Sunday, April 26, 2009
For about two weeks, Mena had been having a textual relationship with a dashing, well-dressed man named Hershey. Based on my in-depth text message analysis, I determined Hershey’s only flaw was that he lived in another burrough, which logistically puts a strain on any relationship.
"So I finally met up with Hershey this week and we had a great time.” Mena began. "After about four too many glasses of champagne, I invited him back to my apartment. When we got there, I opened a bottle of wine and before I new it, we were getting frisky. One grab led to another fondle and suddenly it wasn't so PG-13 anymore."
Mena paused to slug down the rest of her bloody Mary and I signaled to the waitress for another round.
"In terms of a first-time hook-ups, things were going very well. I liked his assets and he clearly liked mine. But then the moment was ruined when he whispered a sweet nothing in my ear about how he loves my p*ssy and followed up it with an ass slap!"
"Who does that during the first hook up? That's appalling. How do you even respond to that?" I asked, with my jaw on the table right next to my Eggs Benedict and empty bloody Mary glass.
"I thought maybe it was just a fluke, so I tried to ignore it and get back to business. But he just kept going on and on about my 'P'. Number one, 'P' is probably one of the most disgusting words in the English language. Number two, he had only known my 'P' for approximately five minutes so there is no way he could already fallen that deeply in love with it."
"So how did you remedy this whole dirty talk-ass smacking situation?" I asked.
"Well, I asked him if he talked to everyone like that and by the look of confusion on his face, I knew I wasn't the first girl to hear all about her 'P' and how sweet it was.” Mena explained.
"So I had to ask him to leave. I mean, if he's pulling these moves out for our first hook-up, I don't even want to know what hook-up #3 could entail."
"Most likely dirty gym socks and cat toys." I surmised.
“Sorry I’m late.” Red Rider apologized as he plopped down in the chair next to me. “I made a bad decision last night and I’m trying to pick up the pieces today.”
“Ooh I love when you make bad decisions! Do tell.” I excitedly replied.
“I hooked up with a fatty.” Red Rider groaned with his head in his hands.
“Oh please, you’ve got nothing on me.” Mena snorted.
“And overweight people need action too.” I added.
“Well, there’s a little more to the story.” Red Rider began.
“I was at Brother Jimmy’s with a group of people from work, including this chubby girl named Lisa who had been sweating me for a few weeks. I should have known nothing good was going to come of her when she put her hands in the front pockets of my pants and felt me up while my senior manager was standing right behind me. But after a few more shots of Black Label, I decided to take her up on her offer, so we left the bar and headed to her place.”
“I really hope this story gets juicer because I’m quickly losing interest.” Mena slurred as she finished her third bloody Mary.
“We get to her place and start hooking up. Since I wasn’t really attracted to her, I didn’t exactly give a gold medal performance. Apparently she wanted more than what I was giving her because she started yelling that she wanted me to f*ck her and f*ck her hard. She kept talking dirty and I went into shock. I’ve never experienced this kind of intense dirty talk. At that point my performance level reached an all-time low, so we paused and she went to the bathroom. I was going to grab my clothes and pull an Irish exit but then I heard a loud crash come from the bathroom. Since I’m not a total asshole, I put my clothes down and went to check on her.” Red Rider continued.
“What the hell was she doing in there? Extreme peeing?” I asked.
“She apparently lost her balance and grabbed on to the shower curtain to break her fall, but because she was that fat, she actually pulled the shower curtain rod out from the wall and fell into the bathtub. When I walked into the bathroom she was lying in the bathtub, completely naked, with the shower curtain covering half of her body and the curtain rod on top of her.” Red Rider paused to finish off his bloody Mary.
“That is not a pretty picture, especially when a lot of cellulite is involved.” Mena interjected.
“So there I was, stark naked, trying to hang her shower curtain rod back up and she reaches around me and starts giving me a hand job. I should have just left her in the bathtub and peaced out.” Red Rider sighed heavily and shook his head.
“You’re going to have an awkward Monday morning.” I laughed.
“I just want to know who started this dirty talk trend. I never want to hear the p-word again.” Mena claimed.
“And I never want to hook up with a fatty again.” Red Rider declared.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Last weekend I left my usual weekend antics behind on the Upper East Side and headed to Ohio to spend a relaxing holiday weekend with my family. My weekend of leisure included a few Amish sightings, a slightly creepy encounter with Chuck E. Cheese, and a lot of storybook reading with my three nephews. Although the Amish are stilling wearing Abraham Yoder's designs from Fall 1909, they have become quite the advocates for going green with their eco-friendly horse-and-buggy approach to transportation. As for Chuck E. Cheese, he looks more like a New York City sewer rat than the friendly, pizza-serving, ski-ball-playing mouse I remembered from my childhood.
But the most important lessons learned on my weekend away from civilization were from the storybooks that I repeatedly read to my nuggets each night before their bedtime. It’s no wonder that we live in a society where relationships are consumed with affairs, threesomes, and in-depth psychoanalysis on Jerry Springer or that our companion selection processes are often based on materialistic and aesthetic criterion—we grew up reading and watching the same scenarios unfold on the colorful pages of our storybooks and during our Saturday morning cartoons.
If we could read the epilogue after each fairy tale’s “The End,” would the characters actually be living so happily ever after? While the Cinderella’s and Sleeping Beauty’s of folklore were always beautiful, cellulite-free, and never suffered from PMS, their Prince Charming’s were actually not so perfect.
Based on the following character analysis of what we thought to be fairy tale romances, it’s time for us ladies to start setting higher standards for the guys we pick up and for gentlemen to start upping their game:
Prince Charming #1: Aladdin This pauper turned carpet-riding prince made a career of thievery and eating garbage. If Michael Jackson can’t even pull off a pet monkey, how did a guy in Hammer pants win the heart of a beautiful princess?
The Real Ending: Jasmine’s happiness ends when her magical carpet ride sex-capades are replaced with conjugal visits to Riker’s Island after Aladdin’s elaborate Ponzi scheme is unraveled during an unexpected audit.
Ladies, even a few dirty martinis at Wicker Park can’t excuse creepy pets, criminal records or bad 90’s fashion. Stop trading down. Gentlemen, invest in some premium denim, get a dog if you require furry affection, and keep your careers honest.
Prince Charming #2: The Beast While Belle does lose a few points for the whole bestiality-experimentation thing, The Beast’s score is even shoddier based on his low personal hygiene standards and tendency to hold people hostage. Back hair and yellow teeth are never cute whether you live in a castle or hang out at Dorrian’s.
The Real Ending: The Beast finally de-hairs himself, heads to Vegas for his bachelor party and forgets to let Belle out of the dungeon before his flight leaves. Due to severe dehydration, Belle is hospitalized and The Beast is charged with domestic violence and harboring a hostage.
Ladies, if he’s not willing to make an effort to manscape or floss, its highly unlikely he will be inclined to make efforts in other arenas. Gentlemen, Crest White Strips, a razor, and thirty minutes can alleviate the necessity for hostage situations.
Prince Charming #3: Prince Eric This ship-sailing, flute-playing prince falls in love with Ariel, cheats on her with Ursula, violently kills Ursula just hours later, and ends his evening by marrying Ariel. Disney movie, Silence of the Lambs sequel, or Montel Williams episode? There’s a very gray area when it comes to categorizing this “love story.”
The Real Ending: Ariel accidentally misplaces Prince Eric’s flute when she is doing some spring-cleaning, which leads Eric into a psychotic rage. Eric enrolls in anger management classes and the couple attends marriage counseling every Thursday.
Ladies, just because he lives in a doorman building and summers in South Hampton doesn’t mean he’s a good catch, or mentally stable, for that matter. Gentlemen, there’s only one flute that should ever be played in the presence of a lady and it’s not a part of the woodwind family. Make sure to take your medication daily and keep your pants on when it comes to slinky sea urchins and sexy Upper East Side ladies.
Monday, April 13, 2009
It all started with a few too many at Saloon and a drunken suggestion to hit up Sapphire, the new and improved strip club formerly known as Scores. My roommate Pookie and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. There’s nothing like a little pole dancing to top off a night out on the Upper East Side.
As we settled in at our table, champagne all around, we were swarmed by three European blondes. They were lifelessly dancing in their sequined thongs, unenthusiastically enticing us with a little bare cheek and a shimmy of their silicone racks. While our three male cohorts paired off with Svetlana, Svenhilda and Jasmine, Pookie and I were left to watch the center stage striptease. It was a poor performance, with hip thrusts and pelvic gyrations even Elliot Spitzer wouldn’t look twice at.
My boredom with Limp-lana led me to look around the room. The club was filled with men of all ages, sizes and levels of baldness, drooling in amazement over women who would forget them as soon as they left their laps. The number of twenty dollar bills that filled the strippers’ g-strings could have funded North Korea’s next nuclear mission.
Then Ebony caught my eye. She was dancing to my left with pole moves even Jessie Spano couldn’t pull off in Showgirls. Her rhythm was spot on, her routine the perfect mix of salaciousness and skill, yet still naughty. If it weren’t for the smell of Coty’s latest eau de toilette and the neon lights, Ebony’s dance could have passed as a pre-trial gymnastics routine for Beijing.
Just as I was approaching Ebony to inquire about private lessons, a man with a receding hairline and a huge wad of cash beat me to her. He flashed her the green paper and they were off to the back room before I could even ask her which pole-gym she worked out at. I wasn’t bothered by the fact that Ebony was taking advantage of a business opportunity with this cash-ridden man, but rather, I was disturbed by the realization I came to as I returned to my velour-covered chair: women care more—a lot more.
The amount of effort women put into men far exceeds the efforts that men put towards women. While women are willing to spend countless hours and dollars on wardrobes and wrinkle-reducers, men are just as willing to throw a sizable portion of their paycheck at a complete stranger to hump their lap for the fleeting entirety of an Usher song. Why make a valiant effort when just a few Andrew Jacksons can save you a lot of time and energy?
Although I do know a few good men who would rather spend their money on a nice steak and good scotch, the majority of the male population will take the easy way out when it comes to wooing a woman. All of this scrutinizing led me to realize that Ellen and Portia were clearly ahead of the cusp on this one.
But the real question becomes, how can we, as women, find an effort-making man if we aren’t willing to convert to Lesbianism? Clearly we don’t expect to find true love at a strip club, but if your newest endeavor has a VIP card to Thong Dollz Gentleman’s Club or a go-to girl on penisbot.com, head for an establishment that lacks neon lights. Effort-making men will never pay money for a case of vasocongestion below the waist. If a man doesn't make an effort, he's not worth a woman's time.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
As women, we also worry about trivial, inconsequential details. What do the first three words of his second to last text mean? Did he really have to work late or did he just want to watch the Rangers game with his friends instead of having dinner with me? We hooked up last weekend, so why hasn’t he friended me on Facebook yet? Does he think it’s weird that I still collect Trolls?
In the middle of being force fed grapes and serenaded with Celine Dion power ballads by Mai Ling and Suzi, I paused. Here I am dipping myself in hot wax for softer, more supple skin, but what the *$%! are all the men out there consuming their thoughts with? And do their personal grooming routines get this much attention? From the chest hair and unibrows I’ve seen lurking in many Upper East Side bars, I highly doubt it.
While men spend a considerable amount of their time researching the best pitching line-up for their fantasy team and debating which of the Girls Next Door has the nicest rack, they do devote some time to mulling over their current female situations. If you’re dating a guy in one of the below categories, here’s some insight into their relationship thought processes (or lack thereof):
The Male Whore
You have to give Male Whores some credit—their techniques are quite effective, even on the best of us. They see something they want, they go after it and usually, they get it (if they didn’t, we couldn’t consider them whores). But because of their high success rates, they don’t feel like they have to bring much more to the table. And if you think you’re going to be the girl that changes his ways, think again. Male Whores are easily distracted and embrace change, which means you have a brief window to have fun before getting too emotionally involved.
Signs He’s a Male Whore
He only calls or texts late night after he’s been drinking. If it looks like a booty call and sounds like a booty call, then most likely it is one. If he wanted to have an actual conversation with you rather than just swapping saliva, he would have called before he slammed fourteen beers at happy hour. Another telltale sign of Male Whoredom is if he invites you over to watch Gossip Girl (or something to its equivalent), hoping you’ll reenact a Chuck and Blair scene with him during the commercials. If he truly cared about quality face time with you, he would take you out to dinner rather than use your favorite guilty pleasure to lure you into his apartment.
The Serial Monogamist
A Serial Monogamist can be the ideal boyfriend, but not until roughly three to six months down road. This category is typically comprised of men who jump from one relationship right into another, rarely allowing for the adequate number of one night stands needed after a break-up. Serial Monogamists suffer from low confidence when they don’t have a girl on their arm, so they tend to keep girlfriends around until they have the next one properly lined up. Be prepared for high sensitivity and overanalyzing from his end.
Signs He’s a Serial Monogamist
You’ve been on three dates and he wants to take you to his college roommate’s wedding—in September. Like everyone, Serial Monogamists have a comfort zone. They are most secure and fulfilled by having a significant other. By planning six months in advance, he can gain some reassurance that you will stick around at least a little while longer. Desperation and neediness are never attractive, so when he hints that he wants to come with you to Girls’ Night, it’s time to have the talk.
The Perpetual Friend
Everyone has one—he’s your best guy friend and you accidentally made out once in college after playing seventeen games of beer pong. His grandmother adores you, your dog likes him more than you, and he’s the one who bailed you out after your run-in with an undercover male prostitute. While he may be the nicest, most stand-up guy you know, you have no interest in human contact with him unless he’s pulling your head out of the toilet the morning after Cinco de Mayo.
Signs He’s a Perpetual Friend
You would rather hook-up with your second cousin than with him—your second cousin from West Virginia. The second cousin who showed you how to inseminate a cow the last time you visited.
The Dateable is the guy we’re all seeking, but can’t always find in the polluted sea of Male Whores, Serial Monogamists and Perpetual Friends. He’s good looking, wears acceptable jeans, understands your scratch-off lottery ticket addiction, and laughs at your jokes (obviously because they are always witty and right on cue).
Signs He’s a Dateable
If you can’t recognize a good catch without a play-by-play from this article, set up a meeting with your life coach.