Don't do these things. Just ... don't.
Boner killer. Dick dropper. Stiffy stifler. (OK, I made that one up.) Men have a lot of terms for what happens to your manhood for all the things we women do that are supposedly turn-offs.
For example, you don't want to see me try to put on a pair of tights. Stockings with garters? I'm the hotness as I unfurl them over my thighs. Tights? Even if the end result is cute, and are just a battle of strange positions and odd grunts, none of them remotely sexual, I will never let a man I want to bone witness me putting on tights.
But guess what? There are things you do that aren't so hot, either. In fact, some things you do make our vaginas die. Just die. Like a voluntary, I-would-rather-be-dead-than-ever-again-make-a-funhouse-for-your-penis kind of thing. (Even if we love that penis.)
Here are a few of mine:
1. They quote their mom.
I might like her, but the second you start a sentence with "My mom said..." as any kind of authoritative statement, my lady parts wilt like a tired (though once-spectacular) flower.
2. They let me win all the time.
I'm not a three-year-old playing Candyland; I'm a grown-ass woman who likes the frisson offered by a good argument, and your stubbornness and occasional bullheaded-ness. It's hot. Maybe someone out there wants a milquetoast but I much prefer an everything bagel.
3. They don't know when to let me win.
Fine, I'm a complicated bitch and sometimes you need to know that when you ask Siri to settle our argument about whether it's Istanbul or Constantinople, it's lame. Sometimes, you must know when to give it up if you ever want me to give it up again.
4. They sign their emails like a middle school girl.
I once had a crush who signed an email "toodles." Note I said, I once had a crush. Toodles, libido and vaginal wetness!
5. Their failure to decide leaves me starving — literally.
If I ask you what should we eat, it means that I want you to decide. Because if I knew I wanted Thai, you can be damn sure I would've told you. Feed me, maybe even order for me. The way to my heart, and probably into my pants, is through my stomach. (Just don't overdo it — bloated sex isn't a good look for me.)
6. They're way too cutesy.
If you can tell me a dirty story in emoji, well, we might have something. (Probably sex.) But if you have hearts and stars and dancing ladies everywhere without an erotic through line, all my lips are sealed ... and not around any of your key parts.
7. They offer too much commentary on my outfit.
You're not Tim Gunn. Tim Gunn is a gorgeous gay angel and can talk about my ensemble with specificity and authority. You're just a guy — a guy I usually want to bang until you say, "Oh, I love the way the gold thread in that scarf picks up the one in your tweed mini." I want guttural noises, and at most a "God, you look hot." Save your sartorial commentary for when I want you to rag on some other girl's outfit.
8. Their cleanliness is creepy.
You can pick up your socks, but if you fold them or iron your jeans, it's creepy. And if you're evaluating my cleaning skills, forget it. Say you comment that something needs a good dusting. Well, the next thing to collect dust will be your dick because it's staying right where it is.
9. They like me a little too much.
Yeah, we women are f*cking horrible. We want you to like us, we do, but the second you're overly showy with your devotion, we find you kind of sad. It's a tough dance we make you do, but it's more likely to turn into the forbidden one if you don't overdo the outright admiration.