To be fair, this one actually is true: Zombies can’t find the clitoris—at least, not on their own. Like the majority of human males throughout history, zombies are oblivious to the charms of this sensitive little nub. But once you make it known to them, they’re able to apply themselves accordingly for as long as you require.
The best part? There’s none of the embarrassment reportedly attached to showing an unzombified human male where it is. According to women’s magazines from the latter half of the twentieth century, few things were more awkward than telling a partner where the clitoris is. A commonly suggested technique advised silently moving your partner’s finger to the prescribed place. This method allowed you to avoid a potentially humiliating conversation.
This sort of discretion is unnecessary with a zombie. You can move him into any position you’d like without mortification. Your zombie boyfriend won’t mind because he doesn’t have one.
And while you’re savoring the results of a successful hunting expedition, don’t forget to check out Love in the Time of Zombies, a dating adventure from my cub reporter days before I became the undead-dating experts you know and love.
Listen up, Girl Guides, because this one is especially false: Zombies only care about your satisfaction. As dead creatures with reanimated life, they have no pleasure centers in the prefrontal cortex (or any cortex). They don’t eat brains because they enjoy the taste; they eat brains because they’re compelled to. It’s a thoughtless compulsion. The same with sex. Zombies aren’t in it for the orgasm. They don’t know what an A, B or C is, let alone the Big O. For them, sex is simply another drive. They do it because nature compels them to. At no point will a zombie roll off you and say, “Thanks, honey, I’m good.” You’re the one who’s going to have to do the rolling off (and much of the rocking!). Trust me, that makes all the difference.
And while you’re cuddling with your sweetie in languid postcoital repose, don’t forget to ménage-à-trois with Love in the Time of Zombies, a dating adventure from my cub reporter, pre-zombie-sex days before I became the undead-dating experts you know and love.
Available from Shebooks ($2.99).
You don’t have to tell me about the giddy exuberance of a new romance. I know far too well how easy it is to get caught up in the minutia of a new partner: the adorable hesitance with which he nibbles the edge of a cow brain before digging in, the sweet-acrid singe of his skin as he smells a burning candle, the slightly shameful tilt of his head when you catch him trying to eat your cat. The pleasures of a new relationship are many, even with a zombie boyfriend, and it’s easy to close yourself off in your own little love bubble.
Resist the urge.
Although the love bubble feels like a reassuringly warm and lovely cocoon, it’s in fact a treacherous place to be. Relationships with zombies, even the best of them, are temporary. One day, your boyzomb will disappear. Maybe he’ll follow some other woman home. Maybe he’ll get lost in a crowd. Maybe he’ll simply decay into a mound of slushy gray mushiness. At that moment, you’ll look around for your friends and they won’t be there. You won’t even be able to remember when or how you lost them. Because that’s what the love bubble does—makes you oblivious to everything but your love.
But that doesn’t have to be you, weeping alone in a dark corner, uncomforted by the warm hug of caring friends. You can overcome the lure of the love bubble by following one simple rule: girls before ghouls.
Here’s how it works: You want to take your boyzomb to the slaughterhouse for a very special, 17-day anniversary dinner but it’s also your bestie Tabitha’s birthday. You’d rather watch that adorable cow-brain nibble of your new crush, but rather than succumb, reschedule for the next night and take your BFF for dinner instead. Your pal will give you best-buddy points for pushing back such an important event, your zombie boyfriend won’t know the difference (17 days, 18 days, 1,265 days—it’s all the same to him) and you’ll get the lovely satisfaction of doing the right thing. It’s win-win-win.
Now, that’s what I call giddy exhuberance.
Long before the H1Z1 virus turned 99.9999 percent of all men into zombies, the issue of who should open the door for whom was a hot-button topic. Opinions varied widely on the necessity and utility of chivalry in the modern world, and there were as many definitions of what it meant to be a gentleman as there were gentlemen.
Now, of course, the debate is over. Who gets the door? You.
Every. Single. Time.
The obvious explanation for this imbalance is anatomical: If your zombie boyfriend were to give you a hand with the door, he might actually give you a hand.
But the risk of limb detachment isn’t the number one reason the zombie love of your life won’t offer to hold the door for you. The sad truth is, he simply hasn’t thought of it. This might sound discouraging but take heart: Your boyzomb hasn’t thought of anything in years. His mind is a gloppy stew of decayed dendrites, atrophied axons and neutered neurons.
There is much to miss with the zombification of the male population—sparking wit, spirited conversation, even the well-thought-out zinger in the middle of a heated argument—but the loss of old-fashioned courtesy is not one of them. Don’t think of it as the end of chivalry. Think of it as the end of awkward pauses at the door. Think of it as the end of unintended offense when you competently open the door for yourself. Think of it as the end of scurrying over the threshold under the arm of a man who won’t let you open the door for him. Think of it as the end of gender inequality as we know it.
Still not convinced? That’s all right. The zombpocalypse has been hard on all of us, and we each adapt to this brave new world at our own pace. So if you don’t want to open the door for yourself, don’t. One of your fellow female human beings will be along in a moment or two and I’m sure she’d be happy to do it for you. Because it’s not the door itself that matters; it’s the portal of possibilities it represents.
Summer doesn’t have to be a bummer just because your main squeeze gets extra squishy in the heat. We’ve got your fun-in-the-sun survival tips right here.
1. Lay it on thick. Increased temperatures mean increased decay, so be sure to apply two or three extra doses of skin-firming cream to your boyzomb each day. The patented hydrolipids will keep what remains of his skin supple, not slippery.
2. Keep the home fires burning. Summertime means hamburgers and hot dogs cooked on the grill, but nothing draws a zombie to his doom faster than the hypnotizing flicker of an open flame. So play it safe and bring your barbecue indoors. Prepare hot dogs in the microwave and hamburgers on the stove top. As soon as everything is cooked, bring it outside and have a romantic picnic by flashlight. Worried about mosquitoes and other nippy pests? Don’t be. The oil in your boyzomb’s decaying skin is the best bug repellent ever invented.
3. Give the beach a wide berth. If you thought getting sand out of your bathing suit was difficult, just wait until you try to get it out of the folds of your zombie boyfriend’s skin. The phrase stuck on you will take on a whole new meaning. If you’re craving the wet, check out the pool at your local country club. You’ll avoid the sand trap, and the chlorine in the water will give your zombie a healthy green glow. Plus, you can get french fries delivered poolside. Nothing says postapocalyptic bliss like eating greasy fries while your zombie boyfriend does cannonballs. Heaven!
To spoon or not to spoon—that is indeed the question. And what a seemingly inconsequential one it is, too. And yet whether or not zombies should be given utensils is one of the most hotly contested issues of the post-human-male era. The reason is hardly surprising, as the question goes to the very heart of what a zombie is: helpmeet or equal, companion or predator, poorly motor skilled animated corpse or deftly coordinated uncomposing human.
Despite the chatter, the only thing that matters is how you feel about the issue. Not sure where you stand? Answer these questions and decide for yourself. Then stick a fork in it! This debate is done.
Do I have the patience to teach my boyzomb how to use utensils?
Forget should zombies use knives and forks. The real question is can they? The short answer is yes. With training and practice, a zombie can master the skills necessary to pick up a piece of brain with a fork. But it takes a lot of training and practice. A zombified human male loses 3.5 percent of its gross motor skills each day and 4.75 percent of its fine motor skills. By the time it’s one year into its zombihood, a typical grown male zombie has merely a fraction of its human coordination. And that’s only its physical decay; mentally, a zombie decays at five times the rate. This means teaching your zombie how to eat with utensils requires a tremendous about of patience and effort on your part. If you decide it’s worth it, stick with it. Studies show that after three years of consistent behavior therapy, a typical zombie can cut with all the accuracy and flare of a 4-year-old.
What do I find embarrassing?
Picture this: You and your boyzomb are at your boss’s house for dinner, and she puts a plate of perfectly prepared brain au jus in front of your beau. What happens next? Does your boyzomb clumsily pokes at his meal with a fork and knife or does his pick it up and start munching? Both options have their risks. At any moment, his knife could fly across the table or a fine stream of brain drizzle can run down his chin. Which one makes you cringe more? If it’s the latter, then run out and get Jennifer Junipers’s international best-seller, Introductory Utensil Skills for Dummies, an indispensible primer on teaching your zombie the basics.
How good are my reflexes?
If you do decided to go the utensil route, be prepared to duck often because knives, forks and spoons will frequently fly out of your zombie’s loose grip and straight at your head. Last year, eight women in the United Provisional Authority died from utensil-instruction-related injuries. Eighty-seven percent of wounds are caused by knives, so you might consider limiting your boyzomb’s repertoire to forks and spoons at first. Introduce the knife only after he has mastered the grapefruit spoon. Another alternative is to eliminate the knife entirely. Just know that in doing so you run the risk of being picketed by zombie-rights groups, who believe that denying zombies the right to a knife is denying them their essential humanity. Wearing headphones and drawing your shades should effectively drown out the protest, which typically last from five to thirteen days.