How do you compliment a naked man? You don’t. The Golden Rule of Sex is usually do others as you would have them do you, but not in this case. Women enjoy sincere compliments in the bedroom. Not over-rehearsed grunts or snippets of porno dialogue like “Oh baby, you’re so baby, baby.” In my personal experience, women also aren’t into dudes who’re effusive blabbercheeks. My poet’s heart was in the right place, but she informed me that I didn’t need to barf up bargain basement Byron. Keep reading »
Tag Archives: john devore
Hi. I just met your boyfriend. He’s a goatsack, but I don’t blame him. Doucheberries are born, not made. However, I judge you, because you’re supposed to be smarter than this. If the girlfriend of a friend of mine is a soulless sorority monster with vodka gills, I usually think “she must lick a mean ice cream cone” or “so I guess he really isn’t gay.” But when I meet the boyfriend of a female friend and he’s a macho pressed ham, I can’t help but judge her. Keep reading »
Gillian Telling, author of the book Dirty Girls: The Naked Truth About Our Guilty Secrets (Unpretty, Unclean, and Utterly Horrifying), recently wrote that women “don’t consider drunk kissing cheating, as long as we’re the ones doing the drunk kissing. We consider sex with another man cheating.” This was number 19 on her list of “20 Things Men Don’t Know About Women,” which she wrote for this fine internet publication. As you can imagine, there was a strong reaction in the comments section to Gillian’s claim that women don’t count drunken make-outs as cheating. It was truly magical. There’s a scene in the beginning of the movie “Gladiator,” when Russell Crowe’s character Maximus is leading his Roman army in a battle against German barbarians. He turns to one of his lieutenants and growls, “On my mark, unleash hell.” It was like THAT in the comments. Keep reading »
If I could, I’d swap my penis for a vagina. Just for a day. I’m both physically and emotionally attached to my urinary and reproductive pleasure nodule. But I’d be lying if I wrote that I’m not curious as to what it’s like to have a secret garden. This curiosity does not call into question my sexuality, nor does it suggest that I’m an enlightened man who longs to experience the burdens of the feminine condition. The female reproductive organ is a source of endless fascination to men. We desire its sensual folds, fear its bloody mysteries, and owe it our very existence. One day I think it will be possible for men and women to trade genitals for fun and recreation. Keep reading »
A recent study by British hotel chain Travelodge has found that 25 percent of men take teddy bears on the road with them when they travel for business. These men report that their stuffed animals remind them of home and the significant others they have to leave behind. This is a shocking survey to many who believe that grown men shouldn’t tote around stuffed animals, as it betrays certain masculine gender rules. For one, men snuggle as a means to an end. Men snuggle in order to procure sex, or as payment for services rendered. Men are also encouraged to put away childish things more than women or, at least, their toys aren’t supposed to look like toys. Women are rewarded for holding on to the virginal innocence of youth, which comes in handy when raising a child. This is all a crap sundae, of course. Two scoops of crap topped with a crap cherry. Keep reading »
It’s “Love Yourself Week” here on The Frisky, and I totally misinterpreted what that meant. So instead of writing about socks and lube and “True Blood, I’m going to write about platonically loving myself. I’ve read my sister-from-another-mister Amelia’s epic post about the things she loves about herself, and I just read Jessica’s excellent piece. These public expressions of identity are subversive, considering the money that can be made promoting self-loathing. If everyone is pretty, who will buy apricot-scented face spackle? It’s easier to sell a cure if you give the disease away for free. What I most love about these personal whoops is that they’re introspective. In order to truly love yourself, you have to be capable of forgiving yourself for being a human tornado of emotions, fears, and appetites.
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I once stalked a woman I had gone on one date with the old-fashioned way – I stared at her from a distance in a public park. Judge me if you must, but as the ancient rhyme goes: I am mirrored underwear, you are laser gun. Whatever you say reflects off of me and shoots you in the face. Technology has turned us all into stalkers. That moment where I found myself sitting on a park bench and staring at a couple oblivious to my probing gaze happened before Facebook. The only difference between stalking now and then is pants. During the Dark Ages before social media sites began broadcasting a million pleas for attention, pants were a necessity. Otherwise, I would certainly have been arrested. Keep reading »
It’s not a “man purse,” pal. Nor is it a “murse,” or a “crapsack,” or a “scrote bag.” If you must call it a satchel, fine. But your clever putdowns don’t emasculate me. I need this … portable gear container made out of dead cow hide that hangs from my mighty shoulders by a strap. Mock me all you want, but this modern-day quiver is not a fashion accessory. It’s purely for practical purposes. I have things I need to carry around with me, like a cell phone, iPod, and grappling hook. How else am I supposed to lug around my comic books? If I carry them under my arms, I’ll stain them with gladiator sweat. I can’t have that. Keep reading »
”Those are our cosmic marching orders from the top down: Beget while the begetting is good. If the universe is such a smarty, why did it make life so fragile that it has to perpetually procreate? The same universe that filled the suffocating void of space with fire and ice also made life pretty flimsy. Did it run out of materials? Why didn’t it just make us out of diamonds and granite? If we were more durable, maybe we wouldn’t have to follow such strict rules. Thankfully, what makes us human is our adorable penchant for occasionally ignoring our biology. We eat forbidden fruit. Build towers of Babel. LOLcats serve no specific evolutionary purpose.
There’s a big difference between being alone and solitude. Recognizing this difference is the first step in wresting control of your story from the cliché script pop science says we can’t help but follow. When you’re alone, you feel lonely. Unloved. “Single.” Loneliness is just not being able to stand the person you’re stuck with your whole life. And that person is you. Loneliness covets what others have and frequently instant message. Loneliness can feel like emptiness inside, but it’s the opposite. It’s more like a cavity – a damp hole that’s full of rotted hopes, selfish prayers, and fear.
Solitude, on the other hand, is our soul’s default setting. Solitude is being alone, but not lonely. Solitude is an art; it’s projecting an avatar of yourself in the inflatable bounce house of your mind and giving that version of you a hug. It’s building a secret garden and throwing up a gigantic golden door not to keep people out, but to see if there’s anyone clever enough to pick the lock. Being “single” does not, in fact, mean you are incomplete. It means you are totally complete. “Single” is not a brand that scars Facebook and dating site profiles. “Single” does not mean “Unloved.” “Single” means “I’m making myself a magical pot of pasta and re-watching season three of ‘The Wire.’ What are you bringing to my dope-ass party?”
Men don’t fear the “single” label. We have our own issues and fears, but they are likewise illusory, socially created scarecrows, and generally deal with how every man is a falcon, a mighty falcon everyone wants to pluck! I’ll just go ahead and save that generalizing rant for another day. Men don’t mind being “single,” because we have mythologies that celebrate the whole notion of being on your own. Woman, you are not “single.” You are “Ronin.” Now, I know what the overwhelmingly female readership who frequent The Frisky are thinking, Do you mean nerd legend Frank Miller’s 1983 dystopian sci-fi comic book epic Ronin or the gritty 1998 cloak-and-dagger classic “Ronin” starring Robert De Niro? No on both points, ladies!
I am referring to the Ronin of medieval Japan. Ronin are samurai, the mighty warrior class who wield razor-sharp katana swords with fatal grace and serve at the pleasure of a feudal lord. Specifically, however, Ronin are samurai who have no master or lord, either because said lord was killed or disposed. They were free agents of badass. Granted, the most famous Ronin died avenging the murder of their master. But Ronin could also just, you know, stroll around the countryside, drinking tea and writing poetry about nature’s splendor, and hacking off the arms of bandits and nogoodniks. They are alone, and answer to no one. Ronin are serene and powerful, merciful and courageous. Ronin live that ancient Zen saying, “Que sera, sera.” A Ronin respectfully bows before kingdoms wild and civilized so that he may peacefully pass and resume strolling along the path he is forging for himself. Now, re-read that last rambling sentence and replace each “he” with a “she.” See? You’re not single. The world needs you, not the other way around. Sit and breathe. Defend the weak. Stop to salute the lotus flower. Roam the world and never feel alone. You are Ronin – you answer to no one. Your heart is your only master.
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Sex with an ex is a really bad idea. Whoever came up with the concept of “breakup sex” was either a pathetic masochist or just lazy. Breakup sex isn’t just “one more for the road.” It’s being given a delicious cupcake, then having it slapped out of your mouth. Breakup sex is a fluffy, comfy pillow for you to rest your head on while your neck is in the guillotine. I don’t think you understand me.
Let me rephrase: breakup sex is like getting viciously mugged, then running after the assailant because he forgot to take your watch. I imagine vampires always have breakup sex, because sex with a vampire is always melancholy, awkward, and then there are the tears of blood. Keep reading »