I went on a date the other week with a pair of hot Swedish volleyball players with galactic hoots and bodies so taut that quarters bounce off bellies. These buxom hotties could easily have graced the pages of Brodawg Magazine, posing in the rain, wearing only leather belts. As they were putting on their heels to join me in the champagne jacuzzi, it occurred to me that these phantasmagorical sirens weren’t doing it for me. Then I woke up with both of my arms in my pant legs. Cursed margaritas, so tequila-y and delicious. Keep reading »
Yesterday I wrote about a recent trend: More and more dates end in split checks. Several of my married female friends — and their husbands — were dismayed and shocked to hear about this, and so were some of you. Some believe that whoever does the asking should do the paying, while others think the guy should always pick up the check, at least for the first few dates. Recently, I went out with three guys in a row who didn’t pick up the check on the first date, and three is a trend, not a case of bad luck. So, I went to the guys on my IM to find out what the hell is going on. Turns out, I should be dating them. Keep reading »
If there’s one thing I’ve learned writing these columns, it’s that you ladies have penis on the brain. Which is why I’m going to admit that my penis is so huge, so gargantuan, that when I get excited, I barely have enough skin with which to whistle. Seriously. It’s like three grapefruits in a gym sock. Trash bags are my preferred prophylactic. I ain’t bragging or nothin’.
Does size really matter? How do you know your vagina isn’t all floppy? I knew a dude once who described sleeping with a woman as “driving a hatchback through the Lincoln Tunnel.” I am convinced y’all make so much of a fuss about size as a passive-aggressive way to get back at dudes who you perceive as judging you solely by your boobs, waist, and butt. But when it comes to sex, good sex, bite-mark-on-the-shoulder sex, we are the sum of our physical, and emotional, parts. Otherwise, you’re not having sex. You’re just slapping bits. Keep reading »
Marie Claire‘s Diana Vilibert has something crazy to admit: “Give me his name and 30 minutes, and I’ll give you his life story as told through Google, from the name of his childhood pet to a comprehensive collage of ex-girlfriends. I’m all for exhaustively Googling dates and digging up what’s out there.” And she’s not alone. Nearly every one of my female friends has Googled a potential date. Some have taken it to the extreme (background info on past GF’s maybe?), while most stick to the basics. What’s his favorite music? How funny is he? Most of what we want to find out about someone can be dug up on Facebook, but for the pesky dudes who makes their profiles private, Google offers a backup plan. Of course, you may end up finding out more than you bargained for. To be honest, I worry about potential dates Googling me. What I reveal on this site alone could scare off men. But do guys Google-stalk women before dates? Find out after the jump. Keep reading »
It’s STD Awareness Month! We’ve been talking a lot about the icky stuff you can get while bumping uglies, while Dr. V has urged you to have as much fun as you want, so long as you wear a condom. In the past, we’ve talked to the guys on our IM about how often they actually use condoms, but we’ve never grilled them about how often they get tested for STDs. And what I really wanted to know was how often they were actually honest when a potential sex partner asked them that question. Let’s find out… Keep reading »
Fine, I’ll level with you. After all, we’ve been through so much together. You’re like foreign exchange students to me. Not unlike sisters. But I wouldn’t feel gross if I “accidentally” walked in on you while you showered. TMI?
Chances are the reason he hasn’t called you back is because he doesn’t want to talk to you. Maybe he can’t talk to you. Maybe he’s fighting pirates, composing an opera, shampooing orphaned kittens.
If he hasn’t called you back, don’t hemorrhage. Don’t instant message your bestie to bitch and moan. I’ve observed many of you in the wild; bitching and moaning begats more bitching and moaning. A dude not calling you back will snowball into ridiculousness. The simplest, most reasonable answer is the right one. His phone could have been turned off, his grandmother could have died, he could have been hit by a truck and has amnesia. Simple, right? Keep reading »
Men don’t have “guilty pleasures.” We own, nay, celebrate what’s bad for us. Our obsessions are points of pride, not shame. You’ll never see a guy wolf down a small mountain of waffles with a side of pig and squeal, “OMG, I can’t beliiiiieeeeve I ate everything! Tee! Hee!”
We will shamelessly sit in a nest of pizza crusts playing video games for endless hours. Unabashed tears will crawl out of the corners of our eyes when the hometown team chokes at the last minute (tears so manly, of course, that they leave little craters in linoleum). Beer will be quaffed, their caloric potency mocked. These are the things that make life worth living. That, and never ever getting bored of slyly peeping springtime legs stretching out from under brand-new short skirts. Keep reading »
I remember my first blow job as if it was yesterday. A stairwell, in a bar, with a guy named Dave Wolf, who, just in case you might forget his last name, had a wolf tattooed on his shoulder. I was a late bloomer, sorta, so my first beej came when I was 19. But certainly guys must have as potent memories of the first time they went down on a girl — where did it happen? What did they think? And from where did they divine that initial technique? It was the perfect Tuesday lunchtime question for the guys on my IM… Keep reading »
It has recently come to my attention that there are ladies out there who think that their man drooling over pornography is tantamount to adultery. If you truly believe this, you should either dump him ASAP, with extreme prejudice, or accept that you’re going to have to live with his mistress. Dudes watch porn. Keep reading »