring relaxation to your cluttered and underappreciated lives. Hah! Guys hate giving massages too much to give them for any of those reasons. There’s only one reason why guys lavish attention on your crummy backs. You got it. They massage your backs so they can get you on your backs; although getting you on your knees is a more than satisfactory alternative. Relieving you of your stress is good for you, but it’s fantastic for the fellas. Although guys hate giving massages, they know that a relaxed gal is more receptive to kissing and groping. And kissing and groping make her more receptive to a good banging. A ten-minute massage then is a worthwhile investment. Worst-case scenario, it’ll score brownie points that a guy can cash in on a future rainy day. Best-case scenario, it’ll lead to a good bang, a hummer and a complimentary swallow. Guys can’t lose.

If during one of your initial dates, your new guy drives you up to the hills and ends up parking so he can share with you a gorgeous view of the cityscape; or if he ends up parking at a secluded spot so you two can “talk and get to know each other,” and you accept these parking dates, you almost deserve to be barefoot, pregnant, and abandoned, which is how you’ll end up if you’re dumb enough to tolerate parking dates so early in your relationship.

Do not fall victim to parking dates! Leave parking dates for hookers and hos. Any guy who’s serious about you will not attempt parking dates with you during the initial weeks of dating. A serious guy, a worthy guy, will actually escort you to places that require payment. A respectable guy who wishes to talk and get to know you better will do so at a restaurant or café. Parking dates will only get you in trouble. Unless you’re in the mood for giving a messy hummer in the backseat of a Tercel, say “no thanks” when your date suggests taking at a gander at some meteor shower that can only be seen from the hills.

Girls, when you’re lying on your back at the OB-GYN’s office, your legs propped up on stirrups, your coochie on display, what thoughts are scurrying through your mind?  How do you feel at that moment?  Well, that’s how guys feel when they’re dancing. Frat party, school formal, bar mitzvah—it makes no difference. Whatever the occasion, wherever the location, whoever the partner, guys feel EXPOSED. Guys hate dancing. Unlike you graceful ballerinas, guys don’t have rhythm. Their hips don’t grind. Their asses won’t wiggle. So when they’re doing the chicken under those strobes, they think that they look like dorks. No, they’re sure that they look like dorks, which is why guys hate dancing. Here’s a little secret. Very few scenarios inflict more fear into the hearts of guys than the prospect of looking like a dork, especially when surrounded by scantily clad hotties. Fear of dorkdom begins early for guys. As soon as boys are old enough to diddle their wee-wees (a hobby that apparently never dies), their fathers, their mothers, their uncles, their TVs, and nowadays their Xboxes teach them that a real man is a mix between Rambo and James Bond. Guys hate dancing because they feel more like Ryan Seacrest when on the dance floor. Average Joes simply cannot look cool while dancing. They know it too. It’s all they can think about. A club is a buffet of feminine delights for a guy. Boobs are bouncing. Mini skirts are swaying higher and higher, exposing more and more thigh. Asses are grinding. Yet, all a dancing dork can think of is, “Am I supposed to snap my fingers with the beat?  Will ‘raising the roof’ look hip or silly?  Should I smile, or scowl with intensity?  Is it left foot, right foot; or left foot, left foot, right foot, right foot?  I look like a guber. Everyone here’s staring at me because I look like a guber.”

So if guys hate dancing, why do swarms of guys flock to clubs every night?  If guys hate dancing, Why do they dance at all. The answer’s obvious, isn’t it?  They’re trying to Roger Rabbit their way into your panties. Guys know you ladies don’t hate dancing like they do. You actually like to dance. They also know that you love guys who like dancing too. The math is simple. Vertical shaking leads to horizontal grinding. All of the traumas, all of the anxieties of dancing prove worthwhile sacrifices once a guy finds himself receiving a hummer in the parking lot of the Conga Room. He has endured the pain. Now the prize is his. A night of clubbing is sort of like a stint on Fear Factor. A guy knows that if he can just endure an hour of torture on the dance floor, he just might win the grand prize; in this case, the prize being you on your back with your legs spread.

Naturally, there are some guys who actually do have rhythm, who actually come across as cool, even sexy on the dance floor. Yes, some guys like to dance. Some guys like to dance a whole lot. Make no mistake, ladies: when these club studs approach you on their tinker toes, wearing their “I got groove” grins, they’re after the same thing as their rhythmically challenged counterparts. Don’t lose perspective and assume that just because they like to dance, they’re merely out to improve their “craft.”  And don’t assume they’re out because they adore the thumps and thuds of techno. When they’re on that dance floor with you, their bodies may speak “Look at me, I like to dance”, but their thoughts tell a different story: “Look at me. I got all the moves. She’s gotta be getting wet just watching me. She’s gonna want to show me off to all her hoochie friends. Wake up, Junior. It’s time to come out and play.”

Guy’s pads are player armories, sex fortresses equipped with all the weapons a player needs for sucessful house dates. Any self-respecting bachelor pad houses alcohol to loosen a girl’s will, a bed so a guy can pork her in comfort, condoms in case he can’t convince her of his sterility, a sink so she can rinse her mouth post BJ, a shower so she can rinse the cum off her jugs, and a kitchen so she can cook breakfast in the morning. Armed with horniness, guile, and all the charm they can muster, guys do their best  to lure girls into these sex fortresses. Ladies, beware of house dates. Be very, very careful of house dates.

After dating for two weeks, Biff invites Betty over for a movie night so they can watch Sleepless in Seattle on his plasma screen. “What a sensitive guy Biff is,” thinks Betty. WRONG. While Betty spends two hours enjoying Tom and Meg, Biff’s waiting two hours for the damn flick to end. Betty may not know it, but as soon as the credits roll, Biff’s gonna hit that ass. And his chances are good too because movie night is on his home turf. He and Betty aren’t in some crowded, bedless restaurant. They’re not in some noisy dance club. They’re having movie night at casa Biff, conveniently equipped with a king-sized bed for a midnight banging and a La-Z-Boy chair perfectly suited for a morning BJ. Girls, beware of movie night.

Larry tells his new girlfriend Sally that he’d like to make her a home-cooked romantic dinner at his place. “You work so hard,” he tells her. “Let me treat you like the princess you are.”  “How sweet Larry is,” muses Sally. WRONG. Larry, like most guys, is a schemer. He can’t expect to receive a hummer at Red Lobster. He’ll never have an entrée of 69 at Applebee’s. He has no chance of doggystyling at the Olive Garden. But by making a home-cooked, romantic dinner at his house, who knows?  With the right amount of wine, a romantic array of candles, and a little Teddy Pendergrass, Larry may just find himself having Sally for the main course. Almost as important, Larry can save a bundle with his home-cooked “romantic dinner.” Restaurants are expensive nowadays and the new generation of girls is a lot bolder with the appetizer and dessert sections. But a home-cooked, romantic dinner is a different animal. Five bucks worth of spaghetti and a loaf of French bread will satisfy the tummies of even the meatiest gals. A home-cooked, romantic dinner at home then is not so innocent. In fact, it can be downright sinister, and yet, undeniably brilliant. A fatter wallet, a side order of coochie—it’s the American dream…at least for guys.

Pepe offers to tutor his love interest, Lisa. Instead of suggesting a library for their study date, Pepe proposes that they have their study date at his apartment, that way they can order take out and eat while studying. “It’ll be more efficient,” says Pepe. “How considerate Pepe is,” thinks Lisa. WRONG. Guys hate studying. If guys hate studying, why would they want to help others study? Good ol’ Pepe’s not being considerate. He’s being crafty. He doesn’t want to tutor Lisa. He couldn’t care less about her Biology grade. He just wants to bang her, a feat he can’t accomplish if his study date is at a library. Library equals blue balls. Studio apartment equals happy dick. But poor Lisa doesn’t know just how much guys hate studying. She doesn’t know about the dangers of a study date at a guy’s home. At Pepe’s apartment, Lisa’s going to want to take a break at some point. Pepe will offer to massage her tension-laden shoulders. She’ll probably consent. The next thing you know, the only thing Pepe will be teaching Lisa is how to deepthroat without gagging.

But setting up house dates isn’t the only way guys lure girls into their homes. They can just as easily trick girls into them. Ladies, many of you have heard the words before. You’re on a date and at some point your brute says, “You know what?  I forgot my jacket. Is it okay if we stop by my place real quick so I can get it?”  Upon arriving, he invites you inside, so you won’t get too chilly waiting in the car of course. Trusting in his golden boy smile and puppy dog eyes, you accept his considerate invitation. Bad idea. You just got suckered. By forgetting their wallets, or jackets, or hats, or blankies, or whatever else, captors…er…guys conveniently trick girls into their homes, which are sex fortresses, equipped with the privacy and comforts necessary for a satisfying banging. In contrast, guys’ cars showcase backseats too small for sitting, let alone screwing; and curtainless windows that allow passersby to take a gander at their millimeter Peters. Small wonder why guys are eager to plot any excuse to trick girls out of their cars and into their homes. They know that their odds of getting laid skyrocket once they trick girls inside.

Stay in the car! You heard Garvey. Stay in the car! If your date stops by his house to retrieve something and he invites you inside, stay in the car!  Tell him you’ll wait. What he’ll do next is take his time while you sit in the car bored out of your mind. His scheme? He wants to break down your patience so that you have no choice but to exit the car and enter his trap. Stay in the car! Do you know what to do if he lags?  Honk the horn. Honk!  Honk! Honk!  Let him know that he’s lagging. Let him know that you’re not budging from your seat. If you don’t want to wake the neighborhood, use your cell and call him. Tell him to get his ass out of that player fortress of his. Now!  Or you can follow him into his place, say yes to a beer, yes to a massage, get laid and never hear from him again. It’s your choice.

Booze is a guy’s greatest weapon. Beers, wine coolers, mixed drinks—they are the nukes of guys’ arsenals. Guys do get girls drunk because girls do the wildest things when they’re drunk. When guys get girls drunk, they sleep with losers. When guys get girls drunk, they engage in threesomes. When guys get girls drunk, they forget to use condoms. A little alcohol goes a long way and guys know it. They’ll stop at nothing to get girls drunk. And sometimes they don’t even need to do anything. They can just sit back and let girls do all the dirty work. Girls, you have no idea how many guys are on the lookout for already wasted girls at parties, clubs, and bars. Guys get plain giddy when coming across you drunken chicks. They love hearing your cute slurs. They love your silly stumblings. They love your gigglings. Their minds are spinning just like yours. An alarm wails in their heads: “Ding, ding, ding!  Easy lay!  Easy lay!”

Girls, any time a guy offers you a drink is a red flag. Chances are he’s trying to soften your defenses. By meeting for drinks and getting you snookered, a guy increases his odds of taking you to his place afterward. Once there, he’ll offer you more drinks and you’re screwed…literally. When a guy says, “How about meeting for drinks,” suggest coffee instead. When a guy offers to grab you a drink while at a party, he’s not necessarily being a sweetheart. He may just want to get you tipsy so he can land a blowjob in the parking lot. Or, if he’s really sinister, he might add more alcohol, maybe even a ruffie, to your drink. Never accept a drink at a bar or party, unless you’ve seen that drink being poured.