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 »
I noticed Bob before he noticed me. He looked like the kind of guy you have sex with in barroom bathrooms and the backseats of cars. When he said “Hey” as I brushed past him in the Cold & Sinus aisle of Walgreen’s, I hesitated. I knew that “Hey.” It was the cocky “Hey” of a man who’s good in bed and bad at everything else. He’ll stand you up for dinner, but he can guarantee you multiple orgasms before breakfast. I knew better. I agreed to meet him for coffee later that night.
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Just because Paris is the city of love doesn’t mean its men know much about the subject.
Take it from me, someone who spent a year chasing after French men, only to find the pursuit to be disappointing, and at times, disturbing.
I arrived in Paris a few days before my twentieth birthday, full of hope. I was about to spend the next twelve months studying and living in one of the most exciting cities in the world. While I had certain goals in mind—becoming fluent, seeing every museum, and learning how to cook French cuisine—I wanted most of all to find a Parisian lover. I had spent the last two years at Smith College, an all-women’s institution in Massachusetts, not getting laid. There was no way I was going to allow this to happen in such a romantic city. Keep reading »
It was our first date and we talked for 10 hours straight before Jeff kissed me, shaking as he leaned in. He didn’t have to lean far — I had given him nowhere else to go when I pinned him against a chain-link fence outside the coffee shop where we had stopped to refuel. Despite my disregard for ladylike restraint, he called me the next day. And the day after that. Two months later, we were still talking and kissing, but that was it. In the time span I normally dated, slept with, and broke up with at least one guy, Jeff was still getting flustered when he accidentally grazed my cleavage.
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For the record, when the press refers disparagingly to Manhattan intellectuals, I feel insulted. I’m not a Nascar fan. I don’t really get “The Hills.” I don’t call Barack Obama by his middle name. I like a lot of cultural things. I love contemporary art. I majored in Philosophy. I’m more than happy to eat sweetbreads. However, if there’s a street festival anywhere in the Manhattan area, I will find it, because I know that they will be selling deep fried Oreos. And while I don’t get “The Hills,” I completely and utterly get “The Girls Next Door” and am shocked that Hef and Holly have called it quits. One of my greatest dreams is to see a monster truck rally.
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I like to think of myself as a fair, open-minded individual. I have my opinions, sure, but I certainly don’t begrudge anyone for holding a different set of views than I do. In the past, I’ve dated plenty of guys with whom I don’t always agree, like the guy who counted Phil Collins as a personal hero, or the dude who thought yellow was “his color,” and then there was the guy who wouldn’t drink Belgian beer because he said it was “un-American.” Un-American! He had a refrigerator full of Budweiser that I overlooked because that’s just the kind of flexible, open-minded person I am. Keep reading »
Some women would be thrilled to have a guy who didn’t want head, ever, but not me. I knew one guy was not going to be a match when he gently pushed my mouth away when I moved to go down on him, saying, “That’s okay; I don’t usually come that way anyway.” To me, that was all the more reason to try! But he wasn’t offering up the statement as the start of a conversation; that was it. I didn’t bother expressing my disappointment, just vowed not to go home with him again. Keep reading »
There was a banging at the door as Brian* flushed the toilet. I was sitting on the couch of his mother’s townhouse, where he lived with her and his half-brother. Brian emerged from the bathroom and opened the front door to reveal a mangy-looking man walking away from the stoop. “I’m calling the police!” Brian’s mother yelled from upstairs. Keep reading »
The Brit was someone I can describe only as Lord Marcus on “Gossip Girl.” Well, except for the title and the vast family riches. Nine years older than me, the Brit was a U.K. transplant in the banking industry and a sweet, sweet man. Not only did he own a house across the pond, but he would sometimes bring small index cards on which he’d previously jotted down the names of nice restaurants we could go to after quick drinks or karaoke, depending on where we had agreed to meet. He was thoughtful, attentive, and thoroughly romantic, especially with that hot British accent.
One night, after an insanely fun night of boozy karaoke and a seafood dinner with entree-appropriate wine, he dropped me off at the door of my apartment. He then swept me up in his arms and spun me around, right in next to a busy street, for God and everyone else to see. I was floored. This was the stuff of Seventeen magazine fairytale dates – the ones I had looked forward to in high school that never materialized…until now. Giggling and semi-swooning, I kissed him goodnight and walked up the stairs to my apartment happy.
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I can learn more about a man at dessert than any other time.
When it comes down to it, isn’t dessert the reason for a date? Witty conversation and sex appeal aside, it’s dessert that seals the deal. Lest I sound shallow, I can authenticate the efficacy of this dessert-litmus test. I can predict — with surprising accuracy — how long the relationship will last based on his dessert order. Keep reading »