I’m a tried-and-true New York City girl.
I appreciate a great bagel and lox. I know which trains to avoid on Sundays.
This also means I know my real estate. I know the difference between an L-shaped and an alcove studio as well as the cheapest neighborhood to find a loft.
I've also dated every New York City-based schmuck under the sun. Lately, I’ve begun to see a parallel between the men and their, ahem, real estate.
I almost always know whether I want to spend the night with a guy the moment I step foot into his apartment.
It isn’t a size issue. Some of the swankiest apartments I’ve visited belonged to guys with the saddest wieners.
Alternatively, some of the most incredible schlongs belonged to guys with the straight-up sh*ttiest apartments.
Guys, listen up: Your apartment is really just a raging metaphor for your dick.
If his place is a bachelor pad, then he probably manscapes.
A bachelor pad is designed with one thing in mind: sex.
He anticipates getting action and his apartment reflects this. There’s music playing, the sheets are always fresh and he stocks the fridge with plenty of beer.
Because he’s on his A game, so is his tallywacker. He religiously manscapes, keeping everything downstairs waxed to the point of perfection.
No five o’clock shadow on his D.
If he still hasn’t decorated his apartment, then expect plenty of hair.
He moved in three months ago, but he’s still living out of boxes and suitcases.
If he hasn’t bothered spicing things up in his humble abode, do you expect him to pay much attention to the family jewels?
Girl, those things haven’t seen a razor since Obama’s first term.
If his apartment looks like it’s out of a movie set, then he has a big dick. He just doesn’t know how to use it.
His loft has never seen so much as a spoon out of place. Say hello to the man with a cleaning service.
This is the guy who never had to lift a finger to get what he wanted. He might have pots and fancy silverware, but he’ll order Seamless regardless. Laundry? He has someone come to pick it up and drop it off.
There’s nothing wrong with having someone else do all the dirty work for you, but don’t expect his behavior to change once you hit the sack. He might have a big wiener, but he has no idea what to do with it.
Hope you like being on top, babe.
If he has an army of roommates, then his package is totally average. He’s convinced otherwise.
If your man lives in a place with six male roomies and one bathroom, they've probably all seen one another's dicks.
There’s nothing wrong with his schlong, per se. It’s average, and he’s probably pretty good in bed.
Not in his eyes, though. He’s convinced you hate the microscopic mole on his left ball or the fact that he tilts ever so slightly to the right.
New flash: no girl will ever care about your mole, even if your older brothers always said it looked like Mickey Mouse.
If his apartment always looks like a tornado went through it, then he’s probably well-hung.
This guy won't bother cleaning his apartment before you show up for a late-night booty call. His pelvic sorcery more than makes up for it, though.
Who needs to do the dishes when your dick comes with its own zip code?
If he lives in a glorified closet, then his package is uncircumcised.
He’s the kind of guy who wanted to move out on his own terms. He knows what he wants and he goes after it, even if it means sacrificing comfort.
At least that extra foreskin is there to love him at night, right?
His closet-size studio is a perfect reflection for his unrefined (but still undeniably perfect) cum gun. He's willing to be a little raw and you'll love every inch, guaranteed.
If he owns a home, his dick is perfectly respectable -- just like the rest of his life.
He has his sh*t together and even pays a mortgage, for f*ck’s sake.
His wee-wee is just as polite, respectably sized, moderately trimmed and without any weird colors or spots.
His d*ck probably even says “bless you” when you sneeze as you give him head.
If his paintings lean ever-so-slightly to the left, then he’s probably a monster.
Just leave. Leave now. Don’t look back.