Asperger's Nation: High Functioning, Low Return

We may be in an economic recession, but when it comes to dating, the world is booming with Asperger's: full of awkward handshakes, lacking rudimentary social skills, depressing haircuts, and that strange use of cutlery during the dining process. Wake up ladies! Stop ignoring the signs—you deserve better! I don’t care how normal his penis is, discoursing green pepper varieties and collecting adult toys (not sex toys, mind you, stupid-ass plastic toys designed by graffiti artists displayed in a case that just sit there and what is the fucking point?) is not okay.

Date with Donald, the Cartoonist with Asperger’s.
It was a typical Los Angeles day. Donald picked me up in his sensible Camry, complete with dashboard cozy, and we went to dinner. Well, actually, at the El Pollo Loco drive-thru, the dinner comes to you. I didn’t order anything because that food is shit. Donald drove us back to his house and after he powered down 14 cheesaritos or whatever, he suggested we play basketball in his driveway. Of course I killed, in part due to his delayed motor development (a common characteristic of Asperger’s), but more so because of my superior B-ball skills. Don’t ever mess with me in
H-O-R-S-E, I have crazy dunks that you can’t replicate!

To save Donald any more embarrassment, I suggested we go inside to cool off a little.

“Let’s go inside and cool off a little,” I said.

Donald’s bedroom was sparse and the walls barren, save a small mirror hung alongside a ‘big cats’ calendar. A typical 25 yr old straight man’s bedroom, you're thinking. Not so! You didn't notice the piece of paper taped above the mirror that read: Be a Killer and Win, did you? That's pretty atypical, in my opinion.

Donald showed me his cartoon projects and I pretended to care. I said stuff like: “Wow!” and “Cool!”
Then I said, “Hey, wanna go take a walk or something?”
To which Donald replied, “Okay, but I have to take a nap first. I’m very tired.”

“Taking a nap” is an Asperger’s attempt to romance you. Even though Donald was definitely not the day sex type I realized after spying a thick blanket of black hair on his ass, everything else was top notch and truth be told, it had been awhile. Too bad you can’t put a bag over an ass! Now I’ve heard it all from the mouths of dudes while doin’ it: “I wanna f your brains out,” “Work that pussy,” “Sodomize me with your dildo,” “Go Trevor,” but “Are you going to come all over my dick?” well that was a new one. I know what you’re thinking boys—probably one of the sexiest things a woman could ever dream of hearing (ok fine, it's kind of hot)! —but put down your pencils. You see, Donald’s co-existing obsessive-compulsive disorder was making him feel dirty and he literally just needed to know.

“Um, yes?” I answered. I mean why the hell not, right?

Donald began f-ing so furiously that I thought his head was going to bust through the adjoining wall to the neighbor’s house--maybe he really wanted to watch Telemundo. I can’t be sure.
His neck tendons protruded and throbbed as he strained to say, “I’m, I’m, I’m trying to come!” Was he sweating or crying? 1 hour of tantric weirdness later, he finally succeeded in, in, in, coming. Immediately afterward, Donald insisted we rate the sex on a scale from 1-10. He gave it a 7??? and then announced that he “had to go do something bad in the toilet.” I tried not to react and wrestled with these statements privately.

The END!