5 Signs That She Might Be Butt Hurt

A Choosing Season PSA...

Scorned women are amongst us. They blend in perfectly to the untrained eye, but they are emotional clusterfucks. Their hearts are filled with bitterness and insecurity, and you ain't even know it. It may not seem like such a big problem today, a few weeks before cuffing season officially begins. But, as we near Thanksgiving, Christmas, and countless snowed-in days, you'll realize that choosing a butt hurt bitch isn't the move. So let ol' Jean put you up on game on by revealing some of the butt hurt signs.

1. She often compliments herself and speaks on her self-worth
She's so used to being taking for granted and the men in her life overlooking her "greatness", she will take any opportunity she can find to let you (and anybody else willing to listen) know how dope she thinks she is. Bitch might be a bagger at Safeway and be in her second semester in hair school, but to her that means the world, and all men should bow down.  She feels as though she's deserving of so much: love, attention, front row tickets to a Beyonce concert, a faithful man, dinner at restaurants that don't have pictures on the menu, Gucci bags, midnight walks on the oceanfront, and a vast assortment of other shit. She can't understand why she has never gotten any of these things and she is determined to never settle for less than what she is "worth" again. Vagina logic dictates that if she makes it known to her suitors all that she's worthy of and how awesome she is, the men will finally take notice and treat her in such a matter. It almost never works though, and by "almost never" I mean "never ever".

2. She changes her phone number often
Butt hurt woman love to escape reality by dropping off of the radar and crawling into a deep dark hole filled with snacks and solitude... and often times rebound dick (but that is another blog). The best way to escape from everything and everyone is by changing their phone number. With every break-up, emotional letdown, or flat-out curve, you can expect her phone contact info to change. Just for shit and giggles, and to convince herself that she is really "moving on", she might add a digit to the end of her gmail address too. When she re-emerges into your inbox as JBeauty1@gmail.com, the reason for number change is always some variation of, "I had too many people from my past still trying to contact me", which normally loosely translates into "My old 'him' hurt me so bad, I can't allow him to contact me anymore".

3. She shuts down social media pages
The other part of the butt hurt shutout is through social networking sites; Instagram, FB, Twitter, and whatever else the cool kids are using these days all have to go. You might get a sad status or tweetgram before it all goes black. Even if it's for just 24 hours, that's the only way for her to fight urge to search his social networking on-goings, which will only add fuel to her already spurned feelings. Bitches be strong and bold until their "him" gets a new "her" online after merely 10 hours of being broken up. Even if she didn't want to stalk him, mysteriously her fingers type www.twitter.com/jeandegrate (for example) into the browser every time she gets online. Following the cyber stalking, a butt hurt bitch will formulate entire secret relationships between her "him" and other women based on the slightest online interactions. "Oh, he's commenting and liking this bitch's pictures now? I knew he was fucking that hoe. They've always been way too friendly." To avoid that the best way she knows how, she deletes all social network sites and put child protection blocks on all his personal page urls on her computer.

4. She thinks God will send her a man
Scorned women love Jesus. Scorned women go to church every Sunday (or at least post some scriptures on twitter and FB), praying for their new "him" to come rescue their tarnished hearts. In the world of scorned women, the only man that's really looking out for them is Jesus. Jesus doesn't want her to die alone. Jesus doesn't want her to be a cat lady. Jesus doesn't want to her baby father to flourish while she sits in the house watch reality TV. Jesus has a plan for her to get a great man that will make all the mishaps of the heart she has experienced seem miniscule in retrospect. All she needs to do is be patient, and Jesus will provide her with the man she has been longing for. She'll be like 35 and alone, with two baby daddies, and still proclaiming she's waiting on Jesus to send her the right man.

5. She compares you to other guys in her past
She asks random questions that seem to have no meaning with the conversation you're currently having. She's making comparisons to past "hims", and you don't even know it. "Would you ever borrow money from your girl to get new rims on your truck?" "Huh? I mean, no. So you trying to see the 8 o'clock movie or the 10 o'clock showing and we can get something to eat first." As soon as you do something vaguely familiar to a guy that hurt her, you'll hear about it. "I sent you a good morning text with 4 emojis in it, and here it is almost 12, and I haven't heard back from you. If this ain't what you want, you should just let me know. I'm tired of going thru this shit." This is happening because Tyrone didn't respond to good morning text after he got pussy, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you're still sleeping in on a Sunday morning. Her butt hurt automatically makes the irrational comparisons for her.

Beware of the butt hurt
Jean DeGrate has spoken

5 Things I'll Make Sure My Daughter Knows Before She Grows Up

***There are no jokes in the blog***

When I was a kid, the basis of being a grownup was finishing school then going to college (I dropped out), finding a good job, moving out, and starting a family. It seemed so simple. Along the way, ideals and morals were forced upon me, and as a child knowing nothing of the real world, of course I accepted them. We can call it the "Miss-education of Jean DeGrate". I've spent the last 10 years of my life unlearning this bullshit, but now that I'm up on game, I will pass my knowledge off to my seed.

1. Being fake is a big part of being a grown up
As a youngin', my peers and adults told me to: "Speak my mind", "Honesty is the best policy", and all sorts of other similar bullshit that turned around to do more harm than good. Honestly, being phony is the best policy. If it wasn't for being fake, I would have never made it through a single job interview. I have work laugher designated for corny jokes told my co-workers and superiors. I have perfected playing nice with other people I absolutely can't stand for the sake of professional advancement. Keeping it 100 is all fine and dandy when you're slanging rocks on the block, popping off on twitter, and hanging with your homies, but that's about the extent of its usefulness.

2. It really does matter what people think of you
Without the input of others, you can only successfully be two things in life: (1) a bum or (2) a criminal. Unless you plan on knocking over liquor stores or making your bed on the warm heating grates of the local business district, you might want to conform to society just a little bit. The truth is your path to greatness or failure is paved by the judgment of others. Revolting against the machine is dope in concept, but there must be balance to live a productive life. It might not matter what your FB and Twitter friends think of you, but your teachers, co-workers, superiors, and business partners should always view you in a positive light. So no facial tattoos, ok?

3. Don't let your dreams hurt you
The line between what you want to do and what you can do is laden with varying obstacles, none of which are more difficult to overcome than talent and opportunity. Some people fall ass backwards into success and others work entire lifetimes only to never see their dreams achieved. There may come a time to abandon the dream and to start living your life in pursuit of goals that are achievable. Don't be the 30 year old R&B singer trying to get on, quitting a good job to stand in line at an American Idol tryout.

4. See the world how it is and not how it should be
Don't look for the evil in man, but don't look for the good in man either. The modern world is filled with people with good intentions, who lack either the will, courage, or know how to put it into application. Evil exists, and good exists... and you will experience both. Life is unfair and somehow that ultimately makes it fair consequently. Things don't stay bad forever; they get better or you die; whatever comes first.

5. Deciphering what's permanent and temporary in your life
Relationships will come and go even if they seem like they'll last forever (or you at least hope them to). Family and your body are the only guaranteed things in your life; it would behoove you to take care of both. As for other things in your life, you will have you use your discretion to determine what will be around, what will be worth nurturing, and what will be better just letting wither away. This will ultimately decide your priority matrix in life.

Jean DeGrate, I mean your dad has spoken

Body Shapers Are The Devil

I used to be a bouncer at a night club on U Street, and during my time of employment at this club, I made it a point not to date and/or fuck any of the patrons. Even though working at the club was just a part time job, it was full time job just avoiding fucking one of these young ladies. The general rule of thumb is this... if she finds you attractive on the way into the club, you'll be the best looking man on the planet 3 to 6 drinks later on her way out of the club. Every single night, without fail, a woman was pitching that 1 nightstand, so much so that I started to wear a wedding band just to avoid the bullshit. I still wear the ring to this day (it comes in handy still).

There was a chick who was relentless on trying to give the boy some pussy. (Well, there were actually a few chicks, but this chick just got farther than the rest.) She was a club regular so I saw her at least twice a month. We'll call her Cindy because she had a white girl name in real life, and "Becky" is too obvious. After our first few encounters, Cindy used to take 10 to 20 minutes out of her club going experience to kick it outside with me if I was working the door. During this 2 month span, the only thing I ever told her is I wasn't really married, but I refused to deal with girls that came to the club. That backfired on me because it only seemed to fuel her thirst.

As it goes in the club business, good parties come and go because nothing stays hot forever. I went from working 5 nights a week to working 1 or 2 nights in the middle of the week at parties that barely needed security, instead of working the premium nights. In turn, I got my life back, and I never saw Cindy because she was a weekend clubber. It wasn't like we were FB friends or she had my phone number. My discipline for leaving the club at the club was impeccable, if I have to say so myself.

Off top: if you didn't know one of the biggest perks of working at the club was going up to club on your day off and drinking for free. Even if the party wasn't great, you didn't pay to get in, you didn't wait in line, and you didn't have to wait 20 minutes to get the attention of the bartender... and oh yeah, the drinks are free... and strong. Now that I had weekends off, once in a blue moon, I'd slide up to the club on one of these premium nights to enjoy these perks, kick it with the homies, and people-watch all of the drunk bammas that came through. On this particular night, I didn't even drive because I fully planned on getting blasted. I figured I could have one of the other bouncers take me home; that was my go-to move on nights I didn't have shit else better to do... Show up to the club solo, drink, drink some more, then wait until closing and have one of them niggas drop me off at the crib.

On one of these nights that I popped up as I hit the bar, Cindy is standing on the other side ordering a drink. I looked away with quickness and went to the bar upstairs. I guess she felt my presence in the building because I got my drink and sat down in a chair in the cut, with my fitted cap down low. She walked up me like she had night vision goggles. Fuck it, she'd found me. It wasn't like I was about to run out of the club. I just kept on drinking and let her hang around. I can't even begin to tell you what we were talking about because every word is barely audible in the club, but we were having fun. Two hours and countless drinks later, I was at my level and there was no way I was waiting until 330a to catch a ride home. I told Cindy I was about to be out while she was talking to one of her friends, and before she could acknowledge me, I was out the door. 20 minutes later, she found me standing on the corner of 11th and U Street playing "how to catch a cab while being black", and I was losing. I was also getting drunker by the minute. She rolled up on me and offered a ride; I put up about 10 seconds of objection before I hopped in the car.

It wasn't until she pulled up in front of my apartment building that it hit me: "I just led my club stalker to my fucking front door", but that thought was pushed out of my head immediately by "damn shorty is jive phat as shit in the black dress though". I spent the next 15 minutes sitting in the car making non-sexual small talk hoping: (A) she would invite herself up, and (B) when I try to stand up I don't fall on my fucking face because I was bent. I got (A) and (B) because 3 slow jams in she asked to come to use the bathroom. We walked thru the door. I cut on the light; then I sat on the couch, and she sat right down with me. She slid off her shoes like she was planning to stay a while. In my mind, I was doing the Birdman hand rub. I tossed all the rules out of the window and was about to get rapey to get the show on the road before I passed the fuck out. Right before I could make my move...

***Now I'm going to pause this story and give you this ever so important description: Cindy was light skin, about 5'4, and shapely. She had decent sized titties for a woman with a big ass and little to no gut so she fit into her black dress well. She also had long black hair that may or may not have belonged to her; I didn't get a chance to grab her scalp. Her face was ok; let's just say if she had on a big coat she would surely go unnoticed.***

...she stood up turned to me and asked where the bathroom was. "Around the corner, first door on the left." She grabbed her purse and stepped off. Keep in mind, the lights are on, and these aren't those BS 60 watt soft light bulbs. Nah, I had the 100 watt daylight joints that you can see from the street driving by. About two minutes later, Cindy stepped around that corner with her hair in a ponytail, dress in one hand, and purse in the other. She had smoothly moved up 2 to 3 dress sizes. Her gut was on smash, her waistline had vanished, and her titties looked so sad peeking out of that push up bra. I went from horny and drunk to confused and mildly-buzzed in 2 seconds. The rules that I had just tossed out of the window came flying back in, landed on my lap, and were highlighted in bold print.

I threw my hands up as if that FUPA (Fat Upper Pussy Area) was holding a gun.
JD - Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Whoa!!!
Cindy - What's wrong?
JD - Why your clothes off? You know the rules.
Cindy - Fuck the rules. I'm standing here right now, and you going to tell me no?

***At this moment all my G is gone. I have a partially nude fat woman standing in my apartment demanding sex. I've drank enough liquor tonight that she could probably fuck my apartment up and I wouldn't be able to stop her without punching her in the face. I had to tread lightly.***

JD - It's not like that. You think I can just sleep with you and act like I don't know you the next day? I don't even roll like that. I'm not one of these players in the club trying to take women home every night. That's that little boy shit. (But, if she had been fine, you better believe she would have been fucked and forgotten.)
Cindy - If you don't find me attractive, you can just say so.
JD - Girl, you know you look good. I don't even give other girls at the club this much time, let alone let them see where I live. (She didn't look good to me, and I was secretly hoping that she would keep standing and not put that dimply butt on my couch.) It's not even about that.
Cindy - I promise I'll never come to the club again.
JD - What? Why would you stop coming to the club? I enjoy it when you come keep me company outside. I even enjoyed running into you tonight. I couldn't allow you to just stop coming to the club. I'm going to turn on this TV, and we're going to pretend like this didn't happen. I won't be working at the club forever.

Cindy just nodded back at me looking like she wanted to cry. She went back into bathroom, put her clothes back on, then sat back on the couch. The moment she sat down, I got up, and ran into the bathroom to call Earl. I didn't even hear her leave. I never saw Cindy again. Maybe she died from embarrassment or caught a mean case of decompression sickness from coming out of those Spanx so fast... either way, I never saw her at Liv or even on U St ever again.

When you see that FUPA in HD you start making life decisions.
Jean DeGrate hates body shapers.

5 Signs You'll Never Get A Ring

You cook, you clean, you never smell like onion rings, and you suck dick like you invented sex. Yet somehow your ring finger remains bare. Your "hims" enjoy all you have to offer, then go back into the world to flourish with other females. I could blame it on your unrealistic standards, but I've already told that story. In all honesty, you're probably just not the marrying kind, and the jump from fiancé (because almost any bitch can get an engagement ring, especially around tax time) to wife is just far too wide for a man to consider making for you, at least in your current state. I wrote this list to put you ladies up on game. Hell if you change a few things, you might even be able to snatch you a hubby (and not the made-for-twitter kind, but the kind you can file taxes with).
1. You make a spectacle of yourself
Some of you hoes are just plain ratchet. I'm talking you purple braid wearing power ranger dressing ass hoes. Yep, you ratchet bitches who love posing in front of the Moet backdrop at GoGo's holding a beer. Some of you ladies are a bit too outspoken. I'm talking you stand behind every cause, fighting the power, raging against the machines ass women. Yep, you outspoken bitches who bought stock in Skittles just to #StandwithTrayvon and you still harbor deep hate for the Tea Party. Some of you bitches are attention whores. I'm talking about you joints who make it a point to drop thirst traps and make lusty conversation via social media. Yep, you're an attention-seeking whore who just posted, "lonely and naked on this rainy night", that tweet is precisely why you will be lonely for many a rainy night to come.  All that might be dope enough that you have 47 unanswered DMs and 50 unread text messages, but it ain't necessarily worth the trip to Jared. You have no chill and it would suit you to acquire some.

2. You're boring
You're a homebody. You take more naps than a newborn baby. Your hobbies include: sitting on the phone in silence, taking your bra off after work, wrapping your hair before the sun sets, reading "Fifty Shade of Gray" for the 3rd time, and replying to fun ideas by saying some variation of "you're doing too much". The ability to be perfectly happy doing nothing at all is dope if you're snowed in, broke, or can't find a babysitter for the night, but outside of that, the boring bitch role gets real old real fast. Plus, it's really hard to imagine growing old with somebody who's already acting like she belongs in a retirement home. Every night can't be a suck-his-dick-midway-thru-the-Redbox type of night.

3. Your sex is not as dope as you think it is
I don't think there's a woman on the face of the earth who doesn't think her pussy isn't everything (or at least lead every male suitor to think she believes that even if history has proven otherwise). Sex is a big thing to men. You know how they say, "women think about sex just as often as men do"? Just know "they" are fucking idiots; men are actively trying to make sex happen. Niggas invest more into getting sex, mentally, physically, and financially. With that said, you need to have that keep a nigga coming back pussy. And I'm not talking about coming back the next night. I'm talking about pussy that a nigga feels he can come back to at least 3 times a week for a lifetime. Wait, before you think you have the golden box, 3 times a week for years ain't shit if he hasn't bought the ring yet. It's hard to tell if you have dope pussy because we as men with our kind hearts will tell you it's awesome, even if that's furthest from the truth. We will come back to the pussy, time and time again. cause for real. sometimes there just ain't shit else to do. Here's the general rule of thumb: if you can't end a heated argument by getting naked, your pussy ain't all you might think it is.

4. Your kids
Meeting an attractive, single, non-lesbian, childless black woman over 27 is a small feat on to itself. I know about 5, but I know endless baby mothers. ENDLESS. I know more women with kids than I know women with cars. Being a single mom is already tough enough, but if your kids aren't likable. sweetheart the road ahead is going to be filled with loneliness. When a man marries you, he's also marrying those kids, and whatever that comes along with them. If your fuck trophies are unruly, ugly, and ill-mannered you'll never cross from girlfriend to wife.

5. You're FUCKING CRAZY
Women as a gender are crazy, but it's levels to this shit. Most of you are just "this bitch be tripping" crazy which is fairly easy to work around because of the commonality of the affliction. "This bitch be tripping" crazy is equivalent of the common cold when it comes to mental instability. Now for the rest of you that suffer from clinical grade insanity issues this paragraph is for you. You're an emotional roller coaster without experiencing anything of note. The man in your life can't even begin to comprehend how you of from zero to sixty and back again over the smallest shit and probably won't stick around long enough to figure it out. Maybe you saw your dad punch your mom in the face, perhaps you didn't get hug enough as a child or whatever it is that makes you go bouncing off the wall is unbearable for short periods of time let alone a lifetime. Seek help. Real help; don't call your girlfriends up to talk about your issues while you sip merlot. Consult with a psychiatrist, spend that 80 bucks a week then let him help sort thru your issues and subscribe some drugs that will keep you on the level.

Get your shit together and you might find a man to grow old with you
Jean DeGrate has spoken

Girl... Beyonce

Yeah, this is totally not what you think this is. Seriously, it's not.

A while back, I dropped a blog called "Why Women Are Better Cheaters," proving why women are able to pull the wool over the opposite sexes' eyes when it comes to sleeping around. Today, I'm going to tell the story of this chick who I was cracking. Like the perfect fuck buddy, she had a man, and she also had the stepping out game on lock (like most women do). We're going to call her Angel.

I ran into Angel in a CVS, and I mean I literally walked directly into her while I was watching some ratchet fight video on WorldStar. I smoothly knocked her into that aluminum cage full of those cheap plastic balls. She was mad as fuck and on the brink of spazzing the fuck out, until her homie bent the corner. "Hey Mr. De-Graw-Tae" because women who know me solely via the internet never ever say "DeGrate". And, just like that, Angel's face changed from "curse-a-nigga-out-mad" into "oh-you-know-him-calm". So there I was chopping in up with one of my random ass FB homies, who, by the way, I couldn't point out in a room with only me and her in it, and there Angel was standing within earshot hearing all about my miscellaneous rants and adventures that I've posted on the net. After about 10 minutes, Angel chimed into the conversation, and we ended up exchanging FB info.

Angel didn't start off cheating on her dude. She started off reading blogs and inboxing me for advice related to her relationship and his behavior that she found disturbing. We jumped from inboxing to texting, then from texting to actually talking on the phone. Needless to say, with every change in communication method, we strayed farther and farther away from the topic of her dude. As a precautionary measure, she created the "Beyonce" code to avoid any type of falling out if her dude were to become suspicious of some dude she was just cool with. I mean guys never trust dudes that just randomly pop up out of nowhere. If I was an insecure dude, I totally wouldn't trust me; I totally look like the type of guy that would fuck some other guy's girl. It made sense to me; after all, I wasn't fucking her. I had only seen her that one random time in CVS so the shit seemed on the level. The code went like this...

I could only initiate contact via text, and I'd have to say some toned-down shit like "Hey", and wait for a response. If her dude was around, she would respond by saying something about Beyonce, i.e. "Girl, have you seen the new Beyonce pictures in Vogue," and that would my cue to say something like, "Of course, you know that's my bitch," (don't judge me) and just allow the conversation to wane off. But, if he wasn't around, she'd just call my phone.

The big fight
In almost every relationship, there's a big fight (or several) that puts the relationship into a gray area where neither party is exactly sure of the relationship status. This subsequently leads to questionable behavior by both parties that probably won't be brought up during the reconciliation process (or any other time unless to be used as with malicious intent). Newsflash: During that "break" when you were living life as scheduled, rekindling old flames with college-sweethearts and shit, random John (no pun intended) had his dick down your girl's throat, but hey... it was a "break" though. Anyway, I'm bullshitting down U Street on a random ass Wednesday night, and my phone rings... Angel's name flashes across my screen.

JD - What's good? (Unfortunately, I still answer my phone like that.)
Angel - What are you doing tonight?
JD - I'm uptown, on U Street, just bullshitting around.
Angel - How long are you going to be out?
(Once a female asks me 2 questions back-to-back, my inner "I don't want to be questioned" reflex kicks in.)
JD - Why? What's up? What's going on?
Angel - I'm trying to hangout.
JD - What's going on here?
Angel - Me and Greg broke it off, and I'm just trying to get out of the house.
(This was my first encounter with the "dick in a glass" maneuver that didn't consist of a woman I had fucked previously so I was in uncharted waters. I was confused, and almost parted my lips to ask her, "But where your real friends at?" However, cooler heads prevailed.)
JD - Oh ok; well how long do you think it's going to take you to get up here?
Angel - I'm already ready. I'll be there in 15 minutes.
JD - Bet; I'm outside of Liv now so I'mma just post up here.

45 minutes later she walks in. We drank, and I told some jokes. At about 11 o'clock, I was ready to wrap shit up, and she paid the tab. Yeah, it surprised the fuck out of me that she paid for the drinks. I was sleepy, buzzed, and was about to attempt to catch a cab while black on U St. She offered me a ride, and I gladly accepted. We pulled up to my house, and she decided to come up. Right about now, you're probably thinking it went down as soon as we got thru the door. Nope. No such thing. I turned on the TV, sat on the couch, and we were both knocked the fuck out moments later.

I woke up around 3am to her laying on me in the "I fell asleep on the plane now I'm leaning on your shoulder" position. I was literally sweating. I pushed her off me, got up, and went to my bed. I got up when my alarm went off and hopped in the shower, all the while assuming Angel was still sound asleep. Nah. Two minutes into the shower, she busted through the bathroom, pulls back the curtain, takes a good look, and steps back out. I was heated (mainly because of the gust of cold air she let into the bathroom), but I finished my shower. I walked out of the bathroom to find her standing by the door in her bra and panties. She grabbed me by my neck and kissed me dead in the mouth. It felt mad rapey, but I went with it, and we all know how the story goes. Plus, there weren't any sexual highlights. But if you need details: the mouf was mediocre, and she had a surprisingly phat ass.

Later that afternoon, Angel and her dude patched things back up; it was accompanied by a sappy FB status just for the "haters". We all know that "breaks" usually last no more than 48 hours, so I wasn't surprised. We also went back to exactly how we were as if nothing had happened, that is until the next hiccup in the relationship. By the second time around, she was in "cut the shit" mode.

JD - What's good?
Angel - You home? You Busy? You got anything planned?
JD - Yes, no, and no. (It kinda made me feel like a loser because I was literally sitting Indian style on my living room floor counting my DVDs just to be counting DVDs.)
Angel - I'll be there in 30 minutes.

... and she just hung up; she didn't even wait for me to say cool. This just amplified my loser status. How did she know I wanted some no strings attached pussy at that very moment? I could have been enjoying my "me" time. Anyway, she showed up within 20 minutes and brought her A game. It continued on that way for a few months. Every argument at her home ended with my penis in her mouth that night or following day. Yeah, by this time, she was just flat out cheating. One week she came thru twice, and I said, "Damn, two breakups in one week," and she replied, "Oh we not broke up. He's just been acting funny lately so if he doing something on the side, I don't want him to be the only one." I almost stopped her from taking her clothes off to ask what type of sense did that statement make, but it was too late to ask; my dick was already hard. It turns out that nigga was acting "funny" because he already bought the engagement ring and was waiting for right moment to bring it out.

She said, "Yes". I was still her FB friend long enough to see her post pictures of the engagement ring. Then, she deleted and blocked me on FB. I didn't even try to text her, but I'm sure I was blocked on that too. She cleaned all traces of me from her life. When I ran into the initial FB homie two weeks ago, she said Angel is happily married, with a kid, and they still talk about my blogs; so I know she's going flip when she sees this.

Out of all the girls with boyfriends I've smashed, she might have been the best who ever did it.
Jean DeGrate doesn't even like Beyonce.

4 Things Fellas Should Be Telling Ladies About, but Don't

Because you women folk need to be put up on game, and I like to make lists...

1. When you're on top and pull us forward to suck your titties, that shit hurts.
Seriously that maneuver is all types of ergonomically incorrect, especially if your fuck buddy is at least 4 inches taller than you. The strain on our necks alone is enough to make us say, "Bitch get up off me," but we power thru the pain because we want the nut. Stop trying to do the most. Just let us lay there, with our eyes closed, enjoying the ride. And, if you're one of these A/B cup Bitches pulling that move, you owe your dude mouf as soon as you finish reading this blog.

2. All of yall ain't that fresh down below.
I know every woman thinks her pussy smells like roses and tastes like water; I personally can't vouch for the latter, but I'm 100% certain that 3 out of 10 of you aren't as fresh as you'd like to believe. This is another thing guys just take on the chin. He's wined and dined a female, spent hours upon hours texting and talking, and the moment of truth is here. He does the classic "two-finger test" (you know the one where he pretends to be interested in fingering you, but smoothly runs his fingers by his nostrils after two finger pumps?). Yep, 30% of the time, that box smells a little tart. Oh, trust and believe, he's still fucking away. You're already naked, you're already wet, and you've already wasted half his night on a so-called "date". He's fucking, and he won't even say a fucking thing about the smell. (Side note - fingering a chick in this day and age doesn't have shit to do with female pleasure. We need to know if the pussy is wet enough and what it smells like. It's a necessary evil.)

3. You might not be relationship material.
As men, we date a lot of women knowingly that they don't have what it takes to actually acquire a title. And by "date", I mean invite them over for a Ciroc and Simply concoction and a BluRay after 10pm maybe even the occasional Sunday matinee movie that been out 4 weeks already.  Whether it be the Party Girl, the owner of several kids, the seemingly hoeish hoodrat, or any other criteria that would make it unacceptable to bring her home for Thanksgiving, we'll just keep them in that gray non-girlfriend area. That moment when a man pulls a hoe with the best mouf in SouthEast to the side to say, "You know this ain't going anywhere, right?" ... yeah that never happens.

4. We don't give a fuck about your designer shit
Right now, it's a 1000 bitches running around with leggins with crosses all over them, and I guarantee you no straight man on the face of the Earth knows who makes that shit. Men typically don't follow trends for women's fashion, but we are fans of form fitting and revealing clothing. We don't know and don't care who makes the things that make you look fuckable. We especially don't care about your designer bags and heels. Nope not even your "fuck me pumps" that you leave on during sex; the brand of those aren't even of the slightest importance. Now, thanks to JD, you can pay your rent instead of buying those Loubs you've been eyeing to wear on your man's birthday. Aldo pumps do the same sexy trick.

Consider this bit of information charity, and thank me later.
Jean DeGrate has spoken

Choosing Season Protocol: Ladies Play Fair

It's September. Real football is only a few days away, the kids are back in school, and the last few days of summer are upon us. As we enjoy the last of these 80 degree days, we can all see that choosing season isn't too far off. It's time to get a few things in order before we kick the season off. I observed many interactions during last year's Choosing Season, and a lot of you ladies weren't playing fair. Women down right took advantage of men out here looking to get chose. (Yeah, really women taking advantage of men; I'll probably never get to use that ever again.) So I've made a list of the top 3 choosing season fouls women commit.

Don't accept that drink at the bar
I've seen it time and time again... Some unsuspecting misguided guy that thinks a great icebreaker is buying a perfect stranger an alcoholic beverage, just to see the lady say "thank you" before returning her focus elsewhere. Just to see the lady twerk on the next man when the DJ plays "Single Ladies". It's so cold. It's so unnecessary. You knew what he was expecting when he asked you what were you drinking... some light conversation, maybe a dance or two, and hopefully a phone number that would turn into a date later down the line. Don't let a guy buy you anything if he's only worth the time it takes him to hand the bartender the money and pass you the drink.

Tell him off top if you're celibate
Women decide to put the box on the shelf for all types of reasons: religion, been done wrong too many times, or caught something *cough* along the way in her dating adventures. Whatever the cause is, that doesn't really matter; all that really matters is that you're not fucking. He's privy to that information before a single outing is set, before you exchange FaceBook and Instagram information, and before a "get to know you" phone call turns into a 4 hour conversation extending into the wee hours of the morning about everything but the fact that you're not fucking. When he approached you, I can assure you that he wasn't thinking, "hey she's probably a really nice person that I'll like to feed, entertain, and spend time with and money on with no hopes of ever seeing naked". But you already knew his intentions (just like you know the intentions of those lames you let buy you drinks in the club), and since you know his intentions, you're dead wrong for allowing it to happen.

If he's in the friend zone let him know he's in the friend zone
Ladies you know if he's a cool dude that will never make it to the pussy promise land. He's just missing that certain something and that pushes him all the way out of the running to ever see you naked. Don't wait until he gets all rapey and then call him your brother or until some other guy has you confused and in your feelings so you turn to him for advice. Nah. Let that man know the moment he's out of the running for panties. Shoot him a text, make one of those goofy tweetgrams, then tag him in it. Hell, whatever you do, just be sure to make it clear that he's just a friend. Don't get endless free dinners, platonic massages, and moving help from a guy that's applying for a job he's not qualified to fill.

If you're going to play the choosing season game, at least play it fair.
Jean DeGrate has spoken