I think I might be a sexist. But since most of you are vagina-enabled, I’ll let you tell me. Many of you possess testicles, as well, and I’ll invite you to chime in, too. To those who have both: All are welcome here.
I’m not proud of the fact that I might be sexist, but it seems more honest to say so than declaring that I’m a feminist. Which I’m not. I’m having a tough enough time trying to figure out how to be a righteous dude. I suppose the best contribution I can make to the struggle for gender equality is to try and be a better man. I can’t allow myself to politicize my inner-struggles, to become, as Gandhi said, the change I want to see in the world. So, yeah, I’m not a feminist, and I might be a sexist. But better I be aware of that, than ignorant to the prejudices that make me oh-so human. And that’s the best I can do. Keep reading »
A couple of years ago, a friend of mine came to me for advice, and I think the advice I gave him was pretty good advice, if I do say so myself. Because when it comes to love and relationships, those who can, do. Those who can’t give love and relationship advice.
My friend had just proposed to his girlfriend. The wedding promised to be epic, “Vegas-style” and planned with Pentagon-like precision. The sort of wedding where you wouldn’t be surprised if a trained monkey dressed like a butler exploded out of a 17-tier wedding cake, holding a smaller, 10-tier wedding cake, as fireworks exploded, and an ABBA cover band parachuted in next to the champagne glass pyramid, while howling “Take A Chance On Me.” No expense spared. Keep reading »
Go ahead and have sex on the first date if you want. If it feels good, do it. Ruin yourself. Get your rocks off. Surrender to chemistry, drink, irresponsibility. Indulge in the passion, throw caution to the wind, make a big sloppy mess of your love life. Your prince might not call you back if you rail him in the bathroom stall or after he slinks out of your apartment while you’re sleeping. If that happens, cry and wail! Just know that reports of the fragility of the human heart are greatly exaggerated. Keep reading »
Blow jobs are overrated. There. I said it. I know men who would fight a grizzly bear with a spork for a little mouth love. I also know women who guard their oral sexing technique the way a pharmaceutical company protects its most precious patents. But I’m just not a dude who loves blow jobs. I’m an active guy, when it comes to being intimate with a woman, and laying back and letting her go down on me has always felt passive to me. Disconnected. As if I could lean back and read the Economist or slurp a bowl of soup while being, uhhh, serviced. Keep reading »
Some of you might have heard of or read Neil Strauss’ The Game, a fawning book about a silver tongued Casanova who goes by the mysterious code-name Mystery. Probably many more of you have seen ridiculously dressed beanpole Mystery tutor his homoerotic boy-cult on Vh1′s reality show “The Pick-Up Artist.” Is it just me or does he look like cross between a Las Vegas magician and a Dr. Seuss character? What you don’t know is if you know a guy who’s signed up for a class in picking up women (like New York’s “The Art of Charm”) or sloppily employed the social tools taught in these classes, written about in books, or demonstrated on television shows. Keep reading »
Before I reveal the secret reason men love strip clubs, I’d like to directly address all the “cool” and “open-minded” women out there who insist on accompanying their boyfriends and husbands to jiggle joints: stay home. I appreciate your enlightened attitude towards dude culture, and your bad girl enthusiasm, like when you whoop it up with a stripper, publicly dabbling in hetero-flexibility for your man. But really, you’re not declaring yourself a pansexual pioneer, proving how laid-back and awesome you are to your man’s salivating bro-dawgs. You’re keeping tabs on your boyfriend or husband and you know it.
So why is it that guys love strip clubs — even guys who totally xoxo their rock star girlfriends? There’s the obvious answer: to look at nekkid boobs that aren’t the boobs attached to the rock star girlfriends they totally xoxo. Keep reading »
Happy (belated) Thanksgiving, y’all. Normally, this holiday is a gluttonous orgy of excess, where we hit the gravy bong and chug obscene amounts of food directly into our greasy talkholes. It’s also a time to give thanks for not having to awkwardly hang out with extended family for the rest of the year. Keep reading »
A certain woman in my life wants to know what guys are thinking when a breakup goes down. So here it goes. We think about beer. And drinking it. And how drinking said beer will help us get lucky with the la-a-dies. The ladies with the righteous hoots.
Alright, fine. That was a sweeping gender generalization. A crude, cheap oversimplification of the masculine condition… But that doesn’t stop it from being true. Keep reading »
Hi, I’m single. Like, what’s up with that? Word. Can I buy you a vodka tonic, super fox?
Okay – let me interrupt for a second, and preempt our regularly scheduled programming to get some things off my hairy, muscular, barrel chest. I’m guessing you heard that the guy with the lizard neck lost the presidential election to the guy with the lady fingers, right? So…
I normally make a conscious choice to reject the idea of identity politics, which is to say, to gravitate towards politicians who are just like me, either ideologically, or, on a more base level, culturally. I am instantly distrustful of politicians who tell me they drink beer just like me, or listen to the music I listen to, or who suggest that I vote for them because their biological fortunes confer an expertise others cannot possibly claim. These notions are nothing more than cheap, aspirational lies. Keep reading »
In a recent Sunday edition of a Gotham City newspaper, The Frisky’s very own Vixen of Verbiage, Simcha Whitehill, wrote about a new scientific study that suggests three cups of coffee a day can cause a woman’s breasts to shrink. Bravely, Simcha refused to give up her morning cup of liquid caffeine, even if it meant her rack might decrease in size from voluptuous to less voluptuous.
The study struck a nerve with women, who are as obsessed with their breasts as men are. And women are equally obsessed with the perceived male obsession over breasts. And we are obsessed. All men love boobs; we can’t help it. Before seemingly sensitive and enlightened male readers lambaste me for my sweeping gender generalizations, let me just say: Shut up, dudes. You love boobs, too. Even those of you who signed up for, and thoughtfully participated in, Women’s Studies classes in college … You just did it to pick up hot, feminist nerd girls. Keep reading »