A Bar Mating Dance

douche de leche

“Douche de Leche” is a segment featuring pieces for girls to gape at and guys to laugh at, written by some of my closest male friends and (almost completely) uncensored. This post was written by someone who chooses to remain anonymous, though he claims the following:

douche

Enjoy Anon’s piece about how men are basically animals. 

Underneath the round, chest-height table there are no more barstools. I stand and look around for an open seat. The table to my left is crowded with a group of girls draped in variations of each other’s outfits. Just beyond them, a pack of boys stake their claim around another table. One popped-collar Polo-wearing member shifts his gaze from the table of girls, to the bartender, then the bouncer at the door, and, finally, back to the table. His friends seem hyper-aware of their postures, keen to keep their chests puffed out at least six inches from the tips of their chins at all times. But Polo Shirt didn’t get the memo. Hunched over, he’s occupied himself by scratching a key across the brown glazed tabletop. I test the surface with my fingernail.

Immediately, resin builds up under my nail. I can’t help but wonder how much damage he could cause with his metal utensil. He looks up again and this time I swear his nose scrunches as if there’s a threat to be smelled. While the bloodhound marks his territory, his friends have begun to engage in their own animal behaviors.

A smaller but more confident member of the boys’ group stands up from his casual lean atop the stool. He’s short and not particularly well built. I wonder how much his hair gel contributes to his total body weight. He smoothes a left paw through the bristly fur atop his head but it pops up like astroturf. His shirt, striped and untucked, doesn’t distinguish him much from the two others who stand and follow him. Together, they migrate over the the girls’ group.

“We go to Brown,” states the boy at the back of their triangular formation. He had leaned forward onto his toes as he spoke, and now rocks back with a smirk as if to punctuate the declaration. The girls put on their best looks of feigned admiration before one breaks the synchronized sarcasm.

She says dryly, “So do we.”

It’s even awkward from where I’m standing, ten feet away. The boy at the back turns his shoulders, ready to flee the scene, but catches himself in his moment of pussy-ness when his friends stand their ground. The smaller boy–with his shirt now partially tucked in–has set his sights on a brunette at the near edge of the girls’ table. He makes eye contact, distracting her–perhaps himself, too–from the embarrassment of his friend’s failed icebreaker. the other two boys try to salvage the situation with the larger group. Striped Shirt now seems removed from his friends.

His target–the brunette–leans in the slightest amount. He mirrors her action. She looks down at her boots and giggles, a restrained mimic of the full-throated chucked he lets out with his head cocked back. Only now does he notice that his friends, tending to their wounded pride, have moved back to more familiar territory. Stripe Shirt places his hand on the girl’s hip and whispers something in her ear. She looks back at her friends before standing and following the boy across the room. I see him smooth his hair once more before they disappear around a corner.

I straighten up and realize that I’ve been staring. I feel like a less talented, less interesting version of a Planet Earth photographer; he sits in a camouflaged tent for hours to capture footage of a Bird of Paradise performing its mating dance. It unfurls its feathers and bounces around a potential female partner. If the mate is disinterested, a fact that’s even harder to read on the expressionless faces of birds, the preened and radiantly feathered male will simply move on. The boy with the striped shirt has succeeded tonight. His friends, now members of a slightly smaller group, ruffle their feathers and turn their heads towards a new group of girls sitting closer to the bar.


Douche de Leche: The Ultimate Hangover Cure

douche de leche

“Douche de Leche” is a segment featuring pieces for girls to gape at and guys to laugh at written by some of my closest male friends, (almost completely) uncensored. This post was originally written by one of my best friends, the lovely and talented Jacob Koffler, and myself, who both think this is a very important matter.

Remember that book Everybody Poops? The one your parents read to you when you were five? Well, it’s time for part two. Not only does everybody poop, but everybody takes a hangover shit. And everyone loves it.

It seems that we’re comfortable talking about everything on the internet. But when’s the last time you read an in-depth exploration of the most essential part of your Sunday morning? Sure, there are other hangover cures-iced coffee, a bacon-egg-& cheese, helplessly moaning alone in your bed, or whipping up a Bloody Mary and starting again–but whether you’ll admit it or not, you won’t feel like yourself until you’ve trekked to the bathroom and let it all out.

Everyone's fav emoji

Everyone’s fav emoji

Lack of a hangover shit truly ruins your day. That morning queasy-shaky-emptiness isn’t assuaged in a ten-minute playdate with your toilet. Instead, it lingers for hours and hours. As the wretched feeling slowly fades, it takes pieces of your dignity with it. It just isn’t the same.

We really can’t overemphasize the importance of the hangover shit enough. The difference pre- and post-shit is comparable to how your mother felt when she finally pushed you out. Think of all those half-digested brewskis and cocktails inside you as a baby–while you don’t want your hangover shit to be premature, at a certain point, you gotta get it out. It’s totally worth it to wait until morning; after all, the nature of a hangover shit is to shit hungover. If you’re still drunk, the satisfaction level automatically diminishes. In the morning, it just plops right out.

So, we’ve all agreed on the hangover shit’s importance. Here are some tips to maximize everybody’s favorite part of the week:

1. Bring a book. It is a Sunday, after all. Might as well multitask.

2. Bring a friend! Hangover shits are more fun in pairs and a great bonding activity. True friends are on the same hangover shit cycle.

3. Check for toilet paper before you go. This ain’t the woods.

4. And last, but certainly not least, pick the perfect bathroom. Sunday mornings often prompt waking up in a foreign location. Although the bathroom closest in proximity may be the most convenient, it doesn’t mean it’s the best. Don’t settle.

Remember, hangover shits should no longer be taboo. Let’s create a safe space in which we can all talk about it. This shit is important, people.


On What Guys Really Think About What We Really Think

For the past year, I’ve been trying to learn through The FYD. I want to bring up things we accept as normal into question. I wonder why we, as millennials, do the things we do. But eventually, I’ve come to realize and accept that I can write for a thousand years and still never completely understand one thing: the mind of a guy. Tons of magazines, websites, and publications with a female-targeted audience have columns written by men to try and help women figure out what really goes on behind the six packs, the sideburns, and the sex. However, I still feel like “Jared, a college student from Florida!” or “Brian, in his second year of law school!” just aren’t doing it for me. I don’t know Jared, I don’t know Brian, and what both of them (along with the hundreds of other guys who write for girls) state in their pieces is typically predictable. 

Enter a new flavor of The Fro-Yo Diairies: “Douche de Leche,” a segment featuring pieces for girls to gape at and guys to laugh at written by some of my closest male friends, almost completely uncensored. I’m not telling them what to say (though I will edit for grammatical errors, obviously I’m too type-A to let that slide) and I’m not telling them how to say it. 

douche de leche

Now, I present to you, the first installment of Douche de Leche… enjoy. 

Women always think men have these “thoughts” about them. But when I take a step back, the first thing I think about women is the ridiculousness of what they think I’m thinking. Here’s a list of things I find hilarious about women and their most common misconceptions:

1. GIRLS & THEIR HAIR When girls think guys care about their hair. I’m twisted already, do you really think I’m gonna give a shit if your hair is in front of your shoulders or behind? Just don’t shave that shit and it’s all good.

2. GIRLS & DANCING When a girl thinks a guy thinks it’s all good if she doesn’t know how to dance. Guys rage with their homies and raging is fun. But then when I’m dancing, I’m trying to get with you, and it’s just a huge bust if you can’t dance. A shitty dancer and a rager is probably the worst recipe known to mankind.

3. GIRLS BEING FUNNY Girls think that they need to be hilarious for guys to want to be around them. You know, I’d love a funny girl, but you know what I hate? A not funny girl who tries to be funny. If a girl cracks a joke and it’s hilarious, then they probably are amazing. On the other hand, if she makes the joke in the center of a circle that was expecting a funny joke, all she did was let me down. My night is practically ruined. If she didn’t pay for my cab home, I’d take a dump on her doorstep.

4. GIRLS PLAYING HARD TO GET Girls always seem to run into this debate of whether they should play hard to get, or be just be slutty and get the deed done. On a serious note, life is going to put you in your place, so just be yourself. You’re going to find someone who, whatever you’re doing, can’t help but come over to you. To all the ladies that don’t think they will: just be patient. There are so many late night snacks made just for you to substitute for a shitty night. Sooner or later you’ll hit the jackpot, and if you don’t, just move out of the country. They have places like Kyrgyzstan for that.

5. GIRLS EATING Girls always seem to stuff their faces either when they’re tripping balls or they’re in a comfortable sober state. Whatever it is, food goes down your throat and to your stomach (and elsewhere). It’s not too visible to us if you overdose on dinner, but it’s definitely enough for you to feel it and then start getting self-conscious. Self-consciousness is like bacon–you smell it from all the way upstairs. Except self-consciousness is like a pure, fatty, nasty ass piece of bacon I’d never eat. Before you go out, either start feeling good about yourself (because you probably look great), or don’t go out at all if it’ll only make you feel worse.

6. GIRLS & FACEBOOK Girls and Facebook, holy mother****** shit. If there was one thing that really couldn’t matter in this world, its whether you give the kiss face or the other face that definitely doesn’t have a name. Look, if you want to know the truth, the profile pictures are where we’re looking. If guys wanna show someone this hot girl, they don’t say, “Dude, let me show you the 3,000,000 pictures this girl is tagged in.” Instead, it’s more like, “Let me see the most beautiful pictures she has,” which are usually the profile pictures. So ladies, just relax. Your night isn’t over if you take one picture where it looks like you just got punched in the face. It’s all good, don’t worry. Seriously, it’s all good.

Afterward: The author of this piece was very excited to be featured on The FYD and wanted me to share this–I love you all, everybody that reads this, I can’t explain over the internet, but just know that I really do love you all. In other news, guys are insane