My big sister’s favorite game to play with me as a child was a simple one that I’ll just call “Lure John into the dark basement, then race up the stairs and lock the door.” It was a game that I always lost, and she always won. I’d beg her to open the door, and she’d just cackle. My sister had a wicked snicker. She wasn’t sadistic. This was just the law of the jungle. The price I paid for her not smothering me in the cradle. The door would eventually open like her arms and her laughter would be a sprinkler on a summer day, soaking us both. So we’d both end up laughing, and there would be no grudges. Because there really aren’t any grudges between brothers and sisters. Brothers and sisters are as close as peanut butter and jelly. Keep reading »
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 »
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 »
When a man gets into a relationship, he’s usually the last to know.
Women fall in love, men slip on it. Women gently twirl down the rabbit hole of love like whirligigs, landing on their feet in a land of wonder. But for men, love is a sudden minor concussion. One moment, we’re strolling down the street like a Pharoah in no hurry, snapping our fingers, whistling a jaunty tune. Maybe we’re leaving the apartment of a recent conquest early in the morning. Women call this the “Walk of Shame.” But to the male species, it’s called the “I Just Got Laid Parade.” Or maybe we’re just walking over to the beer store, smugly satisfied with ourselves for not immediately texting some chick back. Because no one owns the male spirit – it’s like a bacon-scented wind. We’re wild game you can’t tame, oh yeah. Then an ambush of unwanted emotions happens. Love is a banana peel. We wake up on our backs with a throbbing skull, swatting away clouds of mosquito-sized hearts buzzing around.
At least women look before they leap. 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.
Keep reading »
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 »