Men would rather give than receive. Keep this in mind, ladies, as you freak out, panic, and wring your hands over what to get your beloved for Christmas. Around this time of year, I offer my services to various female friends who are all on maddening quests to buy their boyfriends and their husbands the perfect gift. These women are driven partly out of love, and partly because they feel they have to top the gifts their husbands and boyfriends have gotten them in the past. These gifts were, of course, exactly what the women wanted, and they were either cleverly hidden or extravagantly wrapped.
The secret to buying a woman the “perfect” gift, of course, is simple. You listen to her. Keep reading »
Yeah, I can’t really defend catcalls and I tried. I told myself that this uniquely male sport is harmless fun. That it’s flattering, almost charming. Who else would shout compliments to a woman but a hopeless romantic? Besides, having a construction worker shout “lookin’ good” must appeal to a woman’s vanity, right? It’s not like a catcall has ever resulted in an actual date. If a woman ever positively responded to a man whistling, it would be like a dog chasing a car and catching it. The dude’s brain would be unable to comprehend reality shattering. While trying to craft a defense of catcalls, I found myself blaming women. Why can’t they take a joke? Or deal with a man who just wants her to know she’s hot? Women are so uptight. Feminists must hate romance, because all these roadside Romeos are doing is shouting up at a woman’s balcony. This was my train of thought. Keep reading »
I have something to confess: I am a huge fan of Bravo’s reality show “Millionaire Matchmaker,” and I have a crush on its star, matchmaker Patti Stanger. Usually a feeling of relief accompanies a confession. But I am ashamed. I feel like I should staple my palm to my face. Bravo TV is a slick circus of self-loathing, and no heterosexual man should ever be caught watching its grotesque programs featuring werewolf beauty queens eating each other. But then there’s “Millionaire Matchmaker,” a show that by all accounts should be as bad as “The Real Housewives Of Hades.” It’s not what I thought it would be, namely a show where socially awkward, self-absorbed millionaires are paired up by a sassy pimp with potential prospectors and their gold pans. I mean, it totally IS that. But it’s so much more. Patti Stanger is like Cupid, if Cupid used his bows and arrows as offensive weapons. Keep reading »
Breaking news: I am not a “dating coach.” Yes, I sort of give dating and relationship advice. I write about relationships and love and cupcakes and samurai for this site. I also dispense advice for other websites, and I’ve written for lady magazines, primarily because sleaze pays very well. But to answer a reader who e-mailed me, I am not, nor will I ever be, a “dating coach.” I hate the term “dating coach.” It suggests that love is a game to win. Love is not a game. It is a journey that requires courage. “Dating coaches” sell that love can be won; that it’s about touchdowns, and victory dances, and spiking a heart. But they sell that because if they sold the truth, they’d be out of business. Here’s the truth: love isn’t about scoring points for yourself. Love is intercepting your own pass, and running the ball in the opposite direction. Love is losing. Keep reading »
There’s a saying that goes “hunger is the best spice.” This is true. Without starvation as my salsa, I would never have been able to ingest all of those microwaveable burritos I ate when I was a wee street waif. You know the burritos I’m talking about: They come frozen in packs of 30 and they’re essentially toilet-paper tubes filled with beef caulking. This isn’t a saying anyone says, except for me, but it’s also true: “chastity is the best aphrodisiac.” Which is one reason I am totally pro-dry humping, a highly underrated sexual activity. A good, sweaty grind on a couch is a delightful tease of the wang-pong to come. Knowing that the other person can buck, grab, and slither in jeans is valuable carnal intel, the kind of insider information that turns an average hard-on into Excalibur. Putting off the inevitable for a week, a night or even an hour makes the resulting boner jams hotter, slicker and more gooseflesh-inducing. Keep reading »
Let’s all agree that one thing that separates the sexes is the fact that women like to dress up in fancy clothes and look pretty and men also like it when women dress up in fancy clothes and look pretty. But men, however, do not like to dress up in fancy clothes and look pretty. Men who dress well and have cultivated a personal style do it because dressing sharply serves a purpose. That specific purpose is to attract women who are naturally inclined to enjoy fancy clothes that look pretty. Men do not have an innate desire to doll themselves up. The irony, of course, is that the animal kingdom is full of males with bright plumage, flowing manes, and glowing red asses. But if peacocks could strum an acoustic guitar, those Technicolor chickens wouldn’t have to strut so much. Keep reading »
I don’t think it’s possible for two people of opposing political beliefs to date and fall in love. If Romeo & Juliet were written today, the beloved daughter of the Capulets would kick the emo son of the Montagues in the face before he made it over the balcony. It’s more likely that two people of different races, socioeconomic backgrounds, or religions get it on than two people who belong to different political parties. Forget the obnoxious swirling graphics on cable news — politics is not a sport. It’s a bloodless war that decides how groups of people live with one another, and like any war, it’s a struggle to hold on to one’s humanity. But I think it’s almost impossible for a liberal to look at a conservative, or vice versa, and see anything but an enemy. This is great when it comes to a turf war between political mafias. But it’s bad news when it comes to love. Keep reading »
Bachelor parties are a little bit like funerals, which are not for the dead but for the living. Bachelor parties are not for the groom; they’re for his male friends. Like a corpse in a coffin, the groom is actually just a kind of living prop. An excuse for a group of men to gather for a night of heavy drinking so they can ask themselves existential questions, like “Is commitment the antithesis of the male identity or its most perfect expression?” Funerals are places to say goodbye to loved ones; they’re ancient rituals that allow us to let go. Likewise, a bachelor party allows a man to break up with what he has known, and prepares him for an adventure that, if pop science is to be believed, has only a 50 percent chance of succeeding. Those are terrible odds, but you can’t win big unless you go all in. Keep reading »
Men don’t have a passion for sweet treats the way women do. If given a choice between a sugary confection and something savory, men will choose the latter. This is not some kind of random, sweeping gender generalization I just made up. I have scientific proof. Like many big cities, New York has seen the arrival over the past few years of novelty food trucks. These trucks sell everything from waffles and tacos to schnitzel and BBQ. Yesterday I walked by two such trucks. One sold cupcakes, the other Asian dumplings. Women stood eagerly in line for cupcakes, but I made a beeline for the dumplings. They were delicious, meat-stuffed globules of delight. Dumplings are my anti-cupcake. Keep reading »
I can’t wear skinny jeans, because I have beefy man legs, mighty logs of muscle and sinew, the end product of hundreds of thousands of years of evolution. Ancient man spent his days running from prehistoric beasts, jumping with simian fury and squatting around the fire. Here’s a short list of the men who can wear skinny jeans: Iggy Pop, The Pumpkin King, moody beanpoles with eating disorders and those with unusually narrow pelvises. If you own and wear a cape or a top hat, you can wear skinny jeans. If you need skin-tight pants that hug your hips, then do as Batman does and wear tights. Regular men should not wear skinny jeans.
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