If our collective dating experience has taught us anything, it’s that sexual compatibility is key to a long-lasting relationship. And sexual compatibility requires both mental and physical attraction. (Yes, that sometimes includes but is not limited to penis size.) If at any point in a relationship one of these is missing, it is a disastrous dealbreaker…
He was two years younger, but incredibly mature and fiercely intelligent for a high school boy. We both wrote for the literary journal, and we bonded over our mutual love of J.D. Salinger. I texted him on the day Salinger passed away.
“How are you holding up?” I asked.
“I’ve been crying a lot. But thanks for checking in,” he replied.
I was infatuated. Keep reading »
It began with the mutual love of a band that I truly did like: The Specials. She was into ska … heavily into ska.Way more into ska than more high school aged kids should ever be.
I met Delia at the mall, where every high school kid hung out, sulked, loitered, and snuck cigarettes. In a sea of black tees and torn hoodies I spotted her in her plaid pants, checkered belt and suspenders. Through her second-hand, plaid blazer, I could see her No Doubt T-shirt. Immediately, I knew I wanted her and would do whatever it took to win her over.
I had only ever listened to punk and had never considered ska an option until she asked me to accompany her to a Reel Big Fish show in downtown Hartford. As she skanked through the crowd (that’s a ska dance move for those who are unfamiliar), I began to feel pangs of intense attraction. After the show, we sat in my car and she introduced me to more ska music. Prince Buster from the ’60s, The Specials from the ’70′s, the English Beat from the ’80s, and some of the best No Doubt B-sides from the ’90s. I was more into her than the music, but the two became synonymous. When I thought of Delia, I thought of ska. We kissed and I knew what I had to do if I wanted to keep dating her: become a ska fan. Keep reading »
The other day, I made a list of every guy I’ve ever dated seriously, dated a couple times, dated until I got the “Oh no, there’s been an emergency and I must leave immediately!” phone call, or made out with and never actually dated at all.
To put it simply, the list was rather lengthy. Like, extremely lengthy. In doing this, I realized that every single one of these guys had some kind of dealbreaker. Obviously, because I’m still single. There was the guy who wanted to get married after the first date. There was the guy who gave me mono and literally ran away from me when I tried to talk to him about it, which was pretty rude considering I had mono and couldn’t really run after him. The list goes on. I could write about these dealbreakers forever, and I probably will because a lot of them are hilarious. But there’s a problem.
It occurred to me that while I’ve often been the one to do the breaking up/ignoring until they get the hint and go away, it hasn’t always been my call. Could it be that — gasp! — I’m not perfect either? As much crap as I give the guys I’ve dated, I’m just as guilty of being a weirdo as they are. What if, on some website in some alternate universe where guys write publicly about their feelings, one of the guys on my really long list wrote about the dealbreakers he discovered when it came to dating me? Here are some ideas for him, so he doesn’t have to work too hard to finish his blog post: Keep reading »
It all started with a cat.
I used to like cats. Or I didn’t totally despise them. They can be super cute when they act like dogs.
I stopped liking cats on my second date with Jerry* (as in Springer, as in the show he totally is going to be on someday). We had made pre-dinner, “hmm this sounds tasty” chit-chat, ordered some chicken fried rice and had finally moved on to serious second dates topics like favorite TV shows, embarrassing childhood stories and oh, how his fantasy is to have sex with lots of girls at one time. Also, we talked about cats.
“I used to live with a cat,” he told me in the most awkward way possible.
“Like … you had a cat as a roommate?” I asked, totally making fun of the way in which he phrased that statement.
“Well, it was actually my wife’s cat.” Keep reading »
The first day I met Jason* he told me he was a virgin and a “nice guy” – which was why, according to him, he was unable to get many dates.
“Women are only interested in dating guys who treat them like shit,” he told me.
The virgin thing wasn’t by choice, he claimed, it was just that “nice guys always get friend-zoned.” He made it clear right away that he was interested in me, but I wasn’t attracted to him at first.
He wasn’t really my type physically, but that wasn’t the only reason I wasn’t into him initially. I’ve just never gotten hot for guys who feel the need to tell me about their sexual experiences (or lack thereof) or whine about their dating life (or lack thereof) before we’ve even gone on a first date. Plus, I still had an on-again off-again thing with an ex. So, there was that.
But once I got to know Jason, I saw that he was funny and smart, and we had a few things in common. In a college city where everyone always wanted to be out all night clubbing, he was one of the few people I knew who was content to occasionally spend a night in, just watching Adult Swim or playing an old Sega game. We quickly became friends. (Or, as Jason would say, he quickly became friend-zoned.) Keep reading »
Whenever I start dating someone new, they become acquainted with “The Big Three” — the three ex-girlfriends who impacted my life in the most negative ways possible. The Big Three include: the girl who tricked me into an open relationship, the girl who turned out to be a white supremacist, and, lastly, the girl who was a compulsive liar. For anonymity’s sake, I’ll refer to her as Lena, because I don’t know anyone named Lena and I highly doubt Lena Dunham is reading my article under her quilt made of hundred dollar bills.
I met Lena at work and it was dirty, ravenous lust at first sight. We decided to spend the evening together and had one of those romantic nights doing kitschy, hipster errands that every “500 Days of Summer” loving American guy dreams about doing with a pretty girl. We learned about each other; I told her about my obsession with “Planet of The Apes,” she told me about her love of punk music. Lena and I headed back to my conveniently empty apartment with a bottle of wine, six-pack of PBR, and two copies of “Face/Off” and proceeded to get absolutely spooky with each other all night long. Keep reading »
In case you didn’t already know, the people you meet in Los Angeles are unlike anyone else in the world. Always trying to become the next big thing, there is “the actor” (a waiter who’s been an extra on “Glee”… once), “the screenwriter” (a misunderstood blogger who lives on his mom’s couch), and of course “the agent” (an assistant who gets screamed at for 20 hours a day, all the while pretty much hating his existence). Unfortunately, starting out in the entertainment biz, I didn’t know any of this.
Something else I didn’t know: living in The Valley sucks. Remember in “Clueless” when Cher goes to the Valley party and gets held at gunpoint? Yeah, I’m pretty positive it was at the gas station on my block.
I was young and naïve and starting my first grown-up job in the film industry, (by “grown-up” I mean hourly pay, no benefits and doing someone else’s bitch work) when I met Ben* for the first time. Keep reading »
I’ve never been fond of being called “nice.” Nice, to me, is a consolation-prize adjective; it’s a lazy descriptor you use for a person who isn’t interesting enough to rate a few more syllables. Nice is for potholders and admirable recycling habits, for neutral weather patterns and cuts of salmon. Even the slightly more enthusiastic, stoner-drawl version of the word, Niiiiiiice!, and its cousin, Sweeeeet! are usually reserved for cars, surfable waves, or extensions of deadlines. Or, you know, marijuana.
And yet, people generally tend to label me as nice and sweet, and I suppose, in my wussy way, I am. It pains me to be rude to telemarketers. I always repost Facebook pictures of abandoned puppies. I do recycle responsibly – what of it?
So when, on our first date Joe*, a guy who I’d met at a bar, said I was a “nice girl,” it wasn’t immediately a dealbreaker. Nice is a cross I’ve borne for a long time, and if I ruled out every guy who called me it, I would be restricted to a dating pool comprised only of surly, rage-provoking DMV employees. Keep reading »
At the tender age of 19, I had only seen a total of four penises: the guy who got into my bed naked after a rave in high school; my boyfriend who I lost my virginity to senior year; the balding dorm mate who I gave an unfortunate blow job to while a James Bond movie played in the background; the older dude I had casual sex with my entire freshman year and most of my sophomore year of college. I had only slept with two of these penises, but this I assure you, all four were of modest size. (I can say this with confidence now that I’m older and have seen many a dick.)
This is where I was at in my sexual evolution when I started dating William*. He lived in my dorm sophomore year and came over sometimes to hang out and wanted to listen to, of all things, Tori Amos. I know! A 19-year-old boy who likes Tori Amos? William’s admission of Tori Amos fandom made him instantaneously more attractive to me. Not that he wasn’t already attractive. With his bleached-blond hair, piercings and post-punk style, when he leaned over and kissed me as “Pretty Good Year” played on my stereo then leaned over and whispered, “I want to fuck you on my balcony,” I felt something I had never experienced before: raging desire. Keep reading »