You’ll never see a dude turn to another dude and ask, “Do I look fat in these pants?” But that doesn’t mean men are invulnerable to insecurities, no matter how much we’d like to think so. Women are upfront about their fears, doubts, and self-esteem. I used to think it was just compulsive gabbiness, a quirk of the fairer sex. But, in fact, it is an admirable coping mechanism that’s even a little bit courageous. That said, I’ll sack up and admit that I’ve spent a lot of my life feeling like a fatty, a chubasaurus, half-man and half-marshmallow. Keep reading »
When it comes to sex, women talk too much and men talk too little. Actually, let me revise that. Women talk too much about sex with one another, and men talk about sex with one another just enough, which is to say, hardly at all. While my gender may have the occasional communication skills of an ATM and all the emotional agility of limbless baboons, there are things we can teach your gender, the hyper-articulate, deep feeling, lavender-soap-smelling variety. Namely, it is not always necessary to divulge every single sordid detail about what happened Friday night. Now, don’t you feel liberated? Keep reading »
A reader wrote in asking me why most men are “fascinated” with redheads. In this instance, I think “fascinated” is a nice way of saying “obsessed.” She admitted to being a redhead, and, therefore, the object of such ardor. She’s asked these men why they are so drawn to the crimson-haired, and the best she ever got out of them was “Redheads iz just hawt, yo!” This is true, but it is not the whole truth. Keep reading »
I’ve learned a lot of things from the women in my life. How to appreciate wine, do my own taxes, not be a douchebag. And because of them, I am a fan of Pinot Noir, keep a shoebox of receipts, and am a fan of Pinot Noir. But more on this later.
Sex without dirty talk is a bland affair, like chicken nuggets without the hot mustard. Without that whispered verbal communication and the trust that goes with it, body and mind aren’t connected. No, I’m not getting all Deepak Chopra all up in this joint. Sex is a brain thing as much as a skin thing. Without uncensored, honest, blushing dirty talk in bed (or the backseat, stairwell, or under the kitchen table) there is no way to find out if she needs it faster or slower. You’d never learn that she likes her hair pulled to the left, while you softly kiss her jaw line on the right side of her face. Apparently, there’s a world of difference between a flick and a pinch. These are important facts, and the reverse is true when you’re with your man. Keep reading »
When it comes to “feminism,” I have more questions than answers. So I emailed Sady at the smart, free-wheeling lady blog Tiger Beatdown and asked her if she’d answer some of them. In the interest of full disclosure, she has, on occasion, offered succinct and thoughtful analysis of some of my work on this site. I realize that what I know about “feminism,” specifically its recent history and its academic role, could fit into a thimble. My questions might seem basic, but remember, I’m the one with the testicles over here.
Keep reading »
A reader sent me an email and asked me if I would ever date someone with an incurable STD. She had recently been diagnosed with the HSV virus (that’s herpes, y’all), and wanted my answer to be honest and not “PC.” So here it is goes, my unvarnished, gut reaction to the question: No, I would not date someone with an incurable STD. Keep reading »
Here’s my worst first date story: she told me she was lactose intolerant, but ordered the French onion soup. I thought, “How irresponsible.” Every woman I know has at least one horrifying dating disaster tale. Most women have multiple ones. They usually begin with “I met him on Match.com” or “He was the best friend of my second cousin’s college roommate” and end with a daring escape, a mad dash into a cab, and unhinged texts from the guy for the next two weeks.
Keep reading »
It was a total misunderstanding that one time I bought a woman I was dating sexy lingerie, the slinky, lacy kind that looked like it was made out of the doilies that decorated my grandmother’s beloved sofa. She thought I was disingenuously buying her a gift that was really a gift for me. I protested, of course, because it was never my idea to veer into Victoria Secret’s during one of our weekend shopping excursions that were theoretically about her training me to be, if not fashion forward, then at least fashion neutral. A happy compromise, considering I, apparently, was clinging to late-’90s fashion like a koala bear to the last eucalyptus tree on Earth. But, in fact, these sprees were about her dragging me by the throat to store after store.
Keep reading »
I don’t believe that once a cheater, always a cheater. That specific aphorism is a bitter, moralizing form of self-deception. We all are cheaters; none of us is invulnerable to temptation. What defines a person is not whether they are faithless. It is a simple, easy thing to impulsively take that which you want. No, what defines a person is whether they chose to stay faithful. That is difficult, and that active decision, that vigilance, is the steep price love demands. Keep reading »
If it weren’t for the covers of women’s magazines like Glamopolitan, my time standing in grocery lines would be spent reading the copy on my frozen dinners. It’s amazing how reading “succulent tenderloins cradled by fluffy mashed potatoes” makes a meal squeezed out of a nozzle and flash frozen taste that much better. It was standing in line with my pathetic pyramid of bachelor food that I learned that there are, like, 1,342 different ways to drive me wild.
And here I was, thinking there was only one, 100% guaranteed way to drive me wild, and that was to touch my penis. At this juncture, I’d like to state that I’m also speaking for all of dudekind. Sweeping gender platitudes is what I do. So take the ice cube out of your mouth, the feather out of my ass, and go for the gold. Is there a Nobel Prize for sex advice? I’d like to thank you all. Keep reading »