Goddamn Hippies

You know that one person who tries to validate their intolerant leanings by claiming membership or special, inside knowledge of the group they’re hating on. They’ll say something vaguely racist and then justify it by saying, “I dated a black guy once, so . . . you know . . . I would know.” Or there’s the person who belongs to a certain ethnicity but doesn’t like other people of that ethnicity. Like my mother-in-law, who is Mexican-American (a couple generations removed from Mexico itself) but who, for the most part, can’t stand Mexicans. I’m like both of these people except instead of being racist against an ethnic group, I’m racist against hippies. I’m perfectly validated in saying this because I’m a recovering hippie who still clings to a few vestiges of hippiedom. Ergo, I’m not prejudiced, I’m just speaking from experience.

It was fellow blogress, F, who inspired me to write this. We were walking back to our respective offices (I have an office, a desk, how un-hippie is that?) when we passed a tall, rather cute young man with clean but slightly unkempt blonde hair and a much laundered tie-dye t-shirt. And sandals, of course. He smiled, waved, and said “hi” cheerily. F responded in kind.

When we were a discreet distance away, F said, “We kind of dated.”

I registered a degree of surprise since this guy was outside of F’s usual stick-thin, dork-metal shirt wearing type.

“I was doing what you suggested. Branching out,” she says. “But he had zero sense of humor.”

                I nodded knowingly and thought about amending my “branching out” advice. Branch out, by all means, but stay away from hippies and guys who use pickup lines. Both will be terrible in bed and have weird-smelling apartments.

                It may come as a surprise to many to hear that hippie guys are so bad in bed. One would assume that the essential characteristics of the hippie  – the lack of inhibitions, the higher degree of comfort with his own emotions, the stoney enthusiasm for experiencing stuff – would add up to a good lover. These are the very characteristics which make hippie chicks such notoriously satisfying short-term partners: they’re willing to just let go, fuck your brains out, make you a falafel sandwich, and go home. But the propensity to let go, to abandon, is not what one seeks in a male lover.      

Your bed will smell like patchouli and disappointment.

Your bed will smell like patchouli and disappointment.



I’ll go ahead and make the sweeping generalization that most women appreciate a little focus from their sexual partners. Focus is what helps a guy understand what his partner finds thrilling and what she finds merely chafing. Focus on the part of the male partner is what allows the female partner to let go of her inhibitions, which leads to a more satisfying sexual experience for both. Sadly, focus is exactly what hippie guys do not have or, rather, they do not have the ability to focus on their partner. They will be so into their own mind-blowing experience, they will forget about providing for their partner’s.

                Also, hippies lack motivation beyond the innate drive to get high, throw a munch, and talk. They generally do not go out seeking sex, preferring instead to have the universe allow it to fall in their laps. This works out great for hippie chicks, because non-hippie males do actively seek pussy, therefore your average female hippie can, at any point she so desires, get laid. Sadly, the same does not apply to hippie menfolk, for while there are certainly a large number of non-hippie females out there actively seeking some booty, they tend to go to night clubs, not drum circles. Therefore, hippie guys tend to have little sexual experience, further exacerbating their preexisting sexual shortcomings.

                In conclusion, hippie guys are an easy, if terrible, lay.  



2 responses to “Goddamn Hippies

  1. Technical edit first: No, no – that was not the one I had a terrible coffee date with. That was the one that was so far out of my norm that I was trying to convince myself of the type. Given that he was one of the three men in my program, I was as you said, trying to broaden my horizons. He was like when you buy a rather expensive facial cleanser you thought smelled okay in the store, but you realise when you get home, gods, I smell like Aunt Petunia. You spent the money on it and you just really, really want to like it.

    I have a type though.

    My type sadly, and this is where I about died of laughter, does have a bit [a phrase fraught with understatement] of a problem with focus.

    The more I read you the more I think you should write a guide for men. Something like a brochure that I could hand out so they could review it like a game plan. Man, that would be insanely helpful.

  2. The reason I whispered, “That’s X!” to J is that I kept going to J and faux swooning a couple semester ago. He couldn’t believe the type I was describing…thus, faux swooning. That’s a subtype of the swoon that is probably very akin to the munchies.

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