As I see it, there should be no discussion of a relationship, or exclusivity, within the first three months of dating. Those three months should be a drama and ultimatum-free zone. No jealousy or commitment. Just a period of savoring; the gritty, totally worth it hard work can come later. Save it, potentially, for the rest of your life.

If something works between two people, then there is no rush. That “click” will still be there in three months, and hopefully six, and a year, etc. And once you find that unlucky slob who will Eskimo kiss you when you’re sick, all you have to do in order to preserve your new found mutual attraction is to chill the f**k out, have faith, and not flinch. Let it happen.

I have never met a woman who thought she was bad in bed. I have known plenty of women who can rattle off an impromptu, critical dissertation on the carnal failings of most men. “He didn’t get me off.” “He treated my nipples like Xbox control sticks.” “He came before his pants were off.”

No, not all women are great in bed. Is the onus on dudes to break the bedsprings? I say no. It is both of our responsibilities to be the best lay possible. There are women who kick back Cleopatra-style and dare their men to please them. Women who use men like giant, hairy vibrators, and women who are so eager to please, it can be overwhelming.

1. I think I’m awesome, but seriously, why do you think I’m awesome?

2. I can speak dolphin. Which is how I help them.

3. I don’t have a driver’s license and I don’t know how to drive a car. But I know how to drive the ladies wild and I have a license to freak, freak you sweet and spicy, freak you like a jungle cat made out of lava.

4. I write poetry. Here’s a sample, “She walks in beauty, like the night/Of cloudless climes and starry skies/And all that’s best of dark and bright/Meets in her aspect and her eyes.” I just made that up, right now, on the spot.

5. Yes I can, did, will, etc.

Valentine’s Day shouldn’t be about who loves you, but who you love. It’s the one day out of the year when you should make a personal accounting of those people in your life who make you gleefully vomit little candy hearts. Being loved back isn’t nearly as important in life as boldly, recklessly, sincerely loving someone regardless of any returns on investment. Making love, not taking it, is the primary occupation of the human condition, our core programming, whether we realize it or accept it or not. All other activities and pursuits are secondary.

Instead, Valentine’s Day feels like emotional extortion. To many men, it’s an inconvenience to dread, a relationship hoop set aflame that one must deftly prance through like an expertly trained poodle. And to other men, it’s a day of opportunity.

A sensitive guy’s emotional availability is decorative, a means by which to exploit a woman’s weakness for men who are not total beer-powered, boxer shorts wearing Guitar Heroes with mommy issues and 18 gigabytes of porn hidden in a computer file named “Unicorns.”  This sort of dude displays his sensitivity with emo mixtapes, passionate rants on fluffy political issues like being pro-bunny rabbit or anti-death from shrapnel, and professions of understanding the subtle intricacies of the female heart.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

Trojan condoms report their highest sales of the year take place in the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. Researchers attribute this spike to holiday downtime, New Year’s resolutions to get knocked up, and booze-fueled Yuletide revelry. It seems counterintuitive, and almost profane, that a holiday most associated with innocence and children would also be a holiday of steamy boot knocking. But I suspect it has something to do with my favorite Christmas movie. And my favorite Christmas movie isn’t even a Christmas movie.

We here at The Frisky live for celeb gossip, chocolate, and your comments. What can we say, you bitches crack us up! So in honor of you, our smart, sexy, and incisive readers, who aren’t afraid to talk smack on the Internet, we’re giving away prizes!  Each week well award five of you an awesome internet chatty Cathy’s a little something special.  This weeks winner’s will receive the classic flapper handbook, Live Alone And Like It! So, without further adieu, here are the lucky winners of this week’s Commenter’s Ball…

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.

The current historic economic nosedive has two unintended consequences. One of them is that hobos just aren’t really cute anymore. Maybe they never were. All these years I thought they were adorable dirty clowns, carrying little bundles tied to the ends of sticks. I never realized those bundles were full of cans of beans and broken dreams.

The other consequence of what economists are finally calling a “recession” (and what I call “The Brokepocalypse”), is that we’re all, well, broke. Tightening our purse strings, gettin’ all thrifty, learning how to turn a bag of 99 cent ramen noodles into a gourmet feast. A lot of us are laid-off, and my heart goes out to you. As a society, we’ve all been living off credit, from the government to corporations to yours truly. It’s just the way it is. The manic pursuit of the Good Life has officially been detoured.

And this is the season to question what exactly is the good life? Is it expensive handbags and marked-up bottles of vodka at the clubs and the absolute coolest gizmo that will be obsolete before you take it out of its box? This holiday you should ask yourself: Which came first, the people you love or the big price tag on the gift?

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.

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.

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.

We here at The Frisky live for celeb gossip, chocolate, and your comments. What can we say, you bitches crack us up! So in honor of you, our smart, sexy, and incisive readers, who aren’t afraid to talk smack on the Internet, here are our five favorite comments from last week…

Most Surprising Kindred Spirit
Astrosexologist Kiki T from “Is Cindy McCain Cheating On Her Maverick?”
We Frisky gals love trampy pill poppers, but sometimes we’re even surprised by who can inspire us:

“Wow, that Cindy is wild. Between her pill popping and now an affair with an ‘80s washed up rock star, I’m beginning to like her!”

Yeah, Cindy McCain probably masturbates to hair metal ballads too!  Can’t you just hear John asking her to turn the volume on that rock ‘n’ roll racket down?

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.

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.

Here are some of the things I learned from watching the second season finale of AMC’s Emmy Award winning show “Mad Men”:

But the most important thing I learned from the last episode of “Mad Men” is that Don Draper, the chain-smoking, hard-drinking, skirt-chasing lead character, is a kind of pop Rorschach test for modern day cats and dames. Both men and women see something different in Don, played with chilled beefiness by Jon Hamm, and what we see is proof that there is still a primal disconnect between what women want in a man and what men want to be.