Here’s a 110 percent true fact: the guy you’re dating has definitely imagined having a threesome with you and the waitress from last night, his hot co-worker, or your best friend. Yuck, amiriiiiight?
While you’re squirming over how grossoholic men are, telling yourself “My boyfriend would NEVER want to have a threesome between me and my best friend Megs,” allow me to inform you that women are far kinkier, nastier, and sexually adventuresome than the testicle enabled. More on THAT, later. Keep reading »
I have never really enjoyed weddings. I usually think of weddings as funerals with dancing. I used to think weddings had better food, but then I went to a funeral that had the most divine smoked salmon platter. I once explained to a girlfriend that weddings were the last meals served to death row inmates. That once upon a time, women were nothing more than property and marriages were contractual agreements between two wealthy landowners. The wedding itself was a way of softening this truth to the bride. In exchange for a life of servitude, she’d get a big fancy wedding where she’d be treated like a princess for a day. One last hurrah before the inevitable. If I were on death row — probably because I bore an uncanny resemblance to a political prisoner who was the love of a woman I didn’t deserve and then switched places with him so he could be with her and I could kneel before the guillotine — you can bet I’d order a huge ice cream sundae served in a mop bucket. Keep reading »
Oh yeah, I’m about to have sex. What time is it? Big hand is on “LAID,” little hand is on “ME.” This is going to be awesome. Breath: minty! Pits: spicy! Boxers: fresh! Give her the Han Solo smirk. Squint, seductively. Remember that the eyes are like the mouths of the pants. Tell her what she needs to know just by looking at her: I’m about to let the dawgs of freaky push it, pu-push it real good. Buckle up, lucky lady, you’ve got a first class ticket on the rocket of love. Keep reading »
There is a popular stereotype that men think about sex every seven seconds, which is absurd. Men take a break from thinking about sex every second seconds. That second is usually spent in quiet contemplation. Once that second if over, however, it’s right back to what all men always think about: hot sex. Hammering stuff with our pocket Mjolnir. Making the beast with two chests, because we’re feeling kinky. Keep reading »
When I was a little kid, my teenage sister explained to me that she had become a woman. This meant that for one week out of the month, I had better do exactly what she tells me. I would never know exactly when that week would be, so for my sake, she lovingly suggested I play it safe and stay out of her way. Because during that week, she would be going through a natural change that happens to all grown adult women and she wouldn’t be able to control her rage.
So, largely, I did what my older sister told me, because it was obvious that she was a werewolf. Keep reading »
Everything I ever needed to know about dating, I learned selling comedy tickets on the streets of New York City. Convincing a grouchy New Yorker to give you cash money for magic beans is a brutal way to make a living, much less a buck. But it was while pounding the proverbial pavement like a shabby salesman on the verge of death that I learned that one cannot fail forever. The big story of success, in sales or in love, is actually many smaller stories of failures. Keep reading »
I’d like to sincerely apologize to the cute nerd girl intently reading the emo-vampire epic Twilight on the New York City subway: I’m sorry for judging you. This happened about six months ago and I sniffed at you for eagerly devouring a young adult novel about a very special girl and her boyfriend, a really nice monster. Keep reading »
My editor, a fashion-forward cyborg with champagne instead of blood, asked me to write about the sexual activity “pegging,” to which I responded that I’m open-minded and fine with two consenting adults dressing up like pirates behind closed doors.
But that’s not what “pegging” means. Keep reading »
Advice is a past mistake regifted. So I’m enjoying Christmas in March. Everyone I know has offered me advice about getting over a breakup and each piece of advice is a piece of personal pain with a ribbon tied around it. I appreciate it, of course. I listen dutifully and say “I hadn’t thought of that,” which is a well-meaning bit of boilerplate that I am practiced at saying. My dad used to always joke that once a man became a father, he surrendered any right to expect holiday and birthday presents that he actually wanted. Fathers get socks and ties. So every time he got socks or ties, which was often, he’d chuckle and say, “This is exactly what I wanted.” He wasn’t disappointed, because the real gift of receiving a gift is in the wide-eyes of the giver. I am deeply thankful for all of the advice. Keep reading »
I’m single, which is working out great because I hate grooming. My ex is awesome, but between you and me and the internet, she could be a total bitch about “soap and water.” Whatever! Now I’m free to wallow in my own filth and believe me, I stink hard. Sure, I look like a lumberjack raised by monkeys, but that’s not why I go to the movies alone. I go to the movies alone because I might as well get used to it, seeing as that’s how I’m going to die. Alone. When I was younger, bourbon was my primary emotional coping mechanism. But since then, I’ve become an adult. Instead of drowning my feelings in delicious brown magic water, I express them to my bestest friends on Twitter. Why, just last night, I twooted the funniest twitter tweet, which was “WHY? #Why?” But I know why this happened and I think it’s related to that one time she said “I love you” and I responded “Baby Stewie is a hilarious character! A baby that speaks like people!” Keep reading »