For the first decade of my sexually active life, every guy I encountered wore boxer shorts. The pattern varied—sometimes stripes, sometimes plaid, sometimes something surprising like rubber duckies—as did the elasticity of the waistband. But I could be sure that when a guy’s pants came off, I would find boxers underneath.
But over the last few years, I’ve noticed an evolution in men’s underwear choices. Keep reading »
There are few things I love more than a good pun. And a sly piece of word play? I like to think that I deploy them often. I am all about analogies, and probably use them more often than a “Real Housewife” gets Botox. I, Dater X, am a word nerd. I’ve known this about myself for years, and generally it’s something I like potential suitors to match.
But in the the past week while exchanging emails with Petr, the Czech sculptor I met in Prague 10 years ago, I’m finding that many of my usual rhetorical rhythms simply don’t work. Keep reading »
Ten years ago, after flicking my mortarboard in the air at college graduation, my best friend and I embarked on a rite of passage backpacking-through-Europe trip. Together, we traveled through France, Italy, Austria, Germany, and the Czech Republic, buckling under the weight of our backpacks and taking extra croissants from continental breakfasts at hostels in hopes that they’d last us through lunch. By day, we overdosed on museums and took roll upon roll of photos at historical sights. By night, we headed to plazas and parks to chug bottles of wine outdoors—something you can’t do here unless you want to get a ticket—and have deep conversations with people our age, both locals and fellow travelers. I was single for the trip, but somehow managed not to hook up once the entire month. I remember sulking about this fact at the time.
Fast forward to today, when an email popped up my inbox from my travel companion. She was forwarding me a message from some guy with an ultra Eastern European last name. Keep reading »
You know how, once in a while, someone asks you your age and your mind goes blank, leaving you sounding like a total idiot tripping over the word, “Uhhhhh…” That’s how I feel about my magic number. Confession: I have no idea how many men I’ve had sex with over the years. I cashed in my v-card at age 16, and for a while kept a mental tally of the guys I had sex with, who were usually of the boyfriend variety. Somewhere in my early twenties, I reached the 10 mark and from there, keeping count just felt kinda wrong. About a year ago, a friend asked about my sex number and I went home determined to do a tally. But after I reached the second guy in the list whose name and identifying characteristics I no longer remembered, I abandoned the endeavor and vowed never to do it again. I know that my magic number is more than 15, and I’d like to say that it’s less than 25. But I’m just not sure anymore. Keep reading »
For most single women out there, New Year’s Eve is a big deal. On December 31st, we’ll get all dolled up—preferably in sequins and heavy eyeliner—and hit the town in our 2011 New Year’s Eve glasses. (Question: How exactly are those going to work?) It’s one of the few nights a year where debaucherous drinking is not only condoned, but encouraged, and where grabbing a random stranger for a makeout session is not only okay, but tradition. The next morning, as we nurse our hangovers, we’ll have the satisfaction of standing up, wiping off the dirt of the past year, and jumping feet first into a new one—a fresh 365 days in which every possibility is open.
Yes, kiss or not, New Year’s Eve should be a great night. But for me, January 2nd will be a much bigger day. See, it’s my parents’ anniversary. As much as I think about it, I still can’t seem to wrap my head around the idea that, in less than a week, my parents will have been husband and wife for 40 freaking years. Keep reading »
Last night, while out to dinner with friends, my phone rang—a rare occurrence in a world where phones are amazing for organizing schedules and arranging text messages into adorable dialogue bubbles, but aren’t so hot at providing a clear pathway for two people to talk. I recognized the area code immediately, though I had deleted the caller’s name in a huff a few days before—it was Scruffy Beard. I hadn’t heard from him in almost two weeks, since he sent me a lame “see you around” text the day after we had sex and he darted out the door 20 minutes after, throwing the condom in the trash.
I resisted the urge to listen to his voicemail message all the way through dinner. But as I left the restaurant, I just had to know what he said. Keep reading »
As Scruffy Beard began unhooking my bra, a panic signal went off in my head. Uh oh, Dater X, I thought to myself. This is your third date and you are straddling him in a chair. Your shirt is across the room, and you can feel his hard-on through his pants. You are on a steam locomotive powering towards sex town. This. Is. Not. Good.
I pulled back, feeling suddenly shy about the fact that I was topless. I looked him in the eyes—definitely his nicest feature, though I’d come to appreciate the rest of his face in the two weeks we’d been dating, too. His gaze seemed filled with adoration and desire, and he leaned forward and kissed me, soft and slow. I felt his hands squeeze around my butt. And that was it. Soon the rest of our clothes hit the floor, our makeout session getting more intense with every kiss and touch. Keep reading »
What I’m about to say isn’t going to make you love me. It isn’t PC, and it certainly wouldn’t get high marks from the judges in a beauty pageant question and answer round. It is shallow, and a thing that none of us are supposed to say. But it is also honest:
Looks matter to me. Sometimes a lot. Keep reading »
As I leaned forward and sent my 10-pound ball careening down the center of the lane, I could feel Blondie staring at my butt. Normally, this is a thing I love, but tonight, all I felt was supremely uncomfortable. The pins flew in the air in a jumble, but it was hard to be too excited about the strike. I was on a bad date. And not the kind of bad date where both of you recognize the badness and mutually agree to get out of there as quickly as possible with no hard feelings. It was the kind of date where, while I was repulsed, he was feeling it. Keep reading »
Last year, the night before Thanksgiving, I had a glorious third date with The Architect. Partly because of our easy rapport and partly because so many people leave New York City for the holidays, everywhere we went, it felt like we were the only two people that existed. At the movie theater, rather than fighting people for seats and sitting elbow-to-elbow with strangers, we got the two seats smack-dab in the middle of the theater with no one in a six-foot radius. I remember that he put his arm around me midway through the movie and pulled me close. Later at dinner, rather than the usual 30-minute wait at my favorite restaurant, we were seated instantly at a booth. I remember us making fun of the bizarre turkey centerpiece on the table. Later that night, I remember our first kiss. I described it in my column then as “one of the slowest, softest, hottest kisses of my life.” I stand by that a year later. Keep reading »