Valentine’s Day shouldn’t be about who loves you, but whom you love. It’s the one day out of the year when you should take account of those people in your life who make you gleefully vomit little candy hearts. Being loved back isn’t nearly as important in life as boldly, recklessly, sincerely loving someone regardless of any returns on investment. Making love, not taking it, is the primary occupation of the human condition, our core programming, whether we realize it or accept it or not. All other activities and pursuits are secondary.
Instead, Valentine’s Day feels like emotional extortion. To many men, it’s an inconvenience to dread, a relationship hoop set aflame which one must deftly prance through like an expertly trained poodle. And to other men, it’s a day of opportunity. Keep reading »
The “toxic bachelor.” It was a term we’d never really heard of until a 33-year-old male friend, fresh off a breakup, mentioned it. “I want to settle down,” he said. “I want to start a family. Plus, I’m getting to that age where if I don’t do it soon, I’m in danger of becoming a ‘toxic bachelor.’” A toxic bachelor, he explained, is when it’s no longer cute to be single, and seems sad and desperate instead. For this particular friend, his “toxic bachelor” age was 35, and we wanted to know if other men felt any kind of desperate pull to settle down. So we asked them. Over IM.
Keep reading »
The breakup was amicable, and mutual in the sense that we were both slightly relieved it was over. Before we parted ways at the bar, she confessed that it bothered her that I always wanted to watch TV after we had sex. I said nothing and just nodded.
Why wouldn’t I want to watch TV after? It was on before and during. Maybe if she had told me that annoyed her, we would have jumpstarted a conversation we had failed to have. Because conversations about where the itch is and how to scratch it are utterly and completely necessary if you’re going to have a happy hump life with someone. Maybe if she had told me that, I would have responded, “Well, then, why do you have to have the TV on when we do it?” Keep reading »
There are a lot of annoying things about being a woman, like periods, childbirth and not being able to play basketball in a way that keeps spectators awake. But near the top of the list has got to be buying clothes.
I know one way to fix it is just to be ballsy and wear men’s clothes, and that’s a bold choice. But you take a social hit for wearing “masculine” clothes, and most women don’t want to take that hit. So they go to buy clothes made specifically “for women,” and generally find a set of the most impractical, low-quality, high-maintenance crap that a sweatshop can make.
Here are a few of the many, many awful things about the clothes that manufacturers want women to wear. Read more…
A recent essay about “facials” really got me thinking. Why is it that the act of ejaculating on a woman’s face is called a “facial”? Is semen an astringent? It seems to me that the act could be called something manlier, like “spackling,” or more … inviting? Women love cupcakes. Why not call the sex act “frosting”?
This essay was posted on Jezebel, and it was written by Hugo Schwyzer. The piece seeks to explain why men want to “jizz” on a woman’s face. Apparently, this sex act is highly controversial. Some women find it degrading, some find it liberating. Is it a way for men to mark their territories? Or is the act a symptom of the AIDs epidemic, when semen became a potentially lethal substance? Has porn popularized this climactic ritual? Does porn influence men, or is it a reflection of the evolving sexual desires of the day? (I’m going to answer this in a hot minute.) Keep reading »
“It’s not ‘talking to yourself’. It’s ‘engaging in a conversation with your needs.’” ”Hello internet porn, how are you today?” ”Where did I put that Slim Jim??”
“(random laughter for no reason)” ”We all die alone.” ”Please text me back please text me back.” ”I’m out of Captain Crunch. My life sucks.” ”I’m Batman.” Keep reading »
Somewhere, last night, a young man stood in his apartment wearing nothing but a condom. He stretched his arms out, closed his eyes, and whispered “if I wear it, they will come. THEN COME AND COME AGAIN.”
The condom was one of dozens he keeps strategically hidden throughout his apartment. He keeps a pile in his nightstand drawer, another pile in the bathroom, another 20 or so are tucked in between couch cushions, books on the bookshelf, and in the cupboard, hidden behind jars of peanut butter.
He considered, briefly, wearing a long string of connected condoms like a bandolier. Keep reading »
It’d been a nice night with mixed drinks and homey Brooklyn fare. The conversation hadn’t teetered, except in those first moments when we were testing the waters. Dipping our feet.
Then she said, “I find it funny that people feel uncomfortable in silence.”
I didn’t say anything. She smiled. We felt comfortable. Keep reading »
My New Years resolution is to be less stupid. I don’t usually make New Years resolutions, or as I call them, Last Year’s regrets. Usually, I just think they’re for suckers.
The only people who benefit from New Year’s resolutions are the therapists who profit from disappointment maintenance. But this year is going to be different. I’m making one “big picture” resolution instead of committing to a dozen specific self-improvement chores that I will end up failing to complete. Instead of trying to hit a bullseye with an arrow, I’m going to score a slam dunk by setting up a ladder right next to the net. Okay, well, here’s a specific resolution I will honor: I will not make any more sports metaphors.
Keep reading »
The current historic economic nosedive has two unintended consequences. One of them is that hobos just aren’t really cute anymore. Maybe they never were. All these years I thought they were adorable dirty clowns, carrying little bundles tied to the ends of sticks. I never realized those bundles were full of cans of beans and broken dreams. Keep reading »