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By Rick Allan, December 12, 2011 6:00 am

Every now and then, I’ll take a girl home who might not be my #1 pick of the night, but maybe she’s really enthusiastic or just knows how to play the game. Inevitably, we’ll have the “I’m not looking for anything serious right now” conversation, and things will go smoothly for at least a few weeks (and by “smoothly,” I mean our interaction is strictly limited to me calling her when I’m drunk and horny).

Things go smoothly, that is, until she starts breaking the rules.

Rules? What rules, you ask?

Good question! Why, the rules of booty calling, of course.

Now, it’s not a big deal if she breaks one or two of the rules, as the damage can be managed appropriately, and hurt feelings can still be minimized. Occasionally, however, a woman will seemingly make it her goal to break every single one.

Linda was one of these women. I met her while out on a typical Friday night. She was cute. Nothing special, but the more I drank, the better she looked. She played the game just enough to keep me interested until we went home together.

The next morning, we ran through the motions: “I like you, you like me”… “I’m not looking for anything serious”… “neither am I”… and so on. I made it clear that this was going to be pretty casual for me. And she seemed to be in perfect agreement.

But it didn’t take long for her to start messing it all up, as I received the following text a few days later:

“Are you on facebook ”

Oh, look, the first rule….

Continue reading 'The Ricktastic Guide To Proper Booty Call Etiquette'»

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By Jennifer Hamilton, October 24, 2011 6:00 am

Photo by Instant Vantage via flickr.com

My husband and I have a German friend, Gunther—late 30s, good-looking, smart, funny, and a genuinely nice guy.

Of course, he’s single.

A few weeks ago, we were hanging out together, pondering his romance woes over a few glasses of wine. But it wasn’t the preposterous fact that he was still unattached that lingered in my mind. It was an observation he made based on his visit to San Diego a few years ago.

“I think it must be difficult to make friends with a woman in the United States,” Gunther said.

Immediately, I became skeptical. What exactly did he mean by this?

Gunther explained: “My friends were out of town for a few days, so I went–alone–to a bar for a drink. There, I struck up a conversation with a woman. We talked for a while, and at the end of the night, I walked her home. She wasn’t my type, but I enjoyed her company, so I asked her to meet me the following evening at the bar.”

I thought I saw where this was going. So, I asked, “Did you buy her drinks?”

Gunther couldn’t remember, but admitted that it was a distinct possibility.

He met the girl the next night, walked her home after a few hours, and again asked her to meet for drinks the next day. By the third night of seeing each other, after they got to her house and he started to leave, she became angry.

“What’s wrong with you!” (According to Gunther, this was not a question). She followed up her statement with some colorful language and a few choice accusations. Naturally, Gunther was offended. But that quickly turned to bewilderment.

“What was her problem?” he asked us.

My husband and I shared a look and giggled.

“Third date. Sex,” I explained.

Continue reading 'Desperately Seeking The Friend Zone'»

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By Jennifer Witt, October 17, 2011 6:00 am

From the moment I laid eyes on him, I knew I had to have him. I figured he had to have a girlfriend. But he asked me out, and I didn’t even think about my boyfriend back home, 700 miles away.

The reasons I cheated were many. Distance, lack of sexual satisfaction, pre-existing lack of trust, excitement, a fear of being alone, and an inability to end a relationship all contributed to my indiscretion. I also fell in love with the other guy. Not that it makes what I did any better.

For a while, it was perfect. In the Big City, I had a smart, successful, connected, sexy Dream Guy parading me around like a trophy. And back home, I had my boring but safe boyfriend (just in case it didn’t work out with Dream Guy).

My tryst lasted two intense months, with another weekend rendezvous three months later. Yet, we lived hundreds of miles apart, so the end was expected, natural, and painless. Or so it seemed.

Back home, I still fantasized about Dream Guy. I was also constantly wracked with guilt. Not a single day went by that I didn’t consider confessing. I never did, though, because I couldn’t face the pain it would have caused my boyfriend.

A year later, I moved back to the Big City, this time permanently. And I couldn’t wait to see Dream Guy again. My boyfriend wasn’t able to join me immediately, so I had several months to rekindle my romance with Dream Guy and break it off with my boyfriend. Dream Guy and I ended up working in the same office, and it didn’t take long for us to pick back up where we left off.

Except this time, he had a girlfriend. I was still tormented by guilt and started second-guessing myself. Was it really worth going through this again if we were not going to work out? One mistake I could rationalize, but two? Dream Guy began to get frustrated with my indecisiveness, and every time we’d start to get physical, I’d freak out and change my mind. I was asking him to put his relationship on the line by seeing me behind his girlfriend’s back, but I’d never go all the way or break it off with my boyfriend and commit to him.

Continue reading 'Once A Cheater, Never Again A Cheater'»

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By Isaac Kennedy, August 29, 2011 6:00 am

Photo by Buero Monaco

For nine months during my first year of university, I was in a casual relationship with two different women.

Right. This is where most people expect macho bragging, but I’m actually not going to do that. It was great… for awhile. But ultimately, I broke it off because I couldn’t deal with being used for sex. As a guy, I feel incredibly weird just typing that out, but it’s how I felt.

Of the few people I’ve told, the result has always been high-fives and pats on the back. Even when I told my mother, her response was a simple, “Good for you son! Glad to see you’re enjoying university.”

The first girl was my girlfriend before the start of university. We broke up with the understanding that university is a time to enjoy yourself and not be tied down to another person, but we somehow ended up living in the same town.

One night, I received a message asking me to come over. I had to muster up a good amount of willpower, but my reply was no. We were supposed to be meeting new people, and I didn’t want to retread the same path.

Several days later, the same thing happened. Again, I said no. Finally, a week later, she was a lot clearer and simply messaged saying, “I only want sex.”

This time, I agreed. Soon, this became a regular occurrence: She would send me a message, and I would go round to her house. It seemed like the best deal on earth at the time (and this was when I was living in a place that had 50-pence drinks and free sandwich parties).

The second girl, I met at a party. We got drunk and spent the night together. The next morning, we parted ways amicably, and I thought nothing more of it until I received a message a few days later. Not wanting to pursue a relationship with this girl, I replied no. But as before, I received a second message stating, “I only want sex.”

Continue reading 'Casual Sex Isn’t As Great As I Thought It Would Be'»

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By Shaun L. Swegman, August 8, 2011 6:00 am

Your douchebag history

Do you know why there are so many douchebags in the world?

It’s because women keep sleeping with them.

Seriously, if you give your dog a treat every time he takes a dump on the rug, expect to live in a very stinky house. Sleeping with someone you know is scum reinforces bad behavior in much the same way.

There are probably volumes’ worth of reasons individual women do this, but I stumbled onto an interesting one last night over drinks with a friend. This friend of mine is hot. She’s smart, and funny, and kind. She has a handle on life in a lot of ways, owns a house, and has a good career. In other words, any guy would be lucky to be with her. Yet, the landscape of her dating history is a minefield of douchebags.

I don’t mean just guys I don’t like. I mean guys who have done magnificently shitty things, like cheating on her with her barely-legal-at-the-time younger sister, stealing a significant sum of money from her, and dumping her for the methed-out stripper he’d been cheating on her with and gotten knocked up. Yeah, all that was the same guy. He stands out, but it’s a bad crowd.

Anyway, my friend told me that the weekend before last, she had sex with one of her douchey exes, this one a garden-variety manipulative cheater. She, of course, professed to hating his guts and didn’t really know what motivated her to sleep with him.

And then last weekend, she ran into the first guy I mentioned above. She said she “was good” this time because she “only messed around” with this guy, instead of having sex with him. She couldn’t resist telling me that she’d blown him, though.

Of course, I didn’t want to hear any of this, mostly because, no matter how self-defeating her actions were, I knew the chances of anything I said actually changing her behavior were abysmal. And who was I to tell her how to live and what mistakes to make? Still, hearing about my friend’s suffering at the hands of these jerks and knowing I couldn’t do anything about it was pretty depressing.

But it was what she said next that inspired this writing:

Continue reading 'How Women Reinforce Douchebaggery'»

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By Jasmine Curry, July 4, 2011 6:00 am

I'm not throwing your love away. I'm just recycling.

A lifetime ago, I was in a long term live-in relationship with a boyfriend. It was good, but it wasn’t perfect, and I felt myself pulling away from him. To be honest, I even got a bit bitchy with him.

That Thanksgiving, I spent the holiday out of town with my mother, and being away from him felt like tasting chocolate for the first time. I realized that it was probably time to end the relationship.

But how? When? Before Christmas, so you don’t feel guilty over receiving gifts from someone you intend to break up with? After Christmas, so you don’t ruin his holidays? This was my first relationship and thus was also to be my first breakup. I had no idea how to go about things.

Luckily, my boyfriend took care of things for me. The night I got back from our weekend away, while we were eating dinner (at the… wait for it… “Comfort Diner”), he jokingly asked, “What, are you going to break up with me?”

And, being someone who can’t lie, I honestly–and probably too abruptly–said, “Yes.”

The Comfort Diner was suddenly not so comfortable. Put me off chicken pot pie for years….

The next two weeks were hell. We had all of our stuff to separate. We even had custody issues with our pet cat. (Man, I miss that cat. I almost considered staying in the relationship just to be with her.) Mostly, it was two weeks of “why?” followed by “why?” followed by “why?” again. It was like living with a three-year-old who got into mommy’s Valium.

Not my idea of fun. Well, probably not anyone’s idea of fun. Unless you have a disturbing fetish and get off on that kind of thing, in which case you should just buy a cape and change your name to “The Heartbreaker.”

Continue reading 'Sex With An Ex Sucks'»

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By Dennis Hong, June 27, 2011 6:00 am

The most politically correct fraternity photo ever: Todd, Scott, and Dennis, 1994

Ladies, meet Scott. That’s him in the middle in the photo. Yes, the one with the mane of hair and the pager clipped to his jeans.

Scott and I were fraternity brothers at UCLA, and for as long as I’ve known him, he has epitomized the term “chick magnet.”

Within the fraternity, there was a standing air of mystification over Scott’s ability to attract women. He didn’t have to say anything, he didn’t even have to make eye contact. The ladies would just magically flock to him.

Seriously, Scott could get shit on by a bird and somehow use that as a way to attract women.

And in case you think I’m speaking in hyperbole here, that is exactly what happened one time….

Years after we graduated, a group of us met up in San Diego, at a hotel bar on the beach. We were sitting in a row along the bar, with our backs to everyone else at the place.

At one point in our conversation, a seagull flying overhead decided to take a great big dump, and it landed right on the back of Scott’s white shirt. Of course, he was a little annoyed. But, being the laid back surfer dude that he is, he simply turned around and wiped it off.

Noticing what had happened, a group of strangers at a table behind us lobbed a few words of sympathy towards Scott. It barely registered in my mind when one of the women in the group got up and walked out of the bar.

Ten minutes later, we were once again deeply immersed in alcohol and had forgotten all about the seagull poop. That’s when the woman who had left returned with a bleach pen. She walked up to Scott and said, “Here, this will take care of the stain.” And before Scott had a chance to respond, she started cleaning off his shirt for him.

Now, in case you were wondering if Scott had been flirting with this woman, he hadn’t. In fact, none of us had spoken a word to this other group. Remember, we had our backs to them the entire time.

And yet, here she was, eagerly de-staining Scott’s shirt for him.

Continue reading 'When Did “Trying Too Hard” Become A Bad Thing?'»

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By Kevin Kwong, May 16, 2011 6:00 am

Photo by Ayushveda.com

It’s never my intention to go out to a bar hoping to get laid. I never think, Tonight, I will be balls deep. I just know it! I try to let these things happen with no expectations.

Sometimes, though, there are complications….

I was out with some friends one night. Buzzing after six or so happy hour drinks, I started talking to this guy I’ll call Heavy C. Heavy C had a square jaw, the beginning stages of salt-and-pepper hair, an olive complexion, and he was built–but not in a scary “my head is visibly much smaller than my body” kind of way. He was just right.

We talked about things I don’t remember, and after a few minutes, he cut to the chase.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

“Ugh!” I replied in relief. “I’m so glad you asked.”

“Are you okay to drive?”

I squinted my already non-existent eyes and flapped my hands at him like I had just swatted a fly away from my face. “If I’m standing, then I can drive.”

Heavy C asked me to follow him back to his place, and I was practically high-fiving myself as I walked to my car.

After thirty minutes of following him onto various highways, I discovered that we were on the way to the airport. My first thought was that we were going on an overnight getaway. My second thought was that he was going to shank me in the parking garage.

Finally, we pulled into a hotel garage, where I parked next to him and got out.

“Do you live here?”

He chuckled politely and told me that he was here for work. Continue reading 'One Man’s Hookup Is Another Woman’s Boyfriend'»

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By Darcy Dates, May 9, 2011 6:00 am

Image by Mike "Dakinewavamon" Kline via Flickr

Once upon a time, I walked into a bar on the Upper West Side to meet one of my J-day-tay dates (or what you might know as JDate). I was looking forward to meeting this very tall, very handsome stranger. He was from Kentucky, and Jewish. Over the phone, he had a southern twang of some kind. Or so I thought. More on that twang later.

As I made my way through the bar, I saw him sitting at a table that was placed awkwardly close to another table, with two women sitting at it.

These two girls are going to love listening to our first date unfold, I thought as I approached.

But, he was handsome. Five-star handsome. He looked just like his pictures, which is not always common. We were off to a good start.

“Hi! Andy? Darcy.” I extended my hand.

“Well hello Darcy!,” he said as he pulled me in for a hug.

Ho. Ly.

He was the gayest man I’ve ever met.

Well, maybe not as gay as the date who took me to the Indigo Girls concert and held my hand and wanted to skip.

I turned green. That twang wasn’t just southern, it was downright RuPaul.

I glanced at the two girls at the next table, and they glanced back at me. There was something in their look, an awkward disbelief, that I knew I was not alone in thinking this.

I dreaded sitting down and cursed myself for having to play along with his charade. As I always say, I love a gay man. But, if you want to play for my team, you have to wear my uniform. And my uniform doesn’t involve a beard of any kind. Continue reading 'My Hot Date Didn’t Look So Good Upon Further Inspection'»

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By Katie Gard, April 25, 2011 6:00 am

Image by Robert S. Donovan via Flickr

Ladies, have you ever complained about the insensitive boyfriend who couldn’t pick up on the fact that you were having a bad day, even though you told him you were fine?

Gentlemen, have you ever been called a conceited ass for thinking a girl was going to sleep with you, when she came over with only platonic intentions in mind?

One of the (decidedly few) merits of being a married, 28-year-old waitress with a college degree is that it brings me in contact with people who would otherwise fall well outside my social sphere. From the “regulars”–the middle-aged men who sit on the same bar stool night after night and literally wither away lonely hours via Jim, Jack or Crown–to the slurring, unsteady newbie drinkers who haven’t yet learned their limits, this place is a veritable variety pack of personalities and life experience.

The bar employs an exceptionally popular young bartender I’ll call Jack. Picture a 23-year-old with the confidence and charm of a Wall Street banker, combined with the interest and curiosity of a world-traveling nomad. Plus, he’s adorable. If Kurt Cobain’s ghost had a love child with Justin Bieber, the irresistible little nymph would undoubtedly resemble Jack.

Although I find myself immune to his trademark charisma (probably because he’s wisely never pointed it in my direction), women of all ages are simply elated when they find themselves attached to Jack’s arm for an evening. Over the months, I’ve become desensitized to the false-smile introductions of the various women he escorts into the bar on his nights off, knowing the poor girl whose limp-noodle hand I was shaking would likely be sitting by her phone all day tomorrow, waiting for a text that would never leave Jack’s fingertips.

Surprisingly, a bedraggled Jack arrived unaccompanied one night, plopping himself down on one of the lonely-man bar stools and mumbling about a girl.

Finally, I thought. Someone actually got to him.

Continue reading 'Why Can’t Men Learn To Read Women’s Minds?'»