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 »
One of the most difficult ordeals a guy can face is the delicate matter of ending a relationship that his girlfriend still wants to continue, especially if he still cares for her. There are some good ways to go about it, but infinitely more bad ones, and I’ve certainly plumbed the latter category more times than I’d like to admit over the years. So, in the interests of sparing men (and women) the mistakes I’ve made, here’s what I’ve learned from my past. Keep reading »
Hugo’s piece was originally published at the Good Men Project Magazine.
Both at the Good Men Project and at my own blog, my most popular posts in terms of page-views are invariably those that focus on one particularly controversial subject: older men and younger women. (Here’s “What Young Women Are Really Looking For From Older Men.”)
As I’ve laid out in those pieces, for a number of reasons I think we should be suspicious of age-disparate heterosexual relationships in which the male partner is substantially older than the female one, and in which the woman is still quite young (say, under 23). Put simply, the potential problems in these relationships seem to diminish based less upon the actual number of years in between the partners and more upon the age of the woman involved. I’m more concerned about an 18 year-old woman and a 30 year-old man than I am about a 30 year-old woman and a 55 year-old man, even though the latter relationship has twice the number of years separating the partners. The research of psychologists like Lynn Phillips—who has written extensively about relationships between teen girls (including those above the age of consent) and older men—bears out how damaging these relationships can be. Keep reading »
Not so long ago, my wife and I were talking to a recently-divorced friend of ours. She’s younger than we are, in her early thirties, and as far as she’s concerned, she’s never tying the knot again. Not because of an objection to the institution, but because she’s convinced that most men marry for one reason: they want to be taken care of emotionally.
“I got tired of thinking about someone else’s needs all the time,” our friend said. “I’m prepared to take care of a baby. But I don’t want my first-born to be my second child.” When she heard that, my wife turned to me and gave me a grin. She knows my history.
In three previous marriages and a handful of other long-term relationships (I haven’t been single for long since I was 16), I found myself—like so many men—taking on the parts of the “naughty boy” and the “helpless child.” Time and again, I turned wives and girlfriends into mother-figures, and the result was inevitably disastrous. Keep reading »