This week’s standout caller on Dan Savage’s “Savage Love” podcast was the kind of guy you hope you never encounter, the kind of dude you hope your son never becomes. This gentleman had recently had sexual relations with a girl in his bed and when she left, he noticed that she had gotten some period blood on his white sheets. He wanted Dan’s opinion on whether it was her responsibility to replace them. The kicker? They were flannel sheets. Not 800-thread count Egyptian cotton. Flannel. Sigh. Keep reading »
There exists a school of thought that dictates if you think something catastrophic, then it won’t happen. What would happen if my family died in a car accident? What would happen if my house caught on fire? Two summers ago, I asked myself: Wouldn’t it suck if my first love met someone unexpectedly and got over me before I could begin to move on? Thankfully, my family and my house are safe, but my feelings, my love life, and my ego still need mending. Keep reading »
Here’s my worst first date story: she told me she was lactose intolerant, but ordered the French onion soup. I thought, “How irresponsible.” Every woman I know has at least one horrifying dating disaster tale. Most women have multiple ones. They usually begin with “I met him on Match.com” or “He was the best friend of my second cousin’s college roommate” and end with a daring escape, a mad dash into a cab, and unhinged texts from the guy for the next two weeks.
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According to my mom, the three hallmarks of adulthood are appreciating jazz, a taste for cantaloupe, and sleeping in a bed that is larger than a twin. Unfortunately, Mom’s wisdom does not apply to dudes here in New York City, specifically in the arty enclave of Brooklyn, in which I dwell. Sure, they have the jazz and melon part down, but what about the boys whose rooms I’ve stumbled into, ready for action, just to discover that—really? We’re working with a twin-sized bed? Keep reading »
Peter owning up to Googling me on our first date should have been the first warning sign. Don’t get me wrong: I Google, you Google, we all Google acquaintances. Doing it in private is one thing. Saying it out loud is another.
“Did I tell you who I work for?” I asked. It was technically a blind date, as we’d corresponded only a few times through an online dating service.
“Oh, no, but I think I know,” he said.
“How is that possible?”
“Oh, well … I Googled you.” Point blank. I Googled you. Keep reading »
It was a drizzly night, and I was walking down the street with Luke, my boyfriend at the time, to a comedy club where he was performing that night. He held an umbrella over my head and had his arm wrapped around my shoulder. I should have been giddy, but instead I felt apprehensive. We’d been dating for a few months, but this was the first time I was going to one of his shows.
“So, you’re not going to make fun of me, are you?” I asked, flashing back to Jerry Seinfeld and man hands and close talking. What if he called me out in public on some absurd quirk I never knew existed?
“No,” he said. “That’s a cheap laugh.” His material was more sophisticated, even a touch political, he said.
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When it comes to boyfriends, I have never gone for the sentimental type. Maybe it’s because my dad is the sort of guy who likes to sit in the backyard and throw knives at trees. Maybe it’s because I’m not so great at talking about feelings myself. Whatever the reason is, I’ve always had boyfriends that appreciated my ability to chug beer and refer to my breasts as “fun bags.” I prided myself on being above all of that romantic mush, but it turned out, I wasn’t. Because when a guy did show up and started telling me about his feelings right away, I was charmed. What I should have been was suspicious. Keep reading »
Emotional cripples. Religious zealots. Man-babies. My recent dating roster could serve as a police lineup of degenerates, liars, and serious letdowns. Naturally, I’m hypersensitive to red flags these days. So when a guy I’m interested in tells me that he’s a “bisexual,” shouldn’t I run? Perhaps. But once I got the initial panic out of the way (OK, I called my friend and frantically yelled, “911! 911!”), I let his confession marinate. Then I decided I’m not going anywhere. Or, if I do, it’ll have nothing to do with his half-gayness.
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There are some dates that make you want to open the freezer and drink straight from the vodka bottle the minute you come home. Last Saturday night was one of those dates. He was cute, blond, dimpled; he screamed Abercrombie and frat houses.
After numerous conversations with girlfriends demanding I open my world and date men other than my type (old, neurotic and insane), I decided to go on a date with a clean-cut guy who was my age, normal, and seemingly had all his marbles. Keep reading »