I’ve already told you why guys who don’t want head are a dealbreaker for me, but what about guys who just aren’t into sex? Yes, they exist. Anyone who tells you otherwise — that all men are 24/7 sex fiends — is either lying or has just been lucky enough not to meet the kind of guy I’m talking about: the sexless guy.
I’ve dated several guys who, from what I can tell, have a take it or leave it attitude toward sex, with an emphasis on leaving it. Why, you may ask, did I, someone who writes about sex almost every day, wind up with them? I don’t really know, but I did. And the worst part about it is not the physical withdrawal; I’m not the kind of girl who needs to do it every day (though that would be nice). Keep reading »
We met fresh out of college, when we both worked at a law firm. All the ladies in the office chirped about his thick hair, cooed over his broad-shouldered frame, whispered about his posh upbringing and slick pedigree. I found him arrogant and self-consumed.
I took an interest in him only after he started bringing a lacrosse stick to work. My crush deepened the first time I heard him speak with passion about his gun. This was not a euphemism — he actually had a gun. More specifically, he had a shotgun he kept in pieces in a bedroom that was, I later learned, cluttered with various trophies, medals, sticks, muscle balms, beaten running shoes, and athletic tape. Keep reading »
TheBabyWebsite.com has released what are considered to be Britain’s most unfortunate baby names. Seymour Butts and Ivana Tinkle aren’t on the list, but some of the names include Mary Christmas, Paige Turner, and Doug Hole. Isn’t this a form of child abuse? Anyway, this got the Frisky girls and I talking about what we’d do if a we were interested in or were dating had an unusual or horrible name. Would you be too embarrassed to even tell your friends you were dating a guy with, say, the last name “Hymen”? Would you even give the dude a chance? After the jump, the list of guy names that are potential dealbreakers. .
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I met him through mutual friends, and I noticed him immediately because he looked like my ex-best friend — but, like, a way hotter version of the ex-BFF. We hung out a few times, and one night, after some drunken bonding over tattoos and the psychological and scientific validity of the art of pickup, he asked if I was coming home with him, and I said yes.
What I was looking for at the time was a fun, casual fling with someone I could be friendly with — without it turning into anything emotional. Neither of us were into having a relationship, and I knew that he was seeing someone else casually, too. He was smart and sarcastic and seemed like the type to bottle up his feelings and never reveal them to me. I thought it was the perfect setup. Keep reading »
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 »
I’ll admit it, I think tattoos are dead sexy. There is no better conversation starter than that little sliver of ink peeking out from under a shirt sleeve or some surprise artwork on a half-naked dude, but like many women I’m less inclined to get all hot and bothered when the ink in question is, say, a thicket of barbed wire or that little dragon from Mariokart. Keep reading »
I met Mr. Life of the Party at a bar. I’d spotted him from across the room because he was funnier, taller, and cuter than everyone else. I marched over and told him as much. We talked for what seemed like hours, and before the night was over, he got a kiss and my number.
He called the next day, and we bantered wittily. Finally, he invited me to dinner that evening at his “favorite restaurant.” He gave me the address and asked me to meet him there.
I primped before heading to the designated location … only to learn the “restaurant” was a bar that served buffalo wings and the occasional nacho. Maybe he was trying to see if I was high-maintenance? Keep reading »
Judging by box office returns, hundreds of thousands of people went to see “Marley & Me,” the movie about that goofy yellow Lab. My ex-boyfriend was most certainly not one of them.
I met “Greg” online. Actually, a friend of mine hand-selected him for me, apparently because when left to my own devices I choose poorly. In any event, Greg and I met for dinner, and I thought I’d struck gold. He was quick-witted, employed, and even mocked his own bald spot. So, at the end of dessert, when he went on a rant about how dogs smell and are “pathetic substitutes for children,” I refrained from punching him in the face and instead agreed to a second date. Besides, I thought, he might say he’s not a dog person, but once he meets my amazing dog Perry, all bets would be off. I mean, have you seen Perry? Keep reading »
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. Keep reading »
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. Keep reading »