On any given weekend in San Francisco there are at least five or six decent straight men. You can see three of them on Sundays pushing strollers with their wives in Golden Gate Park.

As for those last two, they can be more difficult to find.

Every heterosexual man in San Francisco is trying to pass himself off as one of those two decent straight guys. Every heterosexual man is donning the camouflage of self-assurance, financial stability, and compassionate listening.

The camouflage is effective. It stays on in the water and without clothing. Men manage to stay in relationships for months, years, some even get married before being found out. But the day always comes when a woman looks at her man and realizes, OMG, you’re a Douchebag.

I have chosen the word douchebag on purpose. Corporations and advertisers often have to convince us there is something wrong with us so that we’ll buy something to make it right. The douchebag is just such a product; your vagina is dirty, clean it with this.

We now know that the vagina balances its ph naturally. Women do not need to douche.
In a similar way many straight men are masquerading as exactly what women need, when they are not. These men are douchebags.

I bring this up because I recently came across an example of one. This guy is a douchebag with his own in-house marketing department. He recently took out the equivalent of a full-page ad in the emotional newspaper known as Facebook.

It was an open letter announcing his intention to hold space to manifest a relationship.

I know, it doesn’t sound so bad, a man declaring his desire for a relationship and stating clearly what he wants from it. It isn’t until you strip the letter down and remove the camouflage that you see what a douchebag he is.

What follows is a translation of Douchebag language.

The first thing to hit you in this letter is: The Douchebag wants his woman be clear in her yes’s and no’s.

Ummmmmm, what is he referring too exactly?

Translation: I am tired of all these women whose no means yes.

While appearing to look for an empowered woman it seems more like our douchebag has issues with his own boundaries. And he’s decided to blame the women for that.

Then there’s the sex. Here are the sex statements throughout the letter.

We both value a healthy sex life.
She is open, sensual, and open to exploration in bed.
We have an electric, soul-quenching sex life.
It’s about what’s a yes rather than building in no’s.
We’re not polyamorous, nor ideologically monogamous, it’s about what works.

From healthy, to open, to soul-quenching, and then back to our yes’s and no’s.

Translation: A healthy sex life is you being open to doing what I like to do, using your pussy to quench my soul, and once again saying yes to me, not no.

The real trip wire in those statements is the one at the end.

We’re not polyamorous, nor ideologically monogamous, it’s about what works.

Hmmmm, what a nebulous statement for an intentional letter; let’s not commit to loving other people, but let’s not commit to loving just one another. Rather, let’s “do what works.”

Translation: Sometimes I’m going to want to sleep with other women and you gotta be OK with that.

As he says later, he envisions that particularly deep sexual bonds would happen only in the relationship. It’s just sex with those other women, but he’ll love you.

But the most dastardly part of the letter comes in the Douchebag’s physical requirements.

He begins by stating he’s good with anything, short, tall, thin, curvy, eyes, hair; whatever. But then, of course, she’s got to be very beautiful and appear young. The Douchebag explains why.

He’s a face man you see. He digs puffy, sensual lips and smooth skin. But not to worry, he imagines his woman is born anywhere from 1970 to 1982.

Rejoice ladies you can be anywhere from 40-years-old to 26-years-old. Of course, if you are 40-years-old you must still have puffy, sensual lips and smooth skin, hallmarks of 26-year-olds.

Translation: I am looking for a young woman or an older woman who has had a facelift and collagen injections.

The best part is our Douchebag was born in 1967, he’s 42-years-old. All of this language so an older man can get with a younger woman.

I could go on, but really, what’s the point. He camouflage’s himself in the open-heart, loving, intentional language of the Bay Area, but he’s just an old fashioned cad, and a coward at that. If he had any balls his letter would read like this.

Final Translation: I am a 42-year-old man looking for a 26-year-old woman with puffy lips and smooth skin who is open to saying yes to all the things I like to do in bed and won’t mind when I want to go do them with other 26-year-olds with puffy lips and smooth skin.

Cause I’m a douchebag.

Of course Google has made me exceptionally lazy. If two or three keywords don’t give me my answer by halfway down the second page forget about it. Besides, only loser ideas show up on page three.

Now, I know there are sites where people gripe about their exes.

“John is a two-timing douche bag who invites himself places and never brings wine.”

“Craig seems like the perfect guy until you’re lying in bed with him and he refers to your mother as a MILF.”

But those are site that deal with everyday behavior. What about a site for people to talk about what their lovers were like in bed? That’s right, sex reviews of your former lovers. There it is. That’s my idea, yelp for sex.

I searched for it for a while but as I said, nothing on the first two pages of google. I went to sleep only to awake in the dead of night with a web address in my head. I typed it in and there was the site I had been looking for. The first thing I did was click on the bad reviews.

“Patrick was odd. Don’t go near him unless you like being asked to cluck like a chicken.”

“Salvatore is very proud of himself for going down on you. If only he would have continued down and fallen off the bed I would have gotten a better nights sleep.”

I found myself smiling.

Ah yes, schadenfreuden, the malicious enjoyment of another’s misfortune.

Humanity is big on schadenfreuden. It is why we love to watch the fall of the rich and famous. Watching another have misfortune makes us feel the playing field is a little more even, that there is plenty of misery to go round, that we’re all in the pit together.

Reading stories of a woman’s utter dissatisfaction with another man is enjoyable. Suddenly, I’m feeling pretty good about myself. I’ve certainly never left a woman, “drier than a prune in the Negev”. Apparently that’s how Ari left Liat.

It was at this point that a furry pink walrus with vibrating tusks drove through my living room on an art car. I realized I was dreaming. But it was pleasant enough. I was feeling proud of my sexual prowess. So I dreamed on.

“Kevin has a great time in bed. I just wish he remembered I was there.”
I could feel myself puffing up, growing lighter. I was experiencing the malicious enjoyment of another’s misfortune. In my excited state of confidence I started searching for my own name. I assumed some lucky girl must have posted a good review of my performance, no, a rave review.

Then I found it, posted by some girl I couldn’t quite remember: my name, the word sex, and a veritable ocean of negativity. Thumbs down, I’d rather have meditated, you call that a penis?

Right there, in front of god, George Bush and my mother. Oh god, did my mother see this? Would she type my name into yelp sex? Is she that sick? No, wait, my mother can’t turn the computer on. I’m just freaking out.

But what about my current girlfriend; does she know about this site? This isn’t funny.

I was insecure so I looked up the bad reviews. I was so insecure that I enjoyed reading them. And now that insecurity was coursing through my body. I’m bad in bed and now everyone knows.

No one wants to be known as bad in bed, selfish in bed. To see it in black and white, someone saying you’re no good at this, this most primal, important, human act, it’s a knife to the ego.

But wait, wait, do I even know this girl who posted? Is she just making all this up?

Holy crap, how could you stop people from just making anything up? I could write a review of my boss. I could rip apart my exes for the hell of it. I could take out a competitor with one swift technological blow.

Yelp sex is actually a brutal arena. Like those Elk that bash their skulls and antlers together for mating rights. It is a repository of vicious innuendo and cutting hearsay. It is sexual Rashomon.

Now I really am awake and I can’t sleep and I certainly can’t masturbate because all I can think is, “Everyone thinks I’m bad in bed. OMG, I am bad in bed.”

The ramifications of yelp sex become apparent.

People are giving false names at bars and at parties because everyone’s heard the urban myths. The friend of a friend who was into this girl; she yelp sexed him on her iphone, discovered he refused to go down on women, and walked out. Or the one about the guy who used his iphone to read that the girl he was talking to gave a blowjob like she was chewing gum. He just walked away.

In an effort to be positive some people solely look up the good reviews. But there only seem to be two kinds of people who post these.
There are the sex positive couples that praise their partners for understanding their bodies and playing them like a fine musical instrument.

And then there are the sex hippies that write glowing reviews of themselves.

“Daniel is the finest male specimen I have ever had in bed. His large, substantial penis, like a towering conifer, sent ripples through my yoga body, bringing me back in touch with my deep roots in the red earth.”

No more shadenfreuden in the good reviews, these people are making you feel bad about yourself. It’s all gone backwards.

My lord, yelp sex is a terrible idea. Thank god no one has done it. Or if they have don’t tell me about it. And please, don’t write anything about me. Unless you want to say something positive about my sexual prowess in which case please post your comment here.

“Judah has the uncanny ability to make me climax while achieving enlightenment. If you get the chance, sleep with him.”

Posted by Judah.