It’s been said that during the height of Sex in the City mania you couldn’t go anywhere in New York without overhearing someone talking about the show. Even now, ten years after its final episode has aired my friends and I watch re-runs and debate over who is more of a Carrie or Miranda. The effects of the Sex in the City era are far from over. In my estimation the show did two things for the world of dating: proclaimed to people everywhere that women didn’t necessarily need a man to be happy, and that being single until your thirties was a very real possibility.

I think the latter has had a bigger effect on the female psyche than the former. Although we loved the characters of Sex in the City and revere them as probably the closest thing to feminist heroes as we are going to get, we don’t actually want to be them. Ask any one of your friends and I doubt they would say their dream is to be, or was to be, single into their late thirties.

This fact has sent us on the hunt for a suitable mate. At the risk of making the biggest blanket statement you’ll ever hear, we are a country obsessed with finding love. Turn on the television and our programming is centered around competing for love, documenting two people seemingly in love, finding love in mysterious places (i.e. the dark, the wild or “the real world”), and all the nitty gritty that comes before you find true love; enter the smush room.

Some would say, hey that’s not such a bad thing; there’s nothing wrong with wanting to find someone to share your life with. And, you’re right, there isn’t. But sometimes I wonder if perhaps we are a little too desperate for love? The fear that a year long dry spell brings can send a woman settling faster than you can say, “He’s kinda cute, right?”

Dr. Karen Anderson, associate professor of psychology, wrote a book called It Just Hasn’t Happened Yet, in which she suggests that if you haven’t found love you should just buckle down and wait for it. That isn’t the book in its entirety, but by and large it suggests that singles are not at fault for well, being single. It just hasn’t happened! While I have many concerns about this kind of thinking and would suggest everyone to take that advice with a grain of salt, I do agree with one point. Perhaps we all should just chill out a little bit.

I know personally I have acquaintances or people in my friend circle who seem overly eager to be in a relationship. I’m not going lie, most of the time these “people” are female. I see friends trying to make relationships with guys that I wonder if they would even find attractive had they not felt some sort of external/internal pressure. Heck, I’ve done this before too! I’m not so high up on my soapbox to say I haven’t pursued a man that I knew I didn’t have anything in common with just to have a date to social events.

The tricky thing with that kind of behavior is that you run the risk of getting attached or falling in love. Before you know it you could find yourself head over heels with someone who you weren’t even that crazy about in the beginning. Are we really so desperate for love that we are willing to participate in relationships with people that don’t suite us?

I know how hard it can be to see friends get boyfriends/girlfriends and stay single. But that is no reason to rush into a relationship or put pressure on someone you are casually dating. If it is meant to happen, it should happen organically. Imagine marrying someone you had to convince to propose to you? A lifetime of “she talked me into it” as the “how did it happen story”? Yuck!

Let’s stop being so afraid of our singleness and start embracing the time we have alone to figure out what it is that makes us happy. What are you looking for in a mate? What are your turn offs/turn ons. These are the things that the luxury of time will allow you to figure out so that “the one” comes along you will be the best version of yourself, or hey at least more toned.

Post from: Toy With Me

Desperate For Love

So this week, butterflies — I’m talkin SeX sTyLeS.

I’ve been HIGHLY sexual lately. More than EVER in my life. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been going through a shitty stage and when everything sux — professionally and personally — at least you still have sex to look forward to — plus it’s a great way of releasing frustrations and distracting yourself from your failures.

SIDE NOTE: Sex is awesome and as far as I surmise, it’s kind of the purpose of life anyway, so who gives if I’m failing in every other aspect of my existence. I rather be poor and pathetic and “getting it,” than rich and successful and completely dry and bored out of my libido.

OR: maybe I’m just over-the-top-insane, “THE CLIT WILL REIGN” out of control HORNY because I’m in my sexual peak. I’m enjoying boinking more than alcohol, fast food, hot wings, German chocolate cake etc. I want it from behind, the side, on top — whatever way AS IN every way – ALL THE TIME.

That said, I’m not doing it with random strangers or anything. I stumbled across a sexual partner. We met by a graffiti wall. Very romantic (well it is if you’re a hipster; not that I am. I’m more of an accidental hipster — temporarily). He’s not really someone I would imagine for myself (in life), but let me say when it comes to sex and form, the man has style — and stamina. We managed to do it eleven times the other night. I didn’t know that was even possible.

During the course of my history, I’ve found that sex is different with different men. Like a quiet accountant type who doesn’t lift weights (even though he probably goes on morning jogs) will probably have a very different technique to someone who works in construction. I imagine. I’m not into builders — or accountants. It’s just an analogy. Example: The accountant may be subtle, the construction dude not so. Unless the reverse happens as is so typical in life thanks to its attraction to irony and the accountant becomes a tiger in bed, whilst the construction guy strips off his macho persona revealing a pussy cat underneath. Meow.

You can’t type-cast when it comes to a person’s style in bed. My only point is that everyone has their preferred method and stereotypes can be deceiving. Example: A year ago, I had a fling with this hot former-submarine military guy. He was a work-out freak with an amazing body. But he was very potato chips plain, “minimal participation” in bed. If sex were a musical form, he was like reggae, but bad amateur reggae. I prefer dance, pop, techno — something more upbeat.

Personally, I like to be man-handled. None of this smooth operator, shifting back and forth missionary-style at a consistent pace and rhythm whilst the sounds of soft unintended moans harmonize with the squeak of bed springs. Unless it’s naturally going that way and we’re genuinely falling in love, sex should not be choreographed. Sweeping my hair out of my eyes and playing Marvin Gaye in the background for the sake of illusion because I’m a girl and I just need to be loved – even if it’s a lie — is not cool dude. I’m a realist,  motherfucker!  I live in a city with a majority “asshole” population…aka. L.A. I don’t need to be shielded from the truth. Besides, I like it rough.

AND: I’m a post-feminist movement female who has been forced into the workplace since the age of fifteen. I’ve suffered through corporate meetings and powerpoint presentations; I’ve worked in the car industry, a forklift company, the military, a commercial real estate office etc. over the course of the 30 plus jobs that I’ve had because equal opportunity is AWESOME (I’m kidding. It has perks). But when it comes to sexual activities I don’t always want to be an equal. I like to be dominated. Not that I don’t have my power moments , but ya get my drift.

When I first moved to California, I briefly dated this very brilliant, but nerdy (as in trendy-nerdy) producer, who I had awful AWFUL sex with — it was gentle and slow. I think he was aiming for it to be spiritual or something, but it wasn’t. So it was silent and mechanical and even though we weren’t entirely sober, its like we were both hauntingly aware of the fact that we were  doing it.  I think he was nervous, which made me nervous, which just resulted in awkward robot sex. Three failed attempts and it was time to eject. Eww. Memory deletion – compute.

At least he didn’t give me instructions. That’s the worst. Move to the left, do this weird thing with your tongue, open your mouth. STOP. Sex should come naturally. We’re not learning how to play the violin. And it should be in the moment. It’s not a Word Document; there’s no template.

I like a man with endurance. I mean the quickie is what it represents – I’m about to explode and I need to get off now NOW. I’m not undermining. It serves its purpose, but if you’re constantly only getting quick and hurried bursts of sex, you’re not doing it correctly. That’s like a preview. It’s like watching a trailer instead of seeing the actual movie. Not to mention I’m a woman and I’m not capable of getting off in ten seconds. Let’s not forget the value of foreplay. There’s no need to launch straight into it. Even space shuttles get a countdown before they take-off. A good lead up adds to the anticipation, which makes the climax all the more explosive.

Ultimately, whatever your style, it’s important to do it with confidence and to be comfortable with the person you’re doing it with.
…

ADD TO THE DIALOGUE: What are your thoughts, methods, preferences in style?

Post from: Toy With Me

SeX sTyLeS

What’s Love Got to do with it!  Notice how I replaced the question mark with an exclamation point…

SO…let’s talk about SEX baby, Salt N Pepa style because sometimes sex is sex, particularly after a ten month dry spell. This is not a Romeo and Juliet love story folk. But it’s better…because awesome sex happened and no one died in the end.

I was humped, laid, screwed as in penetrated, prodded, pounded. FuCkEd major league, big time. Yessssss, I finally broke my dry spell on July Fourth of all dates – seriously, could I be anymore obvious? Well, it was July fifth to be exact…because as we know all good and naughty things tend to happen after midnight. But WOW. Semantics aside, the fireworks cliche slides in quite nicely here. I replaced fireworks with a good old fashioned romp.

Okay okay, now I’m not going to exaggerate and tell you it was like this explosive combustion, but I will say physical compatibility and sexual chemistry were in check. His testosterone and my estrogen were like yin and yang. You know how sometimes you end up with shitty sex with someone you cultivated a relationship with and after the umpteenth date you take it to the bedroom only to find out the sex is below minimum expectation. And you’re like, WTF? I created these fantasies in my head; I made it through the waiting period; I listened to the person go on an on about, insert boring subject, only to discover there is no spark in the sack. Very disappointing.

Well, I got good sex with an unsuspecting source and it just so happened to fall on Independence Day. Random. Random sex. Or perhaps symbolic. Symbolic Sex. Symbolic Random Fourth of July Independence Day Sex.

It was like the ultimate college romp and he was five years younger than me, so he was definitely closer to being in college. Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson. Not that the age difference was super apparent or anything because our bodies were in harmony and our intellect and personalities were not part of this equation.

I probably wouldn’t have submitted had it not been for the NaTuRaL pull of nature. At first when he approached me, I was like, Who are you and what are you trying to do? It started with a tongue in my mouth and before I knew it we were on his bed doing “it”…and I was fully into “it.”  I’ve never been an advocate of the one night stand and I’ve never actually participated in one but this was like sexual gravitation. It was beyond my control. Basic Instinct.

I’m into you – Mrs. Lopez.   

Once we got the party started there was no fiddling, fumbling or uncomfortable flipping.  We were in rhythm; sync. It was written in the stars – meant to be. Sex for the sake of sex. Two people with a common goal – to get off…and we did — multiple times. And I must say he was very swift with the condom changing maneuvers.

But definitely not how I expected  to end my dry spell. After ten months of no activity and being 30, the age when most good girls are already married and thinking about family things, I was wondering if perhaps I was subliminally saving myself for “the one.” That maybe he was channeling me and keeping me prudish in preparation for his Mr. Big. We’d finally meet in some exotic location and the love and sex would happen simultaneously.

Nope.

I just did it with the jock instead. Great. I’ll probably meet my soul mate next week and have to explain that I was saving myself but then Independence Day happened — and, well…I got that boom boom POW.

I suppose it was inevitable. July Fourth does mark the season of fling – z summer fling; the best season to fling. So it was a pinnacle date to break the dry spell curse. There were many conversations about sex that day and at a prior after-party, young boys were trying to lure me with drugs and porn. Weird. But not in L.A. because that shiz is kind of mainstream here, particularly at after-party hours when everyone is sufficiently drunk.

Post from: Toy With Me

SEX AFTER A DRY SPELL

BREAK IT DOWN:

So you know that song by Will Smith, Just the Two of Us. Well check out my updated post-ironic version. Hit it Maestro: Just the “three” of us we can make it if we try-ay. Just the three of us – you, I…. and your NEW GIRLFRIEND.

So…I’ve been the cause of this strange phenomenon lately where I meet a guy and THEN inspire him to find a girlfriend. There have been several instances and it’s always with a guy where there’s an element of chemistry but probably not much else. Like someone I would totally use for sex or a seasonal fling. Okay, I don’t mean that in a slutty way…or maybe I do because I’m in my sexual peak and my libido is corrupting my mind. Like, Fuck emotions! Who needs them when your sex is on fire.

What?! Men get away with thinking that way. Blame it on feminism and equal opportunity. I didn’t start the wave, but I’ve been forced to ride it. So take it like a man, Biatch!

Whit-chee! (as in sound of a whip). Besides, I’ve tried emotions and the only person who gets “fucked” (pun INtended) — is me. So “fuck” that.

Anyway…near sex experiences aside, I’m cool with being Cupid’s sidekick and inspiring love and all that jazz, but what I find a little puzzling is being introduced to  z new girlfriend, like intentionally, in what seems like criminally pre-meditated.

What’s going on guys? Feels a little Woody Allen-esque, Vicky Cristina Barcelona style. Or are you just trying to make me jealous? Because all you’re accomplishing is implicating a third party and creating an awkward situation.

The first time this happened was with a guy I had an artistic trade-off with — I helped him write a short script in exchange for a couple of guitar lessons. There was a zing; a spark between us (I mean it could’ve been entirely art related). The point is he decided to bring his “newly acquired” girlfriend to the final lesson. Really?! It’s called private tuition for a reason. I mean he scheduled the lesson last minute, disrupted my day and then brought a girl. Unless I’m completely delusional, it seemed like an attempt to flaunt. As in, Surprise! I have a girlfriend now. Alrighty, what does that have to do with the G chord? (Pun UNintended — this time).

They’re all like subtle scenarios, but in each case it’s always a girl whose younger and sweeter than me. And I can see the fear in their eyes. I mean they can probably tell I’m in heat.

P.S. Don’t you wish your girlfriend was Hot Like Me (Thank-you Pussycat Dolls for contributing – totally unnecessary).

Seriously, I’m not into games or high school antics.  So I find myself making this conscious effort to be extra nice to z girlfriend and dispel any myth that I’m a threat  because (I’m a good person) I admit that I probably appear scary in an Angelina Jolie, “Get out of my way, Bitch!” sort of way. Geez, Thank God for Edward Cullen in Twilight providing a good example of using every ounce of your inner strength to suppress your dark side. Yep, fictional vampires have become my new role models these days. Really, that whole storyline is a metaphor for restraining from sex.

But, TAKE NOTE: Women in their thirties are dangerous, as I’m discovering. Don’t mess with us.

Then there’s the adverse scenario where the guy fails to mention he has a girlfriend and you spontaneously find out when she crashes the date you’re on and threatens to kick everyone’s ass. Suddenly there’s a chick yelling at you, “Who the fuck are you?” And Mr. Macho becomes a pile of goo, down on his knees in a prayer pose with his hands clasped, repeating, “I’m sorry babe,” or “It’s not what it looks like.”

Awkward.

Yeah, that’s happened to me in the past. We’re chilling out, watching, “Meet the Fockers,” when suddenly the moment is intercepted by the sound of smashing glass. Yep, z girlfriend busted  the window with her bare fist so she could reach across and unlock the front door. Next moment, the guy’s in panic mode and he says, “You need to get out of here. She’s a black belt in Taekwondo.”Seriously, WTF Dude?! Thank-you for endangering my life ASSHOLE!

Without missing a beat, I race out at supersonic speed and skedaddle across the backyard to my car. As I’m reversing, the last image I see is the guy being thrown against the garage.

I try to avoid these situations. I really do. But somehow they find me. My most recent psycho girlfriend encounter was at lunch with a friend, well maybe not a friend, he’s known as the “creepy guy” from next door to where my actual friends live. Hey, it was a free meal and I wanted to pick his brain about something work related. He might be creepy, but he’s not stupid.

So this woman dressed in all black, leather jacket, kinda goth looking, but not in a cute way rather devil-like, appears out of nowhere. Its like she ascended from hell. I was relieved when she started screaming because while her lips were all pursed with that diabolical look in her eyes  (all pupils, no irises), I thought she was going to pull out a 45 mm and shoot us. I’m pretty sure she would’ve kicked my ass, but I assured her I had below minus zero attraction to this man, who we refer to as the creep. Funnily enough, I had just mentioned it to him. Kind of saved his ass, as he kept repeating, “These girls don’t even like me. I’m the creepy guy. I’m the creepy guy.”

And. WOW. I couldn’t even make this up if I tried.

Afterwards, guys tend to try to justify these situations with, “We’re on the verge of a break-up.” Who knows and who cares because I’m done with threes. Unless I’m actually having a threesome with two other single people (yeah, my libido would love that), then please take note of the following plea that I’m issuing to the world: PLEASE please pLeAsE, for the love of Satan, stay away from me if you have a girlfriend…particularly one who is trained in martial arts. Thank-you.

Post from: Toy With Me

Just the Three of Us

Ever since I moved to L.A. my sex life has dropped dead. And not because nobody wants to have sex with me, but rather because – EVERYBODY wants to have sex with me. And it’s not because I look like a model from Brazil with major league big-time titties and a tight ass, since none of those characteristics apply to me, but more or less because everybody has sex with everybody here – or so it seems. You’d think this city was a college campus during the 1960s sexual revolution. Then again this is Hollywood, not the Midwest. What was I expecting, really?

Truthfully I wasn’t expecting anything. I lived in a mountainous community in Lake Arrowhead, California for two and a half years as a semi-recluse amongst a lot of retirees, a few hippies and possibly a couple of serial killers (I mean it’s the woods, an obvious place for a felon to hide). You don’t get a lot of attention in that type of environment.

Where sex in L.A. is concerned, you can pretty much apply the six degrees of separation theory. Chances are you know someone who knows someone who had sex with the someone who is trying to have sex with you now. Extreme Example: I was in a relationship with someone who has shared history with Anne Heche. (NOTE: Do I need to say ALLEGEDLY so I don’t get sued by a celebrity? Okay. ALLEGEDLY. Even though I know it’s true. Aaaagghhh! ALLEGEDLY. I can’t afford to get sued by celebrities). That relationship lasted awhile, so imagine how much common ground I would be sharing with this city if I volunteered myself for promiscuity and one night-stands.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not enjoying this sudden dry spell. I like sex. But the last thing I want to do is have sex with a friend or the same person that a friend of mine had sex with last weekend. I have dignity, Damn it! And I’ve observed men closely enough to know what they say about girls who give it up too easily.

Actors in particular appear to operate on a rotational roster. My latest night out with an actor reached its climactic point with his sex-count, or lack of, rather.  He confessed he had stuck it in more than 200 vaginas, but he doesn’t know the exact number because, well, I suppose a vagina is a vagina from his P.O.V. Seriously, how do you even find time for that? Get a part-time job or take up a new hobby. Get your pilot’s license, join a band.

Initially I was taking some of the advances towards me seriously because as always I learn the hard way. Last year, for instance, this man plopped himself at my table at the local coffee shop and somehow convinced me to have dinner with him the following night. Turns out he was trying to recruit me for midget porn. Yep, you read that correctly. MIDGET PORN. So I downed the rest of my martini and left. As I was waiting for the valet guy to get my car, he emerged from the elevator flustered, proclaiming no one had ever done that to him before. What?! Because most women have a natural tendency to participate in porn movies if the opportunity presents itself? My parting words: “You messed with the wrong bitch!”

One of my all time favorite stories is how I ended up at the “hooker hotel” on Hollywood Boulevard. My former lover slash the guy who hooked up with Heche (Allegedly) had a gig down in L.A. and I tagged along because I was going crazy in Lake Arrowhead like Jack Nicholson in “The Shining.” We had been snowed in several times and I couldn’t be left alone for fear that I would kill something, possibly myself. So we stayed at this hotel, which is part of a reputable chain. At some point I struck up a conversation with a couple in the lobby and as they were leaving, the guy said, “I’ll get you next time.” I was like, huh? The following morning we noticed a pimp counting out hundreds. Eww. So the guy must have assumed I was a prostitute because this particular motel hotel was a front for a hoar house. Awesome. I guess now all I have to do is develop a crack addiction and walk my mutilated heart down the Boulevard of Broken Dreams…all the way to hell.

In more recent news, a guy who I considered my friend (not even. More like an acquaintance) attempted to proposition me via text. References to my pussy and popsicles. Fuck off! Sex is the end result, not the intro. And I take my vagina seriously. My vagina is a Holy Grail, not a truck stop, ASSHOLE. Though random sex texts are probably not as bad as the time an anonymous source jerked off on the door knob to my apartment. What was that?! Was I to supposed to be flattered or offended?

BOTTOM LINE: I just can’t take sex seriously in this city. Unless Justin Timberlake brings sexy back alongside Urethra Franklin’s R.E.S.P.E.C.T. and something shifts or the planets realign, I’m remaining sexless and STD free.

UPDATE: A week after I wrote this post I ended up giving Rod Stewart’s godson a blow-job. I was beyond drunk…and feeling generous. He owns the local hipster bar on Melrose Ave and works very hard. He seemed like he needed one. Still. Save Me! I’m getting sucked into the vortex.

Post from: Toy With Me

Sex And The City, L.A Style

My mother keeps interrogating me about finding a man. Not just any man, but THE man. Yes, I’m talking the dreaded cliche, the cultural paradigm responsible for fear, delusion, depression, alcoholism, stalking, the creation of dating sites; commonly mistaken as the reason for human existence – drumroll – THE ONE. You know “the one” – sometimes referred to as the soulmate or the “other half.”

So my Mommie Dearest won’t let it go. It’s reached the point were I ignore most of her phone calls and restrict myself to one interrogation per month, during which I usually equip myself with a magnum size bottle of Cabernet. Though lately I’ve been considering switching to whiskey. She actually greets me with, “Have you met anyone?” Yep, she’s managed to replace, “Hello. How are you?” with, “Have you met anyone?”

An excerpt from our latest telephone conversation:

MOMMIE DEAREST: (monotone, depressed, bucket-loads of lost hope) Have you met anyone?

ME: (cynical, murderous tone) Yes, Prince Charming came knocking on my door yesterday and whisked my away to a castle in Glasgow on his private jet. So now I’ll never have to work again because he also happens to be a trust fund baby, obviously, and ironically his Dad is the King of Arabia, not just an ordinary King from soddy England, so naturally his family owns 95 percent of the world’s oil supply. And did I mention that he gave me an island in the Dominican Republic as a present, so we’ll all be vacationing there soon.

There was a beat were she pretended that I wasn’t being sarcastic and enquired about the month that we were planning on having this family va-cay. After I assured her I was making shit up again because that’s what I do to keep my sanity when people perceive me as less of a valid human being for being single, she proceeded to express her worries about my lack of effort in “finding someone.” And then she offered to pray for me.

OH. MY. GOD. Where does it say in the Bible or Torah (because both Christians and Jews seem to agree when it comes to Moses) -  THOU SHALT NOT BE SINGLE?! Am I unaware that according to God that’s like the equivalent of religious treason or something?  JESUS CHRIST! Resurrect me or get me high or something. Why do I have to find someone? Why? Why? WHY?!?!?! I live in L.A. Most of the time I can’t even get a guy to buy me a drink. Wait. That’s not entirely true. Most of the time I can’t get a guy under 60 to buy me a drink. Anyone close to or around my dad’s age – I’m golden. Anyone in the vicinity of my age – give or take five to ten years, forget it. At least that’s been my experience lately.

Living-in-LA-cynicism aside, I date if the opportunity presents itself, but there’s no point in telling my mother unless I want to deal with a bazillion questions along the lines of, Does he have superpowers? Is he related to the royal family? Has he made any scientific discoveries? Yeah mom, all of those, in addition to owning a pet dinosaur that can heal cancer and a pink dragon that exhales hundred dollar bills. Sorry mama, but most of the guys I have dated have been human, with as many flaws as attributes. There is no man-god out there, at least not that I’ve encountered.

So the focal point of my mother’s obsession is as outdated as the concept itself – MARRIAGE. Which is weird because my mama was pretty pissed when I eloped in Vegas at 22 (probably not my finest moment. But I was in love. And my husband was 28, so it’s not like we were both guilty of early twenties oblivion). So even though I’m 30 and single, it’s not like as though I haven’t tried marriage. I just beat the rest of the half of my friends destined for divorce. I’ve always been ambitious like that.

But what I find super creepy, is if you present yourself as independent and carefree on a date and then you spend hours on the phone with your mother afterwards planning your hypothetical wedding. It just doesn’t seem right to me. That’s like killing the magic of falling in love. Plus it leans towards deception.  I believe love should evolve naturally. It’s intangible to begin with, so it can’t accurately be defined. I prefer to be like the French when it comes to approach – cheese, champagne, and silence. I bet they’re not strolling around the Eiffel Tower hand-in-hand deconstructing every thought and detail. Love just is. You don’t have to psychoanalyze the goddamn thing with every member of your family. And isn’t naivety a part of it? Take that away and you’ve got a potential business arrangement, which stemmed from a scheme you concocted with your controlling mother.

Really, what bothers my mama the most is how non panicked I am about being 30 and single. This is her worst fear unfolding like some B-grade horror movie.  As for me, I recall watching Bridget Jones’s Diary in my mid twenties and somehow I knew I was destined to be – well, let’s say a trend-setter. A woman who genuinely does not have a stress attack because she hasn’t met the right guy by a certain age. I know Bridget kind of freaked out about being 30 and single, but as an outsider looking in, I admired her life – it was adventurous; there was a lot of alcohol involved, an occasional cigarette. All in all, Bridget had freedom (at least until the ending). And having gone through some not-so-awesome relationships and one failed marriage, I can assert that  freedom is way better than a prison sentence. Not to mention it’s bad for your health and dangerous for everyone involved – fending off all those murderous thoughts. No, I will NOT contemplate the murder of my spouse today. Damn it! I just visualized poisoning him again.

And sure, I’m getting older, but with the cougar theme in, I’m not exactly threatened by the old maid predicament. I’ve had more 25-year olds hit on me since I turned 30 than I did when I was 25 myself. And it’s not like there’s a shortage of divorcees to select from in addition to the untainted bachelors. Actually, I’ve seen more successful second marriages that began in midlife, than first marriages that started too young. So why impose a deadline on yourself? Men are not going to evaporate or get abducted by aliens. And if they do or if they suddenly start outnumbering women and we run out of them, Come On! This is the future. Pretty soon we’ll be able to clone “the perfect man or woman.” It’ll be the next best thing since Match.dom. Imagine a man clone – or a human looking robot that comes with a remote control, so you can turn it off when it becomes annoying or expects you to cook dinner when you have other things to do. hmm. Maybe I should just wait for that technology to be enacted into law, since it probably already exists. Tempting.

Anyway, for now I’m less concerned about finding “the one” than I am about having to communicate with my mother again. She actually fabricated a story recently about how she was dying, from heart failure of course, and her dying wish was for me to “find someone.” I caught her bluff. But next conversation, I’m planning to tell her that I’ve developed a sex addiction and since I need teams of men to keep me satisfied, I meet guys all the time. I just don’t remember their names or any other details because my focus is purely on getting off.  Reverse Psychology. Maybe this will have the opposite effect and get her to greet me with, “I hope you haven’t met anyone.” Then one day, if I actually do meet someone worth mentioning, it’ll be a pleasant surprise and perhaps meaningful – and not like some bullshit item that I finally get to cross off my bucket list.

And A-men to that.

Post from: Toy With Me

My Mother And Finding Mr. Right

Possibly related goodness:

1. My Mother Is A Social Butterfly

Last week we talked about sex for the disabled and the British solution to their unfortunately low fuckability quotient, and this week I have for you Toy with Me’s another wonderful British invention: Online Dating for Ugly People, specifically, a website called TUBB or The Ugly Bug Ball.

The justification for the site, according to them, is that half of the people in the UK are aesthetically challenged and feel rather left out of the dating pool, what with all the pretty people taking all the good dates, and so why not have a dating pool full of ugly people?  And they say that pretty people aren’t very nice anyway and so they’re really un-datable.  Ugly people, however, are better people because they’ve suffered at the hands of their ugliness, which everyone knows builds character and makes them more loyal and considerate.  I would also argue that it can make you a bitter asshole.  I wonder if there’s a dating site for assholes, too?

We should check on that, actually.

Hang on…

I just Googled “dating site for assholes” and I got this. I LOL’ed.

Anyway, according to TUBB, not only are ugly people inherently nicer folks, they also try harder in bed because they want it more because they get it less. They’re just so grateful to be there, they’ll do anything!  And once two ugly people have found one another, they probably won’t stray because who the hell would want them?  And this next one is my favorite so I’m going to quote directly from the website here:

In these straightened times TUBB is cheaper as a) We don’t charge much as the pretty sites and b) Ugly people have lower expectations – for a first date a Family Bucket will usually do the trick.

There’s even a wonderful pie chart, for those of us who are visual learners:

The Brits are super bleeding hearts, right?  They want everyone to get laid!  I love them!  Plus they have SEXY ACCENTS.  I love sexy accents.  I think it makes just about anyone fuckable, but I guess Brits don’t really think the sexy accent is sexy…or an accent.

In the name of research, I decided to see if I could find myself a nice, sexy accented lady friend.  I looked for women between 18 and 35 from Bedfordshire because Bedfordshire seemed an appropriate place to start, and guess what?

Not one ugly chick in the bunch!

Huh.

What about the guys?

Nope.

They’re not half bad either, with the possible exception of the dude with a ciggie hanging out of his mouth, but that might just be a cultural thing.  And their profiles were all pretty great!  I found at least two guys on the first page I wouldn’t mind taking a chance on!

Feeling encouraged by my findings,  I did something I’ve always wanted to do, just to see who would  I’d get hooked up with, so I created a profile.   I didn’t put a picture, and all I did was check off some of my passions like motorcross, weight lifting, martial arts, and macrame pot holder making, and people started contacting me almost immediately!  But you have to pay to read the messages and look at the pictures, so I closed my account because that’s bullshit.  Also, I think it would make my husband sad if I started dating.

From what I saw though, the TUBB dating pool ain’t so bad!

So what gives, “ugly” people of Britain??  I wanted to see some dogs! I wanted to have to call my husband into the room and be like “check out the hot mess!” but to my supreme disappointment, there was nary a hideous beast to be seen.  Maybe this is just another example of that self-deprecatory British humor? Or could it be, Toy with Mes, that fuckability is not exactly in the eye of the beholder, but in the eye of the…the…face-holder?

What is fuckability, exactly anyway?  It is really just a socially constructed Beauty Myth type deal where you only think you’re fuckable if you conform to the ludicrous standards everyone feels they have to live up to?

Or is it all in your mind?

Need I remind you of my old boyfriend, Vito, who was, by all beauty standards, fat and kind of ugly, but all my friends were up in his grill because he thought he was sexy and so he was sexy.

If you ask me, all these people need is a little attitude adjustment and they’ll be fine and fuckable in no time.  Get them into a swagger class or something. Maybe the Brits should put a few bucks into a national self-esteem building project instead of just going around buying hookers for people and setting up websites for pretty people who only think they’re ugly.

Post from: Toy With Me

Dating For Ugly People

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For someone who lives inside The Internet, it kinda shocks me that I never ended up doing any online dating. Okay, that’s not technically true: I did end up putting up a personal profile on Match.com back when it first came out and wasn’t like “hookup.com” but it wasn’t like, for real. A friend of mine put a profile together that included in the description of us as “floppy” and “meaty” just to see if we could actually attract someone. Included in the likes section, we added such gems as “beating people up,” “looking at photo albums of my cats” and “obsessively talking about our feelings.” In a potential mate, we requested that he be a very short but very beefy bodybuilder with a very tiny brain. The more well-built, the better. Basically, we wanted a buff midget to date us.

I was shocked when, two weeks later, I finally remembered to sign into my email and saw that we had actual responses. Our user name was the same as my email–Stinky Butt–and yet we’d somehow managed to find some guys that were interested in meeting this Stinky Butt freak of a woman. Badgered by my then-boyfriend, who thought what we were doing was mean, my friend and I reluctantly closed the account and said goodbye to Stinky Butt. May she live in eternal peace forevermore.

I’ve thought about online dating now and again, as I’ve had to fill out bio after ever-loving bio (that was my first experience in having to describe myself in 140 or less characters), describing myself in three sentences or less and realized that no matter what, I’d be a piss poor candidate for it. Sarcasm doesn’t translate well over the screen and, let’s be honest here, describing who you are or what you like in three sentences is an abysmal failure no matter who you are. Unless, I guess, your name is “Claudia Schiffer” and then you probably wouldn’t be trolling eHarmony for the love of your life.

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve watched as a number of blog and Twitter romances have started to blossom and I realized that perhaps the blog romance is the new medium for meeting the love of your life. I mean, if a freak like me can make friends through my blog (I have friends now! This is PROGRESS!) then certainly other people can meet potential dates through their blogs.

There’s no pressure on your blog to be anyone but yourself and with the exception of calling myself YOUR Aunt Becky, I am more honest on my blog than I am in real life. I’m not ACTUALLY your aunt, you see, so that may offend someone who thinks that we’re related, but then again, if they believed we were related without any proof other than my word, I probably should try and get them to give me gifts and money and stuff. Because obviously. Whereas on a dating site, I’d get the distinct impression that one might feel a bit like meat being judged for everything from picture—is it too old? New? Obviously photoshopped?–to wittiness of bio (is it too flip? Too coy? Too sarcastic? Too flirty? WHAT CAN YOU SAY ABOUT YOURSELF IN THREE LINES ANYWAY?).

It may be glaringly clear to you all that I was never much good at dating, anyway. I’ve always been excellent at monogamy, not so much at dating around.

I must admit, though, that seeing all of the people hooking up through their blogs is melting my cold, black heart and renewing my long-dead faith in romance. I shouldn’t have to tell you that my faith in romance died sometime back when flannel was in fashion, should I? Because it totally did. It’s just so flipping sweet to see other people falling in love after reading each other’s words (say it with me now, Toy With Me-ers, “AWWWWWW!”). It’s especially refreshing after writing articles about how people marry pillows and video game characters and other inanimate objects to be reminded that love might actually exist out there. And not, you know, require batteries. Or pillow cases.

I think what scares me the most about online dating is that I’d come across another person just like, uh, well, me. Because if, in all my mature glory, my friend and I had thought to make such a clever and delicious profile on an online dating site, then certainly others have as well. And since I still feel kind of guilty for bringing Stinky Butt into the world, it would be karmic justice that I would be taken for a proverbial ride by a couple of bored teenagers posing as an attractive multi-millionaire who is desperately in love with me and wants to buy me a castle AND a pony. I’m well aware that people NOT on dating sites can easily pretend to be a swarthy, yet desperately alluring mother of three living in Chicago rather than a single guy named Darryl living in Detroit, I’m somehow more trusting of non-dating-site people. Let’s not talk about how dumb that sounds, because I totally know it is.

So thank you, my friends in the computer who are all falling in love and shit, because you’re making me all gooey and mushy inside, which normally only happens when I eat burritos with extra hot salsa. You remind me that love is good and that it’s out there just around the bend and sometimes even Your Aunt Becky needs that reminder. Let’s keep this whole “emotions” thing between us, okay? And if any of you mention that I have actual feelings, I’ll cut you. Hard.

So tell me, Toy With Me-ers, what are your experiences with dating and the online world? Would you be more likely to find someone through a dating site or through a blog? Have you tried online dating? If so, what were your experiences?

Photo source

Post from: Toy With Me

Online Romance and My Cold Dark Heart

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You know the three date rule?

I know you know the three date rule. It even has its own Wikipedia page.

The Three Date Rule is a dating rule of thumb which states that the third date is a milestone in determining whether a woman will consent to physical relations. This is not to be confused with the Three Day Rule cited in the movie Swingers, which states that the “industry standard” waiting period for a guy to call a girl after obtaining her phone number is 3 days, the purpose of which is to not appear desperate.

Sidenote: if you wait three days to call me, this is what will happen by the time you do call:

a) I assume you’re not interested in me and therefore, alas, possess below-average decision-making skills.
b) I am already sleeping with someone else. That guy called right away.

I digress.

The three date rule is a cliché, and it is not even true. That same Wikipedia page says that msn.match.com conducted a survey (so gawd, like, it must be true) asking: how long does it take you to be intimate?

(I wish we didn’t use the word “intimate” as code for having sex. Intimate and getting nekkid can be two different things. Ideally they are entertwined but *heavy sigh* not always.)

(I also don’t like the phrase “make love.” If you are a man who wants to sleep with me and you call it “making love”, please trust and believe it will never happen. Instead, I prefer the economical and multipurpose – it can be a noun, verb, adjective and even punctuation – “fuck”. BEST WORD EVAH.)

Circling back to my point. Survey says y’all are knocking boots

• On the first date: 12.74%
• On the second date: 24.94%
• On the third date: 21.48%
• On the fourth date or beyond: 34.18%
• Only after marriage: 6.66%

So the third date rule is obeyed by only 21% of us.

Like you, if I got 21% on a test, I’d be pretty upset. That’s not a great score, especially when we’re talking about scoring.

But in this case, I think that is awesome. Because I think the third date rule is ridiculous.

We should all be having sex on the first date.

Think about it. What if sex on the first date was the rule?

• You’d get really picky about who you decide to go out with. No more wasting time on pity dates or I’m bored dates or don’t really wanna be here but hey, you’re buying dinner dates. The bar would be set high.
• Sex is a great icebreaker. It is hard to posture and bluff and pretend when you’re naked. (Unless you’re in porn, and let’s be honest: no one in porn is pretending all that well, either.)
• All the torturous does he/doesn’t he/or does he just want the booty that goes on for three or four weeks? Eliminated.
• You screen the sexist guys out. Guys with fucked up attitudes to women and sexuality – you know, the ones who lose respect for you if you put out but unfortunately you get attached to them before you figure that out? You get rid of them right away. No muss, no fuss.
• If he doesn’t call? Perfect. Better now than a month from now when you actually care.
• You get to try before you buy. This is important. Haven’t you ever dated someone for a couple of months, started liking them, and then discovered – horrors! – that the two of you are completely sexually incompatible?

I haven’t. Wanna know why?

Maybe I have a first date rule. But don’t tell anyone.

Post from: Toy With Me

What If We Had A First Date Rule?