Cockblocker: noun. One who hinders our member from penetration.

You're hanging at the club with a nice (and more importantly: willing) feline cornered against the wall. Your tongue's down her throat, your bulge is aching to escape your oh-so-tight Calvin's, and you think you're minutes from swinging to your bachelor pad, Tarzan.

That’s when it goes down, the almighty JUNGLE RRRROAR. Her gal pal arrives on the scene with the Jaws of Life and makes the play to pry your catch away from you. She does that little tap-on-the-shoulder of YOUR hottie, the kind of faux-polite, cutesy shit we despise. A brief girlie, whisper-fest later and you lose: Jane is out of there, forcing you to seek solace in the arms of one hairy-ass mo’fo -- Cheetah.

And you know this “gal pal” because she's the hideous creature who’s been left at the punch bowl, all by her trollsome™, one too many times. She figures if she goes boner-hopping with Ms. Hottie enough, that maybe once, just once, she’ll get lucky and receive the spillover. In internet-speak: ROFLMAO. Gal pal, there’s only one savior for you...

B.O.B. (Battery Operated Boyfriend). May you wield it carefully in the bath tub, Ms. Obi Wand Cannoli™.

And guys can be just as intrusive, perhaps more so. Because cocks are more in touch with their primitive “survival of the fittest, I must fuck more women than you to ensure the survival of my species” side. Or let’s say, more driven by it. And that leads to territorial battles (see: Siegfried vs. Roy for the right to shack up with the Bengal tigers).

Yes, believe it or not, our friends absolutely disdain seeing us hook-up with any female on two legs, one leg if she has nice hooters. Because that means they have to play Steve Martin in Lonely Guy all over again.

“Bartender, another drink for my loser friend.”

For awhile, the alcohol acts as a deterrent, while Lonely Guy occupies himself by making shadow puppets against the wall -- as he holds it up, the wall, High School style. But when reality strikes and he realizes YOU are scoring big time, and he's going home ALONE, it's: "Fuck you, I’m outta here, you want a ride home, you better hurry up, shit, got any gas money?"

That’s right, it always boils down to oil. (And we don’t even want to imagine the blocking that goes down in the Gulf!) It also comes down to the E-G-O factor. Every Good Orgasm™. For every good orgasm you’ve had, there’s been a hundred lousy ones. Good ones being when another person was involved, bad ones being, well…you get the idea. It’s no fun going home alone. Boo-fucking-hoo!

Do a little personal inventory the next time one of your buds scores and leaves you on the sidelines to cheer. The question to ask yourself: Are you gracious enough to lead those cheers? Be a good yell-leader? Or, are you going to be that 10-year-old punk who takes his ball (Ford Pinto) and goes home?

If you wanna be a real trooper, you’ll take one for the team. You’ll run cover and intercept that hunchback when you see her limping across the playing field En route to pry Cinderella from your pal’s GHB-clutches. Step up, dude. Buy her a drink, tell her how lovely she looks...

Hell, sit on a couch with her all night long if it means the difference between your teammate reaching the Tunnel of Lust, or both of you going home to watch Spank-a-Vision together.

Who knows? Next time it may just be you who is rewarded with a bone-pass™ out of the E-B-O Hall of Shame.



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