Tag Archives: what men think

Mind Of Man: Def Leppard Was Right, Love Hurts

I don’t believe that once a cheater, always a cheater. That specific aphorism is a bitter, moralizing form of self-deception. We all are cheaters; none of us is invulnerable to temptation. What defines a person is not whether they are faithless. It is a simple, easy thing to impulsively take that which you want. No, what defines a person is whether they chose to stay faithful. That is difficult, and that active decision, that vigilance, is the steep price love demands. Keep reading »

Thoughts From Guys On Our IM: What Are Your Style Dealbreakers?

In the latest issue of GQ, Neel Shah writes that he went on a blind date with a woman who immediately turned him off by wearing “faded True Religion jeans.” He then goes on to describe how a girl’s style plays a big part in whether or not he could date him. While Shah’s example is a little on the, uh, picky side, I don’t think he’s all that unusual. Personally, style plays a big part in my attraction to men. If a guy is wearing awesome sneakers or, you know, plaid, he becomes a little sexier in my eyes. On the flip side, frankly, black running sneakers and white socks? Major, major turnoff. But do other guys think this way or is Shah alone? Find out, after the jump… Keep reading »

Mind Of Man: The Number One Sex Tip That Will Drive Him Wild

If it weren’t for the covers of women’s magazines like Glamopolitan, my time standing in grocery lines would be spent reading the copy on my frozen dinners. It’s amazing how reading “succulent tenderloins cradled by fluffy mashed potatoes” makes a meal squeezed out of a nozzle and flash frozen taste that much better. It was standing in line with my pathetic pyramid of bachelor food that I learned that there are, like, 1,342 different ways to drive me wild.

And here I was, thinking there was only one, 100% guaranteed way to drive me wild, and that was to touch my penis. At this juncture, I’d like to state that I’m also speaking for all of dudekind. Sweeping gender platitudes is what I do. So take the ice cube out of your mouth, the feather out of my ass, and go for the gold. Is there a Nobel Prize for sex advice? I’d like to thank you all. Keep reading »

Mind Of Man: Online Dating Is A Waste Of Time

Groucho Marx once famously quipped “I don’t care to belong to a club that would have me as a member.” I sort of feel the same way about online dating sites. There has got to be a better way to meet people, people. Sadly, mental telepathy does not work. Unless you know what I was just thinking, in which case, e-mail me.

I’ve recently begun… researching popular dating sites. Not because I need a date. Ho, no, no, no. I don’t need a date. I’m up to my man boobs in hot lady action. There’s an 85% chance of boobs forecast in my love life. I am the Mayor of Vagtown. No, this research is for you, for all of you. It’s a testament to my generosity of spirit I waded through these interweb love sewers in order to impart some sort of wisdom. Here’s the wisdom: dating sites blow. Keep reading »

Mind Of Man: Enough With The Princess Crapola Already!

If I read the phrase “You’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince” on this site one more motherspelunking time, I’m going to spontaneously barf. You don’t really believe this, do you? Dudes don’t have an equivalent to this creaky, cliché trope.

It’s just not sexy to date a helpless princess with an aversion to peas and a bluebird fetish. Give us Sarah Connor in a black cocktail dress pumping a shotgun any day.

Men don’t want to date princesses. Maybe there are some who do, and the women who aspire to be princesses deserve the brutes. And for that matter, I sure as hell ain’t no prince, although I’d love to bring the cape back. These days, I’m just a messed up clown with a poet’s liver whispering sweet nothings to a pair of nickels in the hopes they’ll make babies so I can afford a new pair of over-sized shoes. Men do not want to be princes. Princes are born into success, men make their own. We want women who share that same ethic, however it is success is defined.

It’s just not sexy to date a helpless princess with an aversion to peas and a bluebird fetish. Give us Sarah Connor in a black cocktail dress pumping a shotgun any day.

I would never claim to be a “feminist.” I have other underhanded ways to get laid than feigning allegiance to a vibrant if fractious movement that doesn’t need my feeble brain power. But when I hear perfectly intelligent and willful women console each other with fairy tale mantras that promise, with a lot of persistence, they will find a well-heeled prince to care for them, I become conspiratorial.

Maybe there really is a patriarchy, and I’ve just never been invited to their annual meet-up. It’s a testosterone-jacked cabal of dudes smoking cigars, and wearing penis hats, sitting around an oblong table in a secret silo on a peninsula plotting how to reinforce absurd, medieval wish fulfillment fantasies in women. I imagine the meeting’s minutes going something like this:

High Lord Phallus: “Next on the list: gender programming. How do we keep these modern day suffragettes from full romantic self-actualization?”

The Grand Dong: “Why don’t we fill popular cartoon movies with stories about princesses, and hope they want nothing more than to be the gilded property of a feudal dictator in pantaloons.”

Minister of Testicles: “Excellent idea. Anyone want a bratwurst?”

Let’s break down the princess myth, because so many of you have Princess Mania. Myths are lies that become truth, so it is wise to pick the best possible lies to believe in. And the lie that romance for a woman is a humiliating lottery, a game of Russian roulette where all men are slimy little amphibians, save for one, just pollutes the collective unconscious.

And if you fully dissect the frog love, really get all up in the guts of the source material behind the whole Kermit-smooching archetype, absurdity abounds. Here’s your precious fable in a nutshell:

“Once upon a time there was a princess whose sole claim to being special was having the genetic luck to have wiggled out from between the loins of a Queen. She is pampered, fawned over and entitled, treated like a cross between a Kobe heifer and a Christmas tree. There is no one around to date but royal douchebags who play grog pong all the time, and then one day she gets chatted up by a frog with a nice personality. She’s bored, and desperate, and it couldn’t be any worse than swapping spit with Sir Chinless, so she heads to first base with the amphibian. Then there’s a poof! And the frog is suddenly an inbred ponce with a crown and they live happily ever after, forever and ever, until the divorce. The end.”

In some translations of the Brothers Grimm story “The Frog Prince,” the princess lobs the frog against a wall in disgust before it turns into a prince. And in some even more obscure versions, she decapitates the thing before it magically transforms. Like most fairy tales, “The Frog Prince” is a mordant little morality tale that cautiously suggests a lady needn’t be so choosy when picking a suitor. Even the more sanitized, and Americanized, versions of “The Frog Prince” offer this moral: personality counts! Allow yourself to be charmed by a talking frog and you’ll be rewarded. But first, you should be happy with only a talking frog. In fact, you should be so lucky to kiss him.

However, this is lost on those who see dating as a lot of reptile tonsil hockey and finger-crossing, which, do not doubt, just sounds like a depressing labor. Love is an opportunity, not a prize. It should be pursued greedily, recklessly, with an adamant heart. Kiss men, and move on. Maybe one day you’ll kiss a guy and he’ll turn into a guy who’ll march through tornadoes to get you tampons, admit when he’s wrong, and eat ice cream naked in bed with you. The point is: give regular people you date the chance to be extraordinary without the maudlin fairy tale expectation. The favor will be returned.

Lastly, ladies: if you’re heartbroken, grow a pair of ladyballs. Buck up, listen to some Patsy Cline, and toss back nice stiff shot of bourbon. Then try out this Snapple cap bon mot: “Men. Can’t live with ‘em, good thing they’ll keep making more.”

Thoughts From Guys On Our IM: Have You Ever Lied About Your Sexual Experience?

On an early date with my ex, we were discussing sexual experiences (what, me discuss sex?!) and he told me that he had had a threesome. Months later I found out that he had lied. I wasn’t mad about it, but because it was such an odd thing to make up, I’ve never forgotten it. (I’ve also never figured out why. Was he trying to show off? Plant the seed for a future threesome, which he tried, in vain, to have up until we broke up?) This week I read Glamour‘s “5 Lies Men Tell About Their Sexual History (Hint: The Three-Way is BS)” and discovered that, apparently, many men tell this little fib, along with other sex lies like “I lost my virginity when I was 16!” and “This has never happened before.” So what about the guys on our IM? What sex lies have they told? Keep reading »

Mind Of Man: Why Self-Love Is Sex’s Sexiest Secret

There are two types of women in the world: women who are totally comfortable with masturbation and those who are ashamed of the act. I realize there are more than two types of women in the world, so forgive my rhetorical cheat. It’s for a good cause.

I don’t know why some women are weird about pleasuring themselves. I am not, in fact, a woman. But to those who are embarrassed about it, please, think about rubbing one out for your boyfriend or husband tonight. He will love it. There are few spectacles as captivating as a woman getting herself off. It is pure sex on toast. Watching your girl squirm, growl, and hit the right buttons while you whisper dirty little secrets and improper commands is so hot, it makes my guts ache. It’s vulnerable, and intimate, and epically eye-crossing. Keep reading »

Thoughts From Guys On Our IM: How Do You Feel About Marriage?

Ahh, marriage. Certainly men think long and hard about whether they want to get married right? Or maybe the answer is a no brainer, requiring very little obsession and thought and magazine purchasing? Being that it’s Wedding Week on The Frisky, and because I’d hate to leave the fellas out of such a sexy topic, I went to the guys on our IM to find out how they feel about marriage, weddings, and everything in between… Prepare to be touched! Keep reading »

Thoughts From Guys On Our IM: When Do You Decide You’re Going To Bone Someone?

This week I was pulling together questions from men about the things they wonder about women. One of the questions was, “How quickly do you decide if you’re going to have sex with a guy?” I thought the question was an one that could easily be turned around on men. The question is not, “How quickly do you decide you want to have sex with a woman?” but “How quickly do you decide you are going to have sex with a woman?” If what the guys on our IM have said in the past is to be believed, if you are relatively attractive, every straight guy you know probably would sleep with you. But at what moment does he decide he’s actually going to try, and, for the especially confident, how quickly does he decide he will? Keep reading »

Mind Of Man: Losing Your Virginity Is Totes Awkward

Apparently, Brooke Shields lost her virginity at the positively spinsterly age of 22, and regrets not having gotten it over with earlier. When it comes to celebrity gossip, I’m on a blessed time delay. Normally, I’m too busy doing manly things like chopping down trees with my face, flamethrower-roasting suckling pigs, or seducing entire female soccer teams. But truly, this is momentous news, sorry I’m just getting around to it.

It should be of some solace to Brooke that there is no ideal way to lose one’s virginity. It is supposed to be awkward, because sex is awkward. Objectively speaking, it’s kind of funny. Clearly sex was invented by Morgan Freeman as a way to entertain bored angels. Think about it: sex is a lot of butt meat jiggling, legs in the air swaying back and forth like metronomes, and blush-worthy squishy noises. Shakespeare called sex “making the beast with two backs,” but it’s more like “making the squirming eight-limbed octopus that grunts.” The “O” in “O” face stands for “Oooh my gawd, is my grill turning itself inside out?”
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