Recently, I described a mutual friend to my friend T. as “the guy with the big c**k.” Then I felt a little guilty, like I was giving away a huge (zing!) secret; she was surprised at this description, having never thought about him in a sexual way, whereas I meant it as both a compliment and simply what I remember best about our time as f**k buddies. It also made me remember another guy with a unique but still vexing sexual problem: the too-big dick. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, there is such a thing as too much when it comes to penis size. Bigger is not necessarily better, and while I’ve been with one or two guys who bordered on overly large, this one should win some sort of booby prize.

Dirty talk is an acquired taste. Like oysters, or caviar. Sure, maybe at first bite, dirty talk can seem a little awkward, even unsavory to some. But like a kalamata olive, it grows on you. And soon enough you’re ordering Greek salads like it’s your job and dirty talking like you never owned a copy of Emily Post’s Etiquette. I am not criticizing such behavior. Something about glass houses and stones and throwing them. I dirty talk. I like it. I do it all the time. I want to hear it. There. I said it. As cleanly as I know how. 

I noticed Bob before he noticed me. He looked like the kind of guy you have sex with in barroom bathrooms and the backseats of cars. When he said “Hey” as I brushed past him in the Cold & Sinus aisle of Walgreen’s, I hesitated. I knew that “Hey.” It was the cocky “Hey” of a man who’s good in bed and bad at everything else. He’ll stand you up for dinner, but he can guarantee you multiple orgasms before breakfast. I knew better. I agreed to meet him for coffee later that night. 

I should have known the relationship was doomed the moment he brought up his all-consuming hobby: race car driving.

I spent an entire summer in the sticks of Ohio and Pennsylvania, feeling like an idiot as my then-boyfriend Sam, his dad, and a friend worked on the car, which was black and blue and with a giant wing on top. It looked like an alien bug on wheels. The first time I came to a race, his mom told me to dress casually, but my outfit (jeans, a striped t-shirt, red flats, and big sunglasses) might as well have been a ball gown compared to the giant silk-screened shirts everyone else was sporting. Sitting in a lawn chair in the driver pit, I folded the cover of the New York Times magazine to hide the abortion cover story and offered everyone soy nuts. From the stands, I watched cars flame out, crash into each other, and kick up dirt. I prayed for one of the cars to mow me over and texted all my friends, “One of these things is not like the other….”

Just because Paris is the city of love doesn’t mean its men know much about the subject.

Take it from me, someone who spent a year chasing after French men, only to find the pursuit to be disappointing, and at times, disturbing.

I arrived in Paris a few days before my twentieth birthday, full of hope. I was about to spend the next twelve months studying and living in one of the most exciting cities in the world. While I had certain goals in mind—becoming fluent, seeing every museum, and learning how to cook French cuisine—I wanted most of all to find a Parisian lover. I had spent the last two years at Smith College, an all-women’s institution in Massachusetts, not getting laid. There was no way I was going to allow this to happen in such a romantic city.

It was our first date and we talked for 10 hours straight before Jeff kissed me, shaking as he leaned in. He didn’t have to lean far—I had given him nowhere else to go when I pinned him against a chain-link fence outside the coffee shop where we had stopped to refuel. Despite my disregard for ladylike restraint, he called me the next day. And the day after that. Two months later, we were still talking and kissing, but that was it. In the time span I normally dated, slept with, and broke up with at least one guy, Jeff was still getting flustered when he accidentally grazed my cleavage.

For the record, when the press refers disparagingly to Manhattan intellectuals, I feel insulted. I’m not a Nascar fan. I don’t really get “The Hills.” I don’t call Barack Obama by his middle name. I like a lot of cultural things. I love contemporary art. I majored in Philosophy. I’m more than happy to eat sweetbreads. However, if there’s a street festival anywhere in the Manhattan area, I will find it, because I know that they will be selling deep fried Oreos. And while I don’t get “The Hills,” I completely and utterly get “The Girls Next Door” and am shocked that Hef and Holly have called it quits. One of my greatest dreams is to see a monster truck rally.

I like to think of myself as a fair, open-minded individual. I have my opinions, sure, but I certainly don’t begrudge anyone for holding a different set of views than I do. In the past, I’ve dated plenty of guys with whom I don’t always agree, like the guy who counted Phil Collins as a personal hero, or the dude who thought yellow was “his color,” and then there was the guy who wouldn’t drink Belgian beer because he said it was “un-American.” Un-American! He had a refrigerator full of Budweiser that I overlooked because that’s just the kind of flexible, open-minded person I am.

Some women would be thrilled to have a guy who didn’t want head, ever, but not me. I knew one guy was not going to be a match when he gently pushed my mouth away when I moved to go down on him, saying, “That’s okay; I don’t usually come that way anyway.” To me, that was all the more reason to try! But he wasn’t offering up the statement as the start of a conversation; that was it. I didn’t bother expressing my disappointment, just vowed not to go home with him again.

There was a banging at the door as Brian* flushed the toilet. I was sitting on the couch of his mother’s townhouse, where he lived with her and his half-brother. Brian emerged from the bathroom and opened the front door to reveal a mangy-looking man walking away from the stoop. “I’m calling the police!” Brian’s mother yelled from upstairs.

The Brit was someone I can describe only as Lord Marcus on “Gossip Girl.” Well, except for the title and the vast family riches. Nine years older than me, the Brit was a U.K. transplant in the banking industry and a sweet, sweet man. Not only did he own a house across the pond, but he would sometimes bring small index cards on which he’d previously jotted down the names of nice restaurants we could go to after quick drinks or karaoke, depending on where we had agreed to meet. He was thoughtful, attentive, and thoroughly romantic, especially with that hot British accent.

One night, after an insanely fun night of boozy karaoke and a seafood dinner with entree-appropriate wine, he dropped me off at the door of my apartment. He then swept me up in his arms and spun me around, right in next to a busy street, for God and everyone else to see. I was floored. This was the stuff of Seventeen magazine fairytale dates – the ones I had looked forward to in high school that never materialized…until now. Giggling and semi-swooning, I kissed him goodnight and walked up the stairs to my apartment happy.

I can learn more about a man at dessert than any other time.

When it comes down to it, isn’t dessert the reason for a date? Witty conversation and sex appeal aside, it’s dessert that seals the deal. Lest I sound shallow, I can authenticate the efficacy of this dessert-litmus test. I can predict — with surprising accuracy — how long the relationship will last based on his dessert order. 

Dudes in bands: They’re creative, laid back, they’re hot, they have great music collections, they’re sensitive, and very often, they’re funny without being as damaged as comedians. What’s not to like? Let’s discuss.

There was the Luke Skywalker look-alike who drummed for so many bands I couldn’t keep track of them all. (Although, as a drummer, does he really count as a musician? Wocka wocka!) Practices and shows took priority over time with me, so I was competing with an unknown amount of other rock dudes probably numbering somewhere in the dozens, and decidedly losing that competition. The drummer boy flaked out on me. He reappeared to apologize profusely for his disappearing act, we had a great discussion over dinner about us, and how we were going to start over and do it right this time because both of us really understood where the other one was at. Then he promptly flaked again. He’s now married to another musician who, it turns out, has also flaked on me.

James was the boyfriend who did everything right.

He asked me out first, and asked me out again the very next day. He didn’t play games. He called if he’d be late, if he missed me, just to say hello. He listened patiently. He dressed well. He told me I was beautiful whether I was opera-ready in a ballgown or sweaty from a day-long hike. He’d plan lavish marathon dates with rooftop picnics or bonfires on the beach. He was tall, athletic, and good-looking. He held the door for women, and not just the attractive ones. He loved me.

My friends approved. My brother hung out with him. My parents loved him. James, it seemed, was good enough for everyone.

But no one was good enough for James.

The next best thing to having your own wedding is getting invited to one by your boyfriend. There’s something about a man who wants you on his arm at a celebration of love—with the added lubricant of an open bar. So when my boyfriend Mike asked me to be his date to his friend’s big day, I was so excited I nearly went into debt over a pricey cheese plate present and a new dress with matching lingerie—not that I planned on keeping it all on that night.

If you’re an Arrested Development fan (if you’re not, shame on you!) you’ve certainly had a good laugh or three at Tobias Funke, the never-nude. In sitcom humor, the idea of a grown man who refuses to be naked is funny but, let me tell you, in real life it is not. In fact, it’s near tragic.

My first boyfriend was, well, my first everything. He certainly wouldn’t have won a Brad Pitt lookalike contest, in fact, he probably wouldn’t have even been invited to compete, but he was funny and that’s how he hooked me. We were both in high school, but he had more bedroom experience than I did so I always let him take the lead, which is why I never questioned his insistence on leaving on his undershirt. That’s right, he’d take off his polo or his long-sleeve t-shirt but never that white Hanes V-neck. I always thought he kept it on just in case the parents returned home early. Now that I look back on it, I see how absurd that was.

There are so many things involved in attraction. From clothing to chemistry, a never-ending list of items can be turn-offs.  But sometimes differences are a turn-on, from magnets to men, you know what they say: opposites attract. Still, some things are so repellent, they’re deal breakers.

I truly believe that the number one reason to get a boyfriend is to let yourself go. Not like “let yourself go” in a Britney kind of way – that’s scary – but let yourself go in a “let’s get a little fat together” kind of way. You get to do things in a couple that you don’t get to do when you’re single. Like get popcorn at the movies. Or spend an entire day drinking beer and eating buffalo wings any time between, I don’t know, September and January (football season). Good, wholesome, highly caloric activities that involve a lot of sitting. That’s high quality couple time.

It is with this mentality that I enter most relationships – which is why when I began dating a Manorexic, I quickly recognized the symptoms and got the eff out of there. My Manorexic—let’s call him Craig (as in Jenny)—seemed great. He was smart, handsome, gainfully employed, drank in moderation, and still had both balls – I was sold.

Your Birthday: it’s the one day a year you are guaranteed to have someone trying to do you.  Even when you’re single, you can line a little somethin’ somethin’ up. But sometimes another candle on your cake is the only thing you can count on.

I had been dating this dude for what I considered a fab four months. The sex was so hot from the start, we never spent more than a night apart.  Plus, he had a great record collection (housed in adult furniture), the most lovable dog on the planet, and the cutest butt. I liked him almost as much as I like bacon.

I was newly on the rebound (read: heartbroken), and had been invited by a friend who knew the deal to a downtown hipster party full of sexy, artsy guys. I proceeded to immediately knock back a few free drinks, then flirt my way through the throngs of smart artistes. One struck my fancy, with his Southern drawl, earnest voice, and red hair. He was sweet, and super talented, and cute in a non-overpowering way. I knew he liked me, but he wasn’t putting the hard sell on getting in my pants. So of course I went home with him.

We got to his apartment and tipsily made out, and soon our clothes were off. I got on top of him and we started having sex. Now, I’m a talkative girl whether I’ve been drinking or not, and one of the places I love to run my mouth is in the bedroom. I don’t remember exactly what I said—the sex wasn’t that earth-shattering—but I know there were a few “That feels good”s and whisperings of his name. I’d thought he was having just as good a time as I was, until we talked the next day.

Food is one of the great joys of life. Or it is for most people. And when I say “most people”, I mean me.
For my ex, food was fuel, nothing more – something to be burped down between video games, beer-drinking sessions and advancing his engineering career. While studying for his degree, his dinner would routinely consist of half a loaf of bread, two packets of cookies and a large bottle of Coke. Seriously.
That’s okay when you’re a bachelor (as long as your cholesterol can take it) but can you imagine how difficult it is to keep a relationship going when your interests in food are so unbalanced? We’d go to grab dinner and a movie, but be finished with our drive-thru so soon we had hours to kill before the opening credits rolled. And it’s hard to get really romantic over a meal without wine… or a table.