Alright, gents, the holiday of all holidays is upon us. That’s right, the heart shaped mongoose has stretched its legs, and like the lazy lion relying on the hunt, we need to chase after it. But there’s nothing worse than running after the rodent only to find out that’s it’s a goddamned rat. While Valentine’s Day itself may be a little slice of heaven, the days that follow threaten a year’s worth of love. When our girlfriends talk amongst themselves and it’s revealed that your Duane Reade chocolates were trumped by Jerry’s box of Godiva truffles. Or your dinner and a movie was nothing compared to Sam’s tickets to Carnegie Hall’s “Concert For Lovers.” Out goes any of the goodwill you get for making any effort at all. What I’m suggesting is ground rules, boys. Yes, ground rules. So we all can get on the same page, and no one comes out smelling like a long-stem rose. Here are my proposed V-Day gift-giving guidelines to level the playing field … Keep reading »
Drunken logic is a beautiful thing. When that perfect amount of booze sloshes around the canals of your brain, dipping here, crashing there, telling you that it’s probably a really good idea to steal lipstick from your friend’s girlfriend, apply that lipstick on your mouth, approach an attractive woman coming out of the bar and pretend that the two of you just made out in the bathroom. Keep reading »
I’m known amongst my friends as a serial dater. I enjoy going on first dates. Or I used to. In the last few years, I began to feel an encroaching anxiety before every first date. There was one thing standing between me and enjoying dating. It was a monster. Every time I met a girl I liked, I would sit at my computer and open my browser. My fingers would start tapping. And I couldn’t resist. Clicking. Going through images. Info.
“Look what I have to show you,” the monster would beckon me. And it had a lot to show me.
It knew my date’s favorite books, movies, music, even quotes. It knew her interests. It showcased videos of her with friends. And worst of all it was the gatekeeper of her photos. Sometimes just a few, sometimes hundreds, thousands. So many photos of the girl I hadn’t even gone out with yet! The monster would only show her good ones, of course. The bad ones were untagged, which made me wonder what the bad ones looked like. That monster was Facebook. And it was ruining my ability to date like a normal human being. Keep reading »
The e-mail simply read: I’ll pay you $350.
I lay down and thought about this. I thought about a three, a five and a zero. How pretty they looked altogether, no periods to dash out the mass. How nice they would look in my empty piggy bank. I thought about what was being asked of me for the $350. The man wanted me to, shall we say, pleasure myself in front of him. As a straight 21-year-old, newbie journalist, this wasn’t really what I had expected when signing on to do an article about sex parties for a hipster-porn-rag mag.
But this is where my “literary” endeavors had led me — to possible prostitution. The want and need for our readers to hear what it’s like for me, a young Jewish man, living in NYC, to attend, watch and maybe, maybe participate in a sex party, had gotten me into this predicament. Keep reading »
It’d been a nice night with mixed drinks and homey Brooklyn fare. The conversation hadn’t teetered, except in those first moments when we were testing the waters. Dipping our feet.
Then she said, “I find it funny that people feel uncomfortable in silence.”
I didn’t say anything. She smiled. We felt comfortable. Keep reading »