After last week’s St. Patrick’s Day antics on Tuesday, a benefit downtown Thursday, too many whiskey shots Friday, and a Mad River birthday party on Saturday, I decided to go into full detox mode this past week. No drinking, no unnecessary pills and absolutely no Jack Daniels until Easter. Although I briefly fell off the detox wagon on Wednesday, I got right back on until last night when I met up with my two dearest friends Mena Prance and Jenny Saurs. Mena had spent last weekend on Long Island with the guy she’s been dating and Jenny had been suffering from a third-world country parasite she had picked up in Honduras, so there was a lot of catching up to be had.
We decided to head to Mustangs to see if we could score an invitation into the alleged secret sex club they run out of their basement. We were dying to know how to penetrate this underground society. Salsa, sizzling fajitas and sex? Sign me up. I could only hope sour cream was involved somehow too.
“So Mena, how was your weekend with Jonathan and his family? Do they adore you yet?” I inquired.
“Well there was a small mishap that might have lessened the adoration level.” Mena replied.
“What’d you do? Run over their cat or something?” Jenny asked.
“Thankfully they don’t have a cat and if they did, I probably would have already run it over by now. You know how my driving skills are.” Mena answered.
“Anyways, I was wearing these pajama pants his grandmother had given me for Christmas. Although the tags said Macy’s, I think she actually got them from the Easter Bunny. They’re pink, fuzzy, and should only be worn when hiking the Canadian Rockies due to their incredible heating capabilities.” she began to explain.
“So needless to say I was sweating the entire night in these pants. I woke up at about 3:00am and realized the wetness level below my waist had increased. I took off the bunny pants and laid back down—in a large, wet puddle. I knew there was no way I could have physically sweated this much, so I took a whiff. I had peed the bed.” Mena continued.
Jenny and I looked at each other, mortified for Mena and alarmed for ourselves—were we that old that our friends were starting to suffer from incontinence? There had to be a logical explanation for this mishap.
“Well a lot of people pee the bed when they’re drunk. My college roommate did it all the time. It can easily happen, especially after fourteen beers. All that liquid has to come out at some point.” I said, trying to lessen the blow of Mena’s very unsexy situation.
“And I peed Tony’s bed twice in college—the first time I told him I had spilled a bottle of Snapple and the second time I told him we had had a water balloon fight after we got home from the bar.” Jenny contributed.
“Well ladies, unfortunately I was completely sober and Jonathan doesn’t sleep in a bed with a plastic, waterproof mattress cover. This was a Sunday night and I was in his mother’s house.” Mena sighed as she slugged the rest of her margarita.
Jenny and I both grimaced and I wanted to be completely clear about the situation. “So you peed your boyfriend’s bed, in his mother’s house, in the creepy Easter Bunny pants his grandmother gave you? Completely sober?”
I looked at Jenny and we started hysterically laughing. “Come on, you have to admit it’s pretty funny.” I exclaimed.
“Hardly. His mother does his laundry.” Mena replied.
Now I was on the verge of having my own accident from laughing so hard. I ran to the bathroom before I blew our chances for an invitation to Mustang’s lower level. The smell of urine is typically a turn off in most cases, unless you’re hooking up with a Golden Shower aficionado. I had yet to encounter a urolagnia lover and I could only hope I would not encounter one tonight, or ever for that matter. I hoped for Mena’s sake that Jonathan was open to participating in such water sports—the poor girl was waiting to be invited back for Easter dinner.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
First Date Don'ts
We’ve all been on first dates and let’s face it, they don’t all play out the way we envisioned or hoped them to. Thanks to Mark Zuckerberg, we can Facebook stalk in the hours before our date. We can go into the date knowing that he went snowboarding upstate last weekend with five of his friends, minored in Labor Economics at Cornell, and is planning to attend a birthday party at Tin Lizzie’s next Friday. But while we can prime ourselves with such futile information, we can never fully prepare ourselves for what will take place during the actual date.
With that being said, I’ve compiled a few key First Date Don’ts. Gentlemen (or for those of you who would like to remain gentlemen)—if you want there to be a second date, be sure to avoid the following Don’ts. Ladies—if any of the following Don’ts occur, there should be no second date.
Don’t allow your date to pay for her portion of dinner.
It’s 2009 and we ladies may offer to throw down some money when the bill comes. We’re a generation of career women. We go to college to actually get an education rather than the 1950’s approach where women enrolled only to find a husband. While we pay our own bills and have our own 401k’s, we don’t really expect you to take our money on the first date. We don’t want chivalry to be dead, so if you’re on a tight budget be sure to schedule the date for approximately two hours after the dinner hour. This way you can rest assured that we have already eaten dinner. Splitting a bottle of wine and sharing an appetizer is a completely acceptable scenario and less detrimental to your wallet than a five course meal at Campagnola. But if you bust out your cell phone calculator to determine the exact cost of my salmon burger and Ketel One’s, be prepared for a second date denial.
Don’t use your date as an opportunity to come out of the closet.
While the fact that you were a former Chippendale and know the exact location of the Tool Box should have been a dead giveaway, don’t take your date to a movie that might prompt you to come out of the closet when the credits roll. When you’re the one sobbing during Brokeback Mountain and your date is handing you her popcorn grease-stained napkins, take note that you should start asking men on dates. A Loews theater is not the appropriate forum for such realizations.
Don’t suggest watching porn—or discuss the topic in any capacity.
If you’re mentioning pornography on the first date, what will the subject of conversation be on a second or third date? Porn, along with vibrators and handcuffs, are all topics that should not be broached until you’ve actually slept with your date at least eleven times. As we found out from Seat 12B on my flight to Las Vegas, true love and second dates are hard to find when you’re a sex addict. Bite your tongue and call your therapist in the morning rather than ruin your chance of a future date.
Don't take your date to watch a sporting event if you care more about your team winning than you do your own mother.
While no one should love a team more than their own mother, it can seem like you might if you’ve scheduled your date at a venue where you will have full access to at least eight HD TV’s and the main topic of conversation has been centered around the Yankee’s acquisition of C.C. Sabathia. Eye contact and engaging in conversation with your date will increase the likelihood of garnering a second date rather than slamming your beer on the table when a ground out double play ruins your fantasy league standings for the week.
Dating in this town is challenging enough. Gentlemen—while you may not be a perfect date on every outing, consider your past experiences and score a second date after your next first date. Ladies—get picky.
With that being said, I’ve compiled a few key First Date Don’ts. Gentlemen (or for those of you who would like to remain gentlemen)—if you want there to be a second date, be sure to avoid the following Don’ts. Ladies—if any of the following Don’ts occur, there should be no second date.
Don’t allow your date to pay for her portion of dinner.
It’s 2009 and we ladies may offer to throw down some money when the bill comes. We’re a generation of career women. We go to college to actually get an education rather than the 1950’s approach where women enrolled only to find a husband. While we pay our own bills and have our own 401k’s, we don’t really expect you to take our money on the first date. We don’t want chivalry to be dead, so if you’re on a tight budget be sure to schedule the date for approximately two hours after the dinner hour. This way you can rest assured that we have already eaten dinner. Splitting a bottle of wine and sharing an appetizer is a completely acceptable scenario and less detrimental to your wallet than a five course meal at Campagnola. But if you bust out your cell phone calculator to determine the exact cost of my salmon burger and Ketel One’s, be prepared for a second date denial.
Don’t use your date as an opportunity to come out of the closet.
While the fact that you were a former Chippendale and know the exact location of the Tool Box should have been a dead giveaway, don’t take your date to a movie that might prompt you to come out of the closet when the credits roll. When you’re the one sobbing during Brokeback Mountain and your date is handing you her popcorn grease-stained napkins, take note that you should start asking men on dates. A Loews theater is not the appropriate forum for such realizations.
Don’t suggest watching porn—or discuss the topic in any capacity.
If you’re mentioning pornography on the first date, what will the subject of conversation be on a second or third date? Porn, along with vibrators and handcuffs, are all topics that should not be broached until you’ve actually slept with your date at least eleven times. As we found out from Seat 12B on my flight to Las Vegas, true love and second dates are hard to find when you’re a sex addict. Bite your tongue and call your therapist in the morning rather than ruin your chance of a future date.
Don't take your date to watch a sporting event if you care more about your team winning than you do your own mother.
While no one should love a team more than their own mother, it can seem like you might if you’ve scheduled your date at a venue where you will have full access to at least eight HD TV’s and the main topic of conversation has been centered around the Yankee’s acquisition of C.C. Sabathia. Eye contact and engaging in conversation with your date will increase the likelihood of garnering a second date rather than slamming your beer on the table when a ground out double play ruins your fantasy league standings for the week.
Dating in this town is challenging enough. Gentlemen—while you may not be a perfect date on every outing, consider your past experiences and score a second date after your next first date. Ladies—get picky.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Sexnomics: How To Get A Raise
While Seat 12B continued on about how he organized his drawer of pornos, his favorite role playing scenarios and the secret to anal success, my mind began to drift. There was only so much lubrication talk to be had with a complete stranger from Atlanta to Las Vegas. I now understood the true importance of a direct flight. Board and deboard with fellow New Yorkers and you won’t have to worry about seatmates looking for therapists, friends, or mile-high club partners. These southern people were way too friendly.
Since I hadn’t had any recent, noteworthy escapades to contribute to 12B’s conversation, I began to think about my friend Leigh Lewis and her latest antics. She had called me while I was wandering the Atlanta airport in search of some morsel of food that didn’t come out of a deep fryer.
Leigh was in her early twenties, beautiful and smart—and the only person I know who got a raise this quarter. While our country’s West Coast was forming shanty-towns and living off of canned green beans, Leigh found a way to ensure job security in a town where Ivy league educated overachievers could be found teaching themselves how to play the acoustic guitar from 9-to-5 instead of trading on Wall Street.
Leigh worked at a small, family-owned law firm in Midtown while she finished her Masters in Social Work at NYU. After working at the firm for a few short months, Leigh had set her eyes on one of the younger partners in the firm. He was in his mid-thirties, wealthy, arrogant and dating a Bridget Moynahan look-a-like, which was all standard for any somewhat good looking, non-married, six-figure making male in Manhattan.
“Leigh, congratulations on your raise!” I started. “I think you’re the only person in the tri-state area that’s going to get one this year. Hell, my office can’t even afford to replenish our Diet Coke supply. How did you pull this one off?”
“Well, I think Harry was a little obligated to give me one.” Leigh replied.
“Number one, can we refer to him as Richard? I hate the name Harry and his full name is much hotter. And number two, I’m going to need you to elaborate on why Richard was obligated to give you this raise.” I demanded.
“Wait, why would Harry’s full name be Richard?” she asked.
“Obviously because Harry is a nickname for Richard.” I answered, clearly annoyed. I didn’t understand her confusion and why we couldn’t just refer to this man by his proper name and move on with the story.
“Harry is a nickname for Harold and Dick is a nickname for Richard, you dick!” she exclaimed.
“Oh right, Dick.” I guess that did make a little more sense. The heavy aroma of fried chicken was clearly fogging my logic.
“Anyways, a few weeks ago I was working alone with Richard on a Saturday, helping him prepare for a deposition he had on Monday.” Leigh began. “It was about 85 degrees in the conference room and I was getting a little moist, so I took off my sweater and was working in a tank top. Every time I looked up, Richard was staring at my rack, as usual.”
“Then he came over and sat in the chair next to me to go over something and before I knew it, we were making out! And then, only seconds later, his dick was in my mouth.”
“Well that’s a quick transgression of events. So he just whipped it out, stuck it in your mouth and hoped for the best?” I asked. I was a little confused on the timeline of this event and very disappointed with Richard’s manners.
“Yeah, that’s basically what happened. It was definitely not sexy and then my jaw got tired, so I stopped and came up for air.” Leigh continued. “Then his cell phone rang and the moment was ruined, so he decided to take the call.”
“Who raised this man?!” I angrily asked. “I don’t think you should continue this affair, Leigh. He sounds like a scumbag.”
“Oh it will not be continued.” Leigh assured me. “When I walked into his office on Monday morning I was expecting some awkward small talk, but instead I found him clipping his toenails and asking me how my weekend was. He acted as if he hadn’t put his penis in my mouth forty-eight hours ago while I stood there trying to dodge his toenail clippings!”
“Well Leigh, I’m just glad he wasn’t the only one who got a raise out of this.” I said as I hung up the phone.
Since I hadn’t had any recent, noteworthy escapades to contribute to 12B’s conversation, I began to think about my friend Leigh Lewis and her latest antics. She had called me while I was wandering the Atlanta airport in search of some morsel of food that didn’t come out of a deep fryer.
Leigh was in her early twenties, beautiful and smart—and the only person I know who got a raise this quarter. While our country’s West Coast was forming shanty-towns and living off of canned green beans, Leigh found a way to ensure job security in a town where Ivy league educated overachievers could be found teaching themselves how to play the acoustic guitar from 9-to-5 instead of trading on Wall Street.
Leigh worked at a small, family-owned law firm in Midtown while she finished her Masters in Social Work at NYU. After working at the firm for a few short months, Leigh had set her eyes on one of the younger partners in the firm. He was in his mid-thirties, wealthy, arrogant and dating a Bridget Moynahan look-a-like, which was all standard for any somewhat good looking, non-married, six-figure making male in Manhattan.
“Leigh, congratulations on your raise!” I started. “I think you’re the only person in the tri-state area that’s going to get one this year. Hell, my office can’t even afford to replenish our Diet Coke supply. How did you pull this one off?”
“Well, I think Harry was a little obligated to give me one.” Leigh replied.
“Number one, can we refer to him as Richard? I hate the name Harry and his full name is much hotter. And number two, I’m going to need you to elaborate on why Richard was obligated to give you this raise.” I demanded.
“Wait, why would Harry’s full name be Richard?” she asked.
“Obviously because Harry is a nickname for Richard.” I answered, clearly annoyed. I didn’t understand her confusion and why we couldn’t just refer to this man by his proper name and move on with the story.
“Harry is a nickname for Harold and Dick is a nickname for Richard, you dick!” she exclaimed.
“Oh right, Dick.” I guess that did make a little more sense. The heavy aroma of fried chicken was clearly fogging my logic.
“Anyways, a few weeks ago I was working alone with Richard on a Saturday, helping him prepare for a deposition he had on Monday.” Leigh began. “It was about 85 degrees in the conference room and I was getting a little moist, so I took off my sweater and was working in a tank top. Every time I looked up, Richard was staring at my rack, as usual.”
“Then he came over and sat in the chair next to me to go over something and before I knew it, we were making out! And then, only seconds later, his dick was in my mouth.”
“Well that’s a quick transgression of events. So he just whipped it out, stuck it in your mouth and hoped for the best?” I asked. I was a little confused on the timeline of this event and very disappointed with Richard’s manners.
“Yeah, that’s basically what happened. It was definitely not sexy and then my jaw got tired, so I stopped and came up for air.” Leigh continued. “Then his cell phone rang and the moment was ruined, so he decided to take the call.”
“Who raised this man?!” I angrily asked. “I don’t think you should continue this affair, Leigh. He sounds like a scumbag.”
“Oh it will not be continued.” Leigh assured me. “When I walked into his office on Monday morning I was expecting some awkward small talk, but instead I found him clipping his toenails and asking me how my weekend was. He acted as if he hadn’t put his penis in my mouth forty-eight hours ago while I stood there trying to dodge his toenail clippings!”
“Well Leigh, I’m just glad he wasn’t the only one who got a raise out of this.” I said as I hung up the phone.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Seat 12B
After uncharacteristically leaving the island of Manhattan this past weekend, I encountered many new and enlightening experiences. For those of you starting to judge me for possibly spending a weekend night in another burrough, you can cease all worrying now. In addition to the obvious reasons, my allergy to patchouli and lack of silk-wrap nails would never allow me to even consider trading the UES for a night in hipster Williamsburg, or picking up firemen in Staten Island.
Instead of subjecting myself to potential injury from hacky-sacking or boarding a ferry, I hailed a cab and headed to LaGuardia airport. My destination was Las Vegas for a bachelorette party, but little did I know that I was in for some interesting encounters before I even de-boarded my flight.
Since I couldn’t get an affordable, direct flight, I had to suffer through a layover in Atlanta. As soon as I stepped off the plane, I smelled fried chicken and cellulite. I couldn’t find an even somewhat healthy lunch—every meal option included the words beer-battered, ranch dressing, deep-fried or mayonnaise. Does whole wheat bread even exist below the Mason-Dixon Line? Consequently, I opted to skip lunch in true Mary Kate Olsen style. This decision would eventually come back to haunt me somewhere over Middle America.
As I settled into my window seat, I began to contemplate whether I should leaf through Us Weekly to catch up on Hollywood’s eating disorder line-up or, more sensibly, catch a quick nap before my night of mayhem in Vegas. My deliberation was suddenly interrupted by my seatmate plopping down next to me in 12B while talking loudly on his cell phone. I settled back into my seat and waited for the captain to announce that all electronics must be turned off, specifically in the twelfth row.
After we had been in the air for about twenty minutes, 12B tried to get chatty with the older woman in the seat to his right. She was intently doing a crossword, giving her a perfectly good reason to be unresponsive and leaving me as his only alternative for conversation. As he started with the small talk, the stewardess came by to take our drink order. When he ordered a Tanqueray and tonic, I decided that I might as well join him for happy hour. After all, I am from Ohio and not completely rude.
We got on the topic of New York and he began to tell me about his one and only visit to the Big Apple. He was there on business but did have one night out while he was in town. He was very conspicuous about the details of his evening. The first few facts included something about an out-of-the-way lounge with no address and a blindfold. I was pretty sure I knew where he was going with this tale, but just in case he was going to throw something really appalling at me, I ordered another drink and hoped for a “The End.”
He was still rambling about the leopard print couches, the outrageous cover charge, and topless women when my two drinks on no lunch got the better of me and I interrupted him.
“Listen, I know you’re talking about a sex club. They’re all over the city and my roommate accidentally went to one, so you can just get to the good part.”
The look of relief on his face signaled that instead of hearing the end of the story, I was going to get more details about his sexual encounters at “The Cave” than I would about Kim Kardashian after watching Ray J’s sex tape.
After he detailed out a scenario that included the Rhino sexual enhancement pill and a threesome until 8:30 a.m., I tried to transition into a new topic. We began talking about vacations and traveling, and he mentioned that his last trip had been to the Bahamas. He had gone with a woman he had been dating, and at that point had been together for about seven months.
“Wow that must I been really romantic. I’m dying to go somewhere in the Caribbean.” I innocently remarked.
“We actually broke up while we were there.” he admitted.
“I’m sorry to hear that. What went wrong?” I asked, trying to sound sympathetic.
“Well, my friend who lives on the island picked us up at the airport. But instead of taking us straight to the resort, we stopped by the police department first.”
“Oh does he work there or something?” I was very confused.
“No, no. He just knows people there. He took me to pick out a girl for the night.”
I looked at him quizzically. “So like a tour guide?”
He looked at me with annoyance, as if the answer to my question was very obvious and I shouldn’t have even needed to ask it.
“No. Like a girl for the night.”
So maybe I had heard of a few sex clubs around the city, but this bailing hookers out of jail while on vacation with your girlfriend was a whole new concept to me.
“A prostitute? I thought you were there with your girlfriend?”
“Yeah that’s kind of why we broke up. She thought it was unromantic for me to want to have a threesome the first night we were there.” 12B explained.
I quickly motioned to the stewardess to bring another round. Poor Delores in 12C was probably finding it very difficult to complete her crossword with all this talk of ménage a trios.
I took a deep breath and asked, “So how often do you engage in threesomes?”
“At least eight times a year.” I was stunned by his quick, finite response.
“You gotta be a sex lover. Got. To. Be.” he affirmed. He looked at me, waiting for a response to his profound proclamation.
I was now sucking the Jack Daniels off of my ice cubes. I stared straight ahead because I wasn’t sure I could look this man in the face.
Before I could comment, the captain began to make an announcement. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. We are currently flying over Oklahoma City at an altitude of 36,000 feet. The skies are clear and we thank you for flying with us today. We have approximately two hours and twenty minutes of remaining flight time.”
This is how Britney must have felt when she found out her dad was keeping her in the psych ward and taking control of her money. I picked up my fresh drink and turned to him, “So, are you dating anyone now?”
Instead of subjecting myself to potential injury from hacky-sacking or boarding a ferry, I hailed a cab and headed to LaGuardia airport. My destination was Las Vegas for a bachelorette party, but little did I know that I was in for some interesting encounters before I even de-boarded my flight.
Since I couldn’t get an affordable, direct flight, I had to suffer through a layover in Atlanta. As soon as I stepped off the plane, I smelled fried chicken and cellulite. I couldn’t find an even somewhat healthy lunch—every meal option included the words beer-battered, ranch dressing, deep-fried or mayonnaise. Does whole wheat bread even exist below the Mason-Dixon Line? Consequently, I opted to skip lunch in true Mary Kate Olsen style. This decision would eventually come back to haunt me somewhere over Middle America.
As I settled into my window seat, I began to contemplate whether I should leaf through Us Weekly to catch up on Hollywood’s eating disorder line-up or, more sensibly, catch a quick nap before my night of mayhem in Vegas. My deliberation was suddenly interrupted by my seatmate plopping down next to me in 12B while talking loudly on his cell phone. I settled back into my seat and waited for the captain to announce that all electronics must be turned off, specifically in the twelfth row.
After we had been in the air for about twenty minutes, 12B tried to get chatty with the older woman in the seat to his right. She was intently doing a crossword, giving her a perfectly good reason to be unresponsive and leaving me as his only alternative for conversation. As he started with the small talk, the stewardess came by to take our drink order. When he ordered a Tanqueray and tonic, I decided that I might as well join him for happy hour. After all, I am from Ohio and not completely rude.
We got on the topic of New York and he began to tell me about his one and only visit to the Big Apple. He was there on business but did have one night out while he was in town. He was very conspicuous about the details of his evening. The first few facts included something about an out-of-the-way lounge with no address and a blindfold. I was pretty sure I knew where he was going with this tale, but just in case he was going to throw something really appalling at me, I ordered another drink and hoped for a “The End.”
He was still rambling about the leopard print couches, the outrageous cover charge, and topless women when my two drinks on no lunch got the better of me and I interrupted him.
“Listen, I know you’re talking about a sex club. They’re all over the city and my roommate accidentally went to one, so you can just get to the good part.”
The look of relief on his face signaled that instead of hearing the end of the story, I was going to get more details about his sexual encounters at “The Cave” than I would about Kim Kardashian after watching Ray J’s sex tape.
After he detailed out a scenario that included the Rhino sexual enhancement pill and a threesome until 8:30 a.m., I tried to transition into a new topic. We began talking about vacations and traveling, and he mentioned that his last trip had been to the Bahamas. He had gone with a woman he had been dating, and at that point had been together for about seven months.
“Wow that must I been really romantic. I’m dying to go somewhere in the Caribbean.” I innocently remarked.
“We actually broke up while we were there.” he admitted.
“I’m sorry to hear that. What went wrong?” I asked, trying to sound sympathetic.
“Well, my friend who lives on the island picked us up at the airport. But instead of taking us straight to the resort, we stopped by the police department first.”
“Oh does he work there or something?” I was very confused.
“No, no. He just knows people there. He took me to pick out a girl for the night.”
I looked at him quizzically. “So like a tour guide?”
He looked at me with annoyance, as if the answer to my question was very obvious and I shouldn’t have even needed to ask it.
“No. Like a girl for the night.”
So maybe I had heard of a few sex clubs around the city, but this bailing hookers out of jail while on vacation with your girlfriend was a whole new concept to me.
“A prostitute? I thought you were there with your girlfriend?”
“Yeah that’s kind of why we broke up. She thought it was unromantic for me to want to have a threesome the first night we were there.” 12B explained.
I quickly motioned to the stewardess to bring another round. Poor Delores in 12C was probably finding it very difficult to complete her crossword with all this talk of ménage a trios.
I took a deep breath and asked, “So how often do you engage in threesomes?”
“At least eight times a year.” I was stunned by his quick, finite response.
“You gotta be a sex lover. Got. To. Be.” he affirmed. He looked at me, waiting for a response to his profound proclamation.
I was now sucking the Jack Daniels off of my ice cubes. I stared straight ahead because I wasn’t sure I could look this man in the face.
Before I could comment, the captain began to make an announcement. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. We are currently flying over Oklahoma City at an altitude of 36,000 feet. The skies are clear and we thank you for flying with us today. We have approximately two hours and twenty minutes of remaining flight time.”
This is how Britney must have felt when she found out her dad was keeping her in the psych ward and taking control of her money. I picked up my fresh drink and turned to him, “So, are you dating anyone now?”
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