I love musicals.
Oh, you hate musicals? Really? I’ll get to you and your opinion in a second.
First, I’m making a public confession: I am a white, heterosexual man who loves musicals. I don’t give a shit who knows. You are not your demographic. The people who make up focus groups are demented human beings.
I eat bacon cheeseburgers. I love pranks. I watch professional wrestling. Well, maybe that last one doesn’t prove anything. Pro wrestling is just Redneck Broadway. Keep reading »
This week’s Anthony Weiner dick pic scandal — part two! — reminded me of this hilarious column written by our dear Mind of Man, John DeVore. Let’s learn, from an actual man, why dudes like to send pictures of their penises. — Amelia
Men send pictures of their penises because we want the world, or the person we love, or the person we love that week, to know that we have penises. We tell ourselves it’s to make women hot and bothered, but the truth is, those pictures just make us swell … with pride. If it wasn’t aberrant behavior, we’d hang pics of our red hot on the refrigerator door like a blue ribbon from the school science fair.
I have sent one picture of my wang to one woman. We were flirting over text, and she dared me, and so I took the picture. Considering I didn’t have time to properly light my apartment, I think the photo of el generalissimo was pretty good. I framed the shot well. I mean, it was no Mapplethorpe, but it wasn’t your average Craigslist wang portrait, where all penises look like they’re attached to an aspiring sexual predator. I sent the pic as a joke, because the request was a joke. She thought the picture was funny. She thought the entire exchange between us was very funny. Too funny. It wasn’t that funny, lady. I sent a picture of my jangly-gangly as a joke, but a little awe wouldn’t have hurt. After all, while it wasn’t a serious text, I still unleashed the kraken. Keep reading »
The best way to define what is “sexy” is to first define what is not sexy. Duck face? Not sexy. Fake tans? Not sexy. Internet think pieces about how some young woman making millions in the public aquarium isn’t sexy? Not sexy AND IRONIC.
Lena Dunham’s character Hannah in “Girls” is sexy. Apparently this is a thing that has to be written. She combusts with sexual energy and heartbreaking vulnerability — she simultaneously claws out of and slinks around comfortably in her tattooed skin. Keep reading »
I think it was Shakespeare who wrote, “It’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.” Yup. I’m pretty sure he wrote that.
It is hard to say goodbye. I am not a fan of it. I try to avoid actually saying it if I can. But you can’t always avoid it. Which is why I like to think that “goodbye” is just “I love you,” played backwards on vinyl. Love and loss are two sides of the same toaster waffle. In this life, you’re either declaring one or tearfully saying the other.
But usually, I find ways not to say that word. I prefer to say “see you around,” then choke back man tears as I walk away (man tears taste exactly like Tobasco sauce). Most of the time, I don’t even say anything. I just sneak away without telling anyone. Keep reading »
Valentine’s Day shouldn’t be about who loves you, but whom you love. It’s the one day out of the year when you should take account of those people in your life who make you gleefully vomit little candy hearts. Being loved back isn’t nearly as important in life as boldly, recklessly, sincerely loving someone regardless of any returns on investment. Making love, not taking it, is the primary occupation of the human condition, our core programming, whether we realize it or accept it or not. All other activities and pursuits are secondary.
Instead, Valentine’s Day feels like emotional extortion. To many men, it’s an inconvenience to dread, a relationship hoop set aflame which one must deftly prance through like an expertly trained poodle. And to other men, it’s a day of opportunity. Keep reading »
The breakup was amicable, and mutual in the sense that we were both slightly relieved it was over. Before we parted ways at the bar, she confessed that it bothered her that I always wanted to watch TV after we had sex. I said nothing and just nodded.
Why wouldn’t I want to watch TV after? It was on before and during. Maybe if she had told me that annoyed her, we would have jumpstarted a conversation we had failed to have. Because conversations about where the itch is and how to scratch it are utterly and completely necessary if you’re going to have a happy hump life with someone. Maybe if she had told me that, I would have responded, “Well, then, why do you have to have the TV on when we do it?” Keep reading »
A recent essay about “facials” really got me thinking. Why is it that the act of ejaculating on a woman’s face is called a “facial”? Is semen an astringent? It seems to me that the act could be called something manlier, like “spackling,” or more … inviting? Women love cupcakes. Why not call the sex act “frosting”?
This essay was posted on Jezebel, and it was written by Hugo Schwyzer. The piece seeks to explain why men want to “jizz” on a woman’s face. Apparently, this sex act is highly controversial. Some women find it degrading, some find it liberating. Is it a way for men to mark their territories? Or is the act a symptom of the AIDs epidemic, when semen became a potentially lethal substance? Has porn popularized this climactic ritual? Does porn influence men, or is it a reflection of the evolving sexual desires of the day? (I’m going to answer this in a hot minute.) Keep reading »
“It’s not ‘talking to yourself’. It’s ‘engaging in a conversation with your needs.’” ”Hello internet porn, how are you today?” ”Where did I put that Slim Jim??”
“(random laughter for no reason)” ”We all die alone.” ”Please text me back please text me back.” ”I’m out of Captain Crunch. My life sucks.” ”I’m Batman.” Keep reading »
Somewhere, last night, a young man stood in his apartment wearing nothing but a condom. He stretched his arms out, closed his eyes, and whispered “if I wear it, they will come. THEN COME AND COME AGAIN.”
The condom was one of dozens he keeps strategically hidden throughout his apartment. He keeps a pile in his nightstand drawer, another pile in the bathroom, another 20 or so are tucked in between couch cushions, books on the bookshelf, and in the cupboard, hidden behind jars of peanut butter.
He considered, briefly, wearing a long string of connected condoms like a bandolier. Keep reading »
My New Years resolution is to be less stupid. I don’t usually make New Years resolutions, or as I call them, Last Year’s regrets. Usually, I just think they’re for suckers.
The only people who benefit from New Year’s resolutions are the therapists who profit from disappointment maintenance. But this year is going to be different. I’m making one “big picture” resolution instead of committing to a dozen specific self-improvement chores that I will end up failing to complete. Instead of trying to hit a bullseye with an arrow, I’m going to score a slam dunk by setting up a ladder right next to the net. Okay, well, here’s a specific resolution I will honor: I will not make any more sports metaphors.
Keep reading »