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. Keep reading »
If you saw Derek* and me on the streets of New York, you might have thought we were a normal couple. You might have seen us sipping cocktails at a bar with our hands intertwined, lip-locked on the sidewalk. We might have been gazing into each other’s eyes so intently that we didn’t notice you gawking and muttering, “Get a room,” under your breath. You might have seen us on the front stoop of your building, licking ice cream cones and thought that we were in love. Keep reading »
I am newly single (again). After a fun, but exhausting, up-and-down five months, my boyfriend-ish-person and I broke up this week. I’m sad about it — I really did fall for him and had so much fun with him. But I’m also a little relieved. The drama was wearing thin. Plus, he hated my clothes. Yeah. My clothes. Keep reading »
Recently a rather naive friend was telling me about the new girl he was dating. They’d been out a few times, but he hadn’t heard from her since the last date, when he went over to her place and then had to lie down because he felt sick.
Now, wait just a minute. What? No, no, no! I took him to task. I won’t agree to the oft-voiced claim that women flat-out don’t want nice guys. But I will admit to drunkenly advising this friend that he has to be a little bit more like an asshole if he doesn’t want to come across as a pansy.
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I don’t really have a type — men are just plain sexy, especially when they’re approaching me with a smile. A funny, confident guy trying to get on my good side drives me wild. But if I look down at his hands and they’re all Busted McDirty, that’s my manscaping dealbreaker. Nails you are too lazy to cut, with dirt caked underneath and uneven breaks, don’t even try it, pal! I’m a germaphobe and you’re not gonna get your funky fingers all over me. Is that ridiculously shallow? Maybe. But you know I’m totes nail-obsessed. I cannot handle a man who can’t handle his hands. How’s he gonna care for me if his own digits don’t mean a thing to him?
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When I showed up at the bar, Doug* had not arrived yet. I had seen his picture (he was an online acquisition), so I knew roughly what to expect. I am not a superficial broad and I can usually find just about any dude attractive if he has a good personality. Based on the few emails we exchanged, I felt fairly certain that at worst Doug and I would bond as friends. His emails were funny, honest, and open. “Now that’s what I’m looking for!” I thought to myself. “A guy who can communicate!” Keep reading »