The anatomy of a playah

You know him. Oh, yes you do. He's your ex, your best friend, your bloc's blochead, your officemate, your sister's husband, your boss' cousin of a friend who used to date the fiancee of a teammate's college fraternity brod.

He's that enthralling guy who would buy you a drink at the bar, captivate you with his funny, witty conversation, and when he asks for your digits, it would be absolutely stupid of you to say no.

He's got killer a smile, a mesmerizing gaze and a face that may or may not be drop-dead gorgeous, but nobody cannot deny he has sex appeal. Even without any effort, he's oozing with pure, unadulterated male magnetism.

He comes in many forms: the boy next-door who couldn't hurt a fly, the athlete or jock with the washboard abs and that irresistible tight ass, the brooding musician type, or that oh-so-sexy bad boy type with the obligatory wheels and goatee.

He will do things for you to prove he's the real deal: give you rides home, take you out to dinner, help you with your errands, party with your friends, introduce you to his colleagues and posse. Your wireless providers' unlimited texting promo will be maiximized with all your endless, sweet nothings texts, and your phone bill will rack up and call cards get emptied fast with those frequent calls.

He's probably somewhere in the mid-twenties to the early thirties age bracket, middle- to upperclass, has a job or in between, or a casual bum living off his family or friends' wealth. He's tried them all: fiancees, girlfriends, MUs, fubus, open relationships, mistresses, and in cases of the really thick-faced, probably a wife or two. He takes pride and pleasure in having any two or three of these ladies panting over him all at the same time.

He has that undeniable, unexplainable charisma that has the women scrambling and the others guys either scratching their heads in wonder, or seething with envy.

He probably has his name scrawled on bathroom tiles and armchairs all over the campus. Remarks would range from high praises of his sexual prowess to crude comments over the impressive length and girth of his most precious, brag-worthy asset: his dick. Vandalized for prosperity would be a long list of his conquests, and endless bitter rants and litanies of all the girls' he has discarded.

He's one suave, charming son of a bitch. He's so great at making excuses, inventing stories, and spinning webs of lies he should probably get multiple degrees in Philosophy, Creative Writing, and let's not forget he probably put Sex Education 101 in the educational system's curriculum.

He's got all the old school pick up lines down pat. You'll probably laugh at his corny passes, but deep inside, you're turning into mush. He says all the right things at exactly the right time, and before you know it, you're right where he wants you to be: front and center at his crib. He's got that amazing ability to keep them girls and ladies coming back to him, even the ones he's hurt or lied to, even the ones who already know he's real self.

He will pursue you, make you feel like you're God's gift to men. Truthfully, he's the one who has that mentality: he believes God created him to provide pleasure to all them guillible women. And who is he to fail His will?

He is that famous guy who got the entire town's tongues wagging and the girls' panties dropping. You've probably never taken him home to meet Mom, your friends have warned you to stay the hell away from him, and even his best buds would tell yuo you're asking for trouble and headache if you carry on with him.

He will, once things start to get "serious," tell you that he's suddenly not ready for commitment. And like a true commitment-phobe, he will utter the classic line: "It's not you, babe, it's me." And he will make you fret, was it something that you've said? Were you too clingy, too fast, too nagging?

He will keep you dangling, make you desire him until you're one big blob of malleable, quivering hopeless romantic flesh. You fell, you poor deluded you, and all I can say is, in this real-life version of MTV Punk'd, there would be no Ashton to tell you it was all a harmless prank. You'd have to find out the harsh truth all by your lonesome self.

So go get that marker, girl, there's still space on that dirty, grafitti -filled bathrom tile.