A recent issue of GLAMOPOLITAN magazine instructed its female readers to surprise their boyfriends by showing up at the dude’s apartment wearing a trench coat and nothing underneath. Don’t do this. And I’m not telling you not to do it because a silly girly magazine said so. I kind of enjoy those trash-diculous publications: they’re like Maxim with mood swings. Where else am I going to learn to love my curvy body? (But seriously, diet anyway. Did you know there are no calories in a hangnail?) Keep reading »
A friend of mine has been dabbling in online dating, or, as he put it, “swimming in vag.” The availability of women combined with his usual tech guy internet habit has blown his, uh, mind, thus far. Although there are certainly enough ladies to go around, that didn’t stop this dapper dude from getting nervous and going a little overboard in his prep for a first date. The instrument of destruction: clippers.
Before picking her up, he wanted to trim the hedges. Unfortunately, he used the wrong side buzzer. Fortunately (?), he started out with his arm hair. Basically, my metro friend mowed a row down. And you know, he didn’t want to have a “fade” on his arm, so he had to do the whole dang thing, including the other appendage. On the date, he opted to ignore the (hairless) elephant in the room and didn’t mention his noticeably bald arms to his companion, making sure to keep his sleeves down all night.
But his story moved me, since I myself had a Tweezer-meets-eyebrow accident while primping for a date once. (Luckily, he was into the chola look.) My hairless buddy wanted to share this story to help the other men out there — hopefully his story will inspire you to forgo the buzzer — and these other no-nos before you go on a hot date. Whatever your getting-ready ritual is, you best heed these, because no amount of candlelight will save you! Keep reading »
The other night, I was having dinner with a friend, and over dessert she mentioned how unusual it is that I’ve never lived with a significant other. I’d never really thought about it before, but she’s right—I can only think of one or two friends who haven’t shacked up with a boyfriend or girlfriend. But even though I’ve never lived with anyone, I have had two relationships that reached the four-year mark. There’s no denying that relationships have changed now that the average man gets married at age 27.1 and the average woman gets hitched at 25.3. In 1970, less than half a million married couples lived together—today, more than five million do. Which means that almost every 20- or 30-something has been through one, if not more than one, phase of being quasi-married. Journalist Hannah Seligson has written a new book about this phenomenon called A Little Bit Married: How To Know When It’s Time To Walk Down The Aisle Or Out The Door. Since she’s interviewed hundreds of people in serious long-term relationships, we thought we’d get her to answer a few questions from readers. Check out her answers after the jump. Keep reading »
Sometimes the best thing for a broken heart is to take that heart to the bar and to get it really, really drunk.
I spent most of the past week in bed. It’s not as bad as it sounds—it wasn’t like I was crying every night (or at all), but I was just in a place where I couldn’t get out of my thoughts about me and Alex. I knew it would have been healthier to try and do some wholesome socializing, but I just put my head down, devoted myself to work, and thought about what it means to let someone out of your life. I finally decided to take me and my deep thoughts out when, on Wednesday, Dani called to invite me to get cous cous in the 10th. It sounded mellow and uneventful, so I threw on my boots and a sweatshirt without a second thought.
Little did I know that “getting cous cous” meant going to a lively bar with a group of people and getting wasted … Keep reading »
This month, Details totally lost me as a reader with an article called “The Lure of Dating an Ex-Lesbian.” The author, Ian Daly, talks about women who date women and then hitch up with men. He eloquently calls these gals “refugees from the isle of Lesbos … hasbians.” Interestingly, Daly’s research seems to prove the opposite of what his title implies. That is, that dating a “hasbian” is terrifying. He depicts dudes who date them as scared little school boys, afraid of their penises and scared that their clumsy fingers could never navigate the female anatomy as expertly as the women they’ve seen in lesbian pornos. Later, Daly obnoxiously writes that men who are in touch with their “feminine side” are more likely to date women who are “former homosexuals.”
I’ll save you the anguish of discussing Daly’s assertion that once motorcycle-riding, tattoo-covered lesbians “soften up,” they head straight for the penis. What I really want to talk about is Daly’s assumption that sexual orientation is super rigid. Keep reading »
First dates are always nerve-wracking—that’s a given. So many questions! Where will we go? What if I’m gassy? Should I let him pay or should I offer to split the tab? What will we talk about? Will he like me? More importantly, will I like him?
All valid queries, but possibly the most pressing question any of us worry about is, what in the hell am I going to wear? Keep reading »
When I was offered the opportunity to be one of “New York’s Most Eligible Bachelorettes” in a major local magazine, I laughed out loud. “There’s no way I will ever meet a guy that way,” I complained to my friends. “Why even bother? I already meet tons of guys. They just all suck. Plus, I’m happy alone.” After much coaxing, I decided my friends were right. I couldn’t turn down a professional photo shoot or an opportunity to get as close as I ever would to my fantasy of becoming the next “Bachelorette.” If only I liked to wear bikinis and go bungee-jumping, maybe ABC would consider me for the series. Keep reading »
He does not want to sleep with me. It’s been three weeks and nothing. Not just nothing—I mean the complete absence of sexuality in an awkward, platonic way. We go out to dinner several nights a week and we kiss, hug, and hold hands in public. I’ve met most of his friends at this point and we’ve even spent nights together. And yet, nothing. I have tried every trick in the book to get him to seal the deal—I’ve smooched and even fondled him. And yet Matt remands steadfast and as abstinent as a priest. Keep reading »
My name is Kate. Just Kate—not Kathleen or Catherine or anything like that. I’ve always really liked my name. I like that it’s one quick, strong syllable. I like that it means “pure.” I like that it’s a woman’s name and isn’t at all girly like Katie. I even like the celebrities—Kate Winslet and Cate Blanchett—who share my name.
However, I don’t like that it’s really freaking common. Keep reading »