Full disclosure—pun entirely unintentional—I was once the (horrified) recipient of a (mostly) unsolicited picture text of a man’s junk. In light of the recent prevalence of news coverage on the Wiener2 scandal, I’m feeling as if the universe is calling on me to share my experience, lest any similarly-situated women fall prey to the same tragedy.
Note that by “similarly-situated women,” I mean attractive, intelligent, high-achieving women whose careers have deposited them on the doorstep of their thirties, husband-less. This distinction is important, because the genus of penis tweeters is divided into two species: (1) unattractive, long-suffering dorks that reach positions of relative power later in life (see, e.g., Anthony Wiener) and then deal with impulse control problems when aroused, thanks to an overall lack of experience with attention and interest from the fairer sex; and (2) alpha male superstar athletes and celebrities whose impulse control problems stem from a long reinforced, overinflated sense of desirability and invincibility.
Since BigLaw attorneys in their late twenties aren’t likely to attract the erotic attention of the likes of Brett Favre or Chris Brown, my public service announcement is directed only to those women who, like myself and Huma Abedin, are prone to fall victim to members—literally and figuratively—of the first species of penis tweeters when we enter the inevitable “lowering of dating standards” phase that begins after the age of 25.
But fear not, those of you who have crossed the threshold into the second half of your first 50 years on earth sans engagement ring. You can continue to lower your dating standards out of fear and/or necessity without earning your Mrs. degree from a penis tweeter, provided that you follow one simple rule:
Never, ever date a rich, powerful dork. Because rich + powerful + dork = penis tweeter.
By way of illustration, take my own sad foray into the realm of “junk” mail. In the carefree, halcyon days of my early twenties, I was foolishly haughty enough to be incredibly picky. I refused to date a man unless I was genuinely sexually attracted to him. In other words, chemistry and desire were dating prerequisites. Later, when I found myself desperate and alone on the short plank walk to 30, I started treating dating less like a game of passion and more like a calculated negotiation. So a very, very dorky man (let’s just call him “Mr. Dork”) who would’ve previously been deemed unacceptable by my 23-year-old self was suddenly dateable when I reached 25 because his successful finance career and massive paycheck seemed to miraculously offset his lack of conventional attractiveness. Of course, Mr. Dork wasn’t entirely cognizant of the paradigm shift and trade off on my part that paved the way for our short-lived relationship. Instead, he was too busy getting all juiced up and self-congratulatory over the fact that finally, at long last, he had scored a hot chick. And one disastrous night, after I drank too much with a recently engaged girlfriend, I sought solace in my fledgling relationship with Mr. Dork and sent him a few mildly flirty texts. The result? He prematurely blew a lifetime build-up of load (figuratively, of course) all over my face, in the form of a picture text of his overheated skin flute.
I’m a smart, stable girl (most of the time), so I ceased all contact with Mr. Dork immediately. During the ensuing long weeks when I waited for the awful low-resolution amateur pornography to fade from my memory, I spent some time analyzing How and Why I had subjected myself to an SMS flasher. I mean, Mr. Dork wasn’t the first instance of me lowering my dating standards in the twilight of my twenties, but none of the other guys had ever exposed themselves to me using social media. And then it hit me—Mr. Dork differed from the others in that his specific “flaw” was dorky unattractiveness. Apparently, spending one’s formative years as an ugly nerd, followed by a late blooming rise in social status due to financial success and power, is the path that leads a man to penis tweeting. Now, don’t get me wrong—it’s not necessarily smooth sailing to partner up with a guy who lived out his youth with some other type of flaw before achieving desirability with a woman in her late twenties when she’s ready to compromise in the name of marriage. It’s just that the difficulties inherent with these other types of previously unacceptable guys are less grievous than penis tweeting.
So the next time you find yourself in a conversation where someone asks, “How did Anthony Weiner’s wife end up with a guy like that?” I encourage you to share this wisdom. Perhaps more importantly, the next time you find yourself deleting a dating prerequisite from your “list” and accepting a date from a “good on paper” guy that you would’ve denied a few years ago due to a flaw of some sort, please make sure that you’re compromising on the fact that he’s short, or divorced, or has red hair. Because these flaws do not a penis tweeter make. But if the trade off is that he’s a massive dork, then heed these words of caution, and run in the opposite direction as fast as you can. That is, unless you’re turned on by gratuitous pics of male genitalia, and/or enjoy being publicly humiliated.