Women always seem to ask me where all the good men are, as if these near-mythical dudes are hiding behind bushes, chained up in some vampire’s basement, or are just rare and elusive, like the snow leopard. Normally, I have to resist responding, “Maybe the good guys are just avoiding you.” But the answer to this frequent, lovelorn lament is simple: The good men are right under your nose. And that’s the damn truth.
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The old cliché warns against judging a book by its cover, and this is especially true when sizing up a lover. You just can’t tell how sexually adventurous a person is by looking at them. Appearances don’t always deceive; sometimes they just obscure the truth. And I’ve learned over the years that just because she looks Amish, doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a vibrator the size of a jackhammer under her bed. Keep reading »
When I try to explain my ardor for HBO’s trashy-fabulous soap opera “True Blood” to my dude friends, they either shrug and change the topic, or question whether I’ve been writing for ladyblogs for too long and am suffering from a form of Stockholm Syndrome. Dudes just don’t dig bloodsuckers, since vampires pretty much look like girls. We prefer zombies, because we love chainsaws, flamethrowers, and samurai swords. And because, on some level, we know that besides being vehicles for sperm, our other important, if lesser, genetic imperative is to defend our loved ones from hordes of unthinking, flesh-eating metaphors for current social anxieties. Keep reading »
Recently, I read a post about the lessons women want to teach their daughters about men and their relationships. Many excellent experiences were shared, possibly too many. Then again, little girls are more cerebral than their male counterparts. Little boys require simple instructions: fire bad, truth good, rifles are not telescopes. For the sake of my future son — a hypothetical if ever there were one — I will keep it straightforward and tell him the one thing he needs to know about women. It is something his old man has learned over years and years of wrapping relationships around trees: Listen to the women in your life. Of course, if I had followed my own dad’s example, and just did what he did, which was pay my mother undivided attention when she spoke, I wouldn’t have had to learn things the hard way. Keep reading »
You’ll never see a dude turn to another dude and ask, “Do I look fat in these pants?” But that doesn’t mean men are invulnerable to insecurities, no matter how much we’d like to think so. Women are upfront about their fears, doubts, and self-esteem. I used to think it was just compulsive gabbiness, a quirk of the fairer sex. But, in fact, it is an admirable coping mechanism that’s even a little bit courageous. That said, I’ll sack up and admit that I’ve spent a lot of my life feeling like a fatty, a chubasaurus, half-man and half-marshmallow. Keep reading »
When it comes to sex, women talk too much and men talk too little. Actually, let me revise that. Women talk too much about sex with one another, and men talk about sex with one another just enough, which is to say, hardly at all. While my gender may have the occasional communication skills of an ATM and all the emotional agility of limbless baboons, there are things we can teach your gender, the hyper-articulate, deep feeling, lavender-soap-smelling variety. Namely, it is not always necessary to divulge every single sordid detail about what happened Friday night. Now, don’t you feel liberated? Keep reading »
I’ve learned a lot of things from the women in my life. How to appreciate wine, do my own taxes, not be a douchebag. And because of them, I am a fan of Pinot Noir, keep a shoebox of receipts, and am a fan of Pinot Noir. But more on this later.
Sex without dirty talk is a bland affair, like chicken nuggets without the hot mustard. Without that whispered verbal communication and the trust that goes with it, body and mind aren’t connected. No, I’m not getting all Deepak Chopra all up in this joint. Sex is a brain thing as much as a skin thing. Without uncensored, honest, blushing dirty talk in bed (or the backseat, stairwell, or under the kitchen table) there is no way to find out if she needs it faster or slower. You’d never learn that she likes her hair pulled to the left, while you softly kiss her jaw line on the right side of her face. Apparently, there’s a world of difference between a flick and a pinch. These are important facts, and the reverse is true when you’re with your man. Keep reading »
When it comes to “feminism,” I have more questions than answers. So I emailed Sady at the smart, free-wheeling lady blog Tiger Beatdown and asked her if she’d answer some of them. In the interest of full disclosure, she has, on occasion, offered succinct and thoughtful analysis of some of my work on this site. I realize that what I know about “feminism,” specifically its recent history and its academic role, could fit into a thimble. My questions might seem basic, but remember, I’m the one with the testicles over here.
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A reader sent me an email and asked me if I would ever date someone with an incurable STD. She had recently been diagnosed with the HSV virus (that’s herpes, y’all), and wanted my answer to be honest and not “PC.” So here it is goes, my unvarnished, gut reaction to the question: No, I would not date someone with an incurable STD. Keep reading »
Here’s my worst first date story: she told me she was lactose intolerant, but ordered the French onion soup. I thought, “How irresponsible.” Every woman I know has at least one horrifying dating disaster tale. Most women have multiple ones. They usually begin with “I met him on Match.com” or “He was the best friend of my second cousin’s college roommate” and end with a daring escape, a mad dash into a cab, and unhinged texts from the guy for the next two weeks.
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