Here’s a poorly kept secret: Men are also from Venus. That’s what I’ve learned after six years of writing for The New York Times wedding section—also known as the Ladies’ Sports Pages.
Sure, a few thousand years’ history of raping and pillaging suggests otherwise, but beneath the stubble and the Sportscenter addiction, most men are as confused, vulnerable and romantic as women when it comes to falling in love.
Did I mention I’m also one of those men? Keep reading »
In the 2007 remake of “3:10 to Yuma,” Christian Bale’s character loses his leg while fighting in the Civil War. As compensation, the government gives him a sum of money, which he uses to attempt to forge a new life. After he fails miserably, he realizes that the government never actually cared about helping him. They just wanted to erase any obligation they had. He sums up his disillusionment more cynically than anything Batman ever came up with: The government didn’t give him the money so he could walk away. They gave him the money so they could walk away.
Recently, I discovered that the same idea applies to dating. Keep reading »
Think of the best first date you ever went on.
Got it? Okay, what did you do immediately afterwards?
If you’re like some women I’ve been out with, you called up your best friend and gushed all about the date. You even posted a not-so-subtle status update on Facebook. Something along the lines of, “Just had an AMAZING night!”
Now, here’s my next—and more important—question:
Before you gushed to your best friend, before you flaunted your euphoria all over Facebook, did you ever stop to consider how your date might have felt about that “amazing” night?
One scenario I encounter frequently on dating advice sites is the woman who goes on a fabulous first date, only to find herself confused when she never hears from that guy again. So, she’s left to wonder … What happened?
“The date went so well. We had so much fun and clicked so amazingly. He was hot and charming and intelligent. I was hot and charming and intelligent. He couldn’t take his eyes off me the whole night So… why didn’t he call again?!” Keep reading »
There was nothing wrong with her. She was not to blame. She was the apotheosis of lust, comprising every element of cisgendered sex from the grrrl-next-door to the bust-down. I wanted her. I needed her. It’s just that this time — this one time — I couldn’t orgasm. Yes, I loved sex, and yes, I loved her, but my body wasn’t cooperating. It’s just wasn’t going to happen that night. It had nothing to do with how I felt about her. She had no reason to feel inadequate.
I repeated the sentiments above to her for two hours. I did it while naked, sweaty, and lying next to her existential crisis. Young and dumb, I believed honesty was the easiest policy. I underestimated the alacrity with which my partner would adopt my malfunction as her own. To her, a man’s orgasm was a simple machine. To not successfully “operate” such a thing felt like the cruelest sleight to her femininity. Obviously, this was not the truth. Unfortunately, the truth rarely has a place with young lovers. I vowed to never repeat such an ordeal. But to keep that promise, I knew sometimes I’d have to fake it. Here’s what I did… Keep reading »
I’ve always prized the uniqueness of my first name. Pronunciation is lost but the singularity is worth the explanations and corrections during introductions. After my wife Olivia and I were married last August, I was excited about the opportunity to conceive a new last name together. We knew that the hyphenation of our last names to Hoselton-Hopkins was too clumsy and conjoining them into a new name, Hopelton or Hoselkin, was even worse.
Alright, gents, the holiday of all holidays is upon us. That’s right, the heart shaped mongoose has stretched its legs, and like the lazy lion relying on the hunt, we need to chase after it. But there’s nothing worse than running after the rodent only to find out that’s it’s a goddamned rat. While Valentine’s Day itself may be a little slice of heaven, the days that follow threaten a year’s worth of love. When our girlfriends talk amongst themselves and it’s revealed that your Duane Reade chocolates were trumped by Jerry’s box of Godiva truffles. Or your dinner and a movie was nothing compared to Sam’s tickets to Carnegie Hall’s “Concert For Lovers.” Out goes any of the goodwill you get for making any effort at all. What I’m suggesting is ground rules, boys. Yes, ground rules. So we all can get on the same page, and no one comes out smelling like a long-stem rose. Here are my proposed V-Day gift-giving guidelines to level the playing field … Keep reading »
Drunken logic is a beautiful thing. When that perfect amount of booze sloshes around the canals of your brain, dipping here, crashing there, telling you that it’s probably a really good idea to steal lipstick from your friend’s girlfriend, apply that lipstick on your mouth, approach an attractive woman coming out of the bar and pretend that the two of you just made out in the bathroom. Keep reading »
I’m known amongst my friends as a serial dater. I enjoy going on first dates. Or I used to. In the last few years, I began to feel an encroaching anxiety before every first date. There was one thing standing between me and enjoying dating. It was a monster. Every time I met a girl I liked, I would sit at my computer and open my browser. My fingers would start tapping. And I couldn’t resist. Clicking. Going through images. Info.
“Look what I have to show you,” the monster would beckon me. And it had a lot to show me.
It knew my date’s favorite books, movies, music, even quotes. It knew her interests. It showcased videos of her with friends. And worst of all it was the gatekeeper of her photos. Sometimes just a few, sometimes hundreds, thousands. So many photos of the girl I hadn’t even gone out with yet! The monster would only show her good ones, of course. The bad ones were untagged, which made me wonder what the bad ones looked like. That monster was Facebook. And it was ruining my ability to date like a normal human being. Keep reading »
The e-mail simply read: I’ll pay you $350.
I lay down and thought about this. I thought about a three, a five and a zero. How pretty they looked altogether, no periods to dash out the mass. How nice they would look in my empty piggy bank. I thought about what was being asked of me for the $350. The man wanted me to, shall we say, pleasure myself in front of him. As a straight 21-year-old, newbie journalist, this wasn’t really what I had expected when signing on to do an article about sex parties for a hipster-porn-rag mag.
But this is where my “literary” endeavors had led me — to possible prostitution. The want and need for our readers to hear what it’s like for me, a young Jewish man, living in NYC, to attend, watch and maybe, maybe participate in a sex party, had gotten me into this predicament. Keep reading »
It’d been a nice night with mixed drinks and homey Brooklyn fare. The conversation hadn’t teetered, except in those first moments when we were testing the waters. Dipping our feet.
Then she said, “I find it funny that people feel uncomfortable in silence.”
I didn’t say anything. She smiled. We felt comfortable. Keep reading »