Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, a beautiful, smart, and funny young woman went on a blind date with an attractive, intelligent gent who also happened to be semi-humorless. On her side, there were no sparks. However, due to a certain upbringing, she was by nature (or nurture?) a pleaser. Hence, she laughed at his jokes, complimented his bow tie, and let him place his hand on the small of her back. Ok, she did more than just that; they made out passionately because she felt too polite to say no after he bought her all those fancy cocktails. He walked away from the date thinking that not only would there be a second one, but also that, on the next go-around, there might even be more action than just teenage-style necking.
So, there I was today, minding my own business, getting coffee while on my way to work, when I was basically assaulted by the cover of today's Daily News, which featured a picture of disgraced politician Vito Lopez and the headline "Feel My Tumor." Which, what? Gross! What did that even refer to? Oh, that was a pick-up line Lopez used when sexually harassing his employees? Apparently so! The News reports, "Vito Lopez is alleged to have demanded his female aides to rub his tumorous growths." Whyyyyy would anyone ever say that in an attempt to, like, seduce someone? I don't know! But then, I am no expert in the art of seduction. However, even I know enough to know that asking someone to TOUCH YOUR TUMOR certainly ranks as one of the worst pick-up lines of all time. But you know what? Politicians are actually full of terrible pick-up lines, so I figured why not round up the absolute worst. And these aren't all just pick-up lines. No, some of these are pick-up tactics, the subtle moves (like tweeting dick-pics) that are the mating calls of a very specific type of person. Not all terrible pick-up lines or pick-up moves are created equal, however. Some of these are part of consensual relationships and some of these are straight up sexual harassment. But all of them share one thing in common. They are totally repellent and sort of prove that politicians are absolutely the worst people on earth. Even worse than writers! Much worse.
The other night I was having coffee with an older writer. He is known for his Don Draper charm, his good looks, and the bachelorhood requisite to this kind of allure. He is also notorious for having been called a “toxic cad” in print by a female writer. He is the kind of man who then put the quote on his website. I'd like to think we are kindred spirits. So when I told him a story about a recent one night stand, I was shocked to hear him say, “Lacy, a friend of mine recently started therapy, and his therapist told him not to have sex with anyone until 15 dates in. I think maybe you should do the same.”
My best friend Claire moved to London three years ago. She was lonely and lost in a new city that was entirely unwelcoming. That all changed when she met Adam. They spent two tumultuous years together—years in which her identity and self-esteem took a real hit. After the break-up, I flew to London to look after her, and she begged me to go out to dinner with both her and him. She was so sad and such a mess that I felt I had be more of a supportive figure than an authoritative one, and I acquiesced. But I was totally ready to hate him. You can probably see where this story is going.
Condoms. Awful, am I right? There is nothing worse than getting your groove on with someone—really dry-humping the fuck out of them—and then pulling out a condom, only to watch them lose their erection. Something about that tiny foil square makes people own up to the fact they are going to have sex, and all of a sudden the weight of what that really means (i.e. holy fuck I don't even know your name and I have a girlfriend) comes barreling down on their dicks, and there goes the wind in that sail. I can honestly say this is one moment where I am glad I am not a man.
Today I turn 29. When I was 17, I flew to London to audition for acting schools. While there, I sent a letter to my best friend, Mariah. More than 10 years later she found this letter and felt compelled to read it to me. This is because she is a sadist. And I am sharing it with you because I am a masochist.
I am sitting in a cramped hotel room, 3-stars my ass, dragging on a clove Kent. I'm marveling at just how alike we are. There is so much to tell you. I have fallen in love with London—the smell, the taste, the way everyone walks so differently, like they dance to their own drumbeat. There are so many climates of thoughts and opinions converging all together—you can feel the city thriving. It is a living, breathing thing, feasting on creation and ideas. Today I had RADA, tomorrow I have Central School of Speech and Drama. RADA went really well, I hope to God Central does too.
Oh, young people. Every time you think they've reached a collective low point, something like "the Condom Challenge" happens, reminding us anew that there is truly no bottom to the depths to which teenagers can plummet on the internet.
I do not like subcultures. Burning Man attendees, steam punks, Victorian goths, Harajuku girls, and even trapeze artists give me the serious heebie-jeebies. Maybe I just got too burned-out (no pun intended) on nutritional yeast and hula hoops from college, but I hate when grownups roll around half-naked and covered in any type of face paint or glitter. When my ex-boyfriend told me he used to go to raves in a Yorkshire field wearing JNCOs and a blue wig, I lost a little respect for him. And I am totally allowed to say this because some of my best friends are radical fairies! But every time they try to tell me about their cool festival in Tennessee, I just plug my ears with my fingers and start to scream: “La La La. I can't hear you.”
What exactly was I doing spending an absurd amount of money on American Apparel lingerie? While it's true that I’ve always wanted a neon pink garter belt, the real reason I was outfitting myself in brightly colored mesh was that I was heading to Chemistry, my newest adventure on the Brooklyn Play party scene. And what else besides American Apparel can you wear to a hipster sex party in Williamsburg?
In order to get in the door at Chemistry you have to get approved or you won't get in. This requires filling out an application and sending in a picture. It is very expensive: $120 for single ladies, $130 for hetero couples, and $250 for single men—and there is also a warning that single men rarely get approved. Chemistry sends a list of rules beforehand—and, my god, once again so many rules! However, when going over this particular list of rules, I realized that it was pretty good everyday advice, as much as it was also sex party appropriate behavior.
Here are some of my favorite rules:
A few years ago, I met a very powerful and rich man at the dog park while I was puppy sitting my best friend's puggle. We went on a few dates and I thought it might lead to something more serious. What it led to was an email asking if I would be his date to a party. I thought it was going to be some amazing affair—full of celebrities and other influential people—that would help me become a star. I wrote back asking what I should wear: “Is the party themed?” He responded, “No theme, but it’s 100% a sex party. Are you down?” My heart sank. I politely declined, but he called me later in the day to explain that only someone as sex positive as me could be his date.
Recently, we brought you a bunch of helpful, vehement advice about making your OKCupid profile the best it can be. Well, as of now, OKCupid is dead. Sorry! We're living in the future, and that future is all about Tinder.
While I was on top, I felt him get just a little bit softer, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I got off him. Not one to go without a fight though, I went downtown. He started to make some noise, and I thought, “We’re getting somewhere.” I noticed he really loved it when I licked his balls, and inched closer to his taint. I slipped a finger into his butt and his body began to writhe. That’s when I made the executive decision to eat out his asshole. Bam. Boom. Fireworks.
Well, technically, your "CupidWithFriends" profile, which is conveniently designed to look almost identical to that other, more famous Cupid-oriented dating site, right down to the font. But weird, subtle copyright infringement isn't the point here. The point, actually, is that your friends are likely monsters. Monsters who never, ever want you to find love.
It even has a fancy, official sounding term to go with it: "tele-dermatology." Originally, Swedish company iDoc24 had designed a service that allowed people to send in pictures of their skin conditions to be checked out and assessed by medical professionals, according to the company's founder Alexander Börve. Naturally, at least 30 percent of inquires turned out to be "of the genital area."
I decided to get drunk. I had just finished babysitting the two worst kids. The older one kept telling me I was fat. When I told him I would tell his mom if he continued to say mean things, he burst into tears. All I could do then was take him into my arms and hold him until he fell asleep. There I was rocking back and forth and whispering lullabies to a kid who only moments before had said, “You have a stomach bigger than my mom's and she's had two babies.” After the third rendition of his special goodnight song I made a promise to myself to up my rates.
Recently, I went on road trip across Florida with my oldest buds. Somewhere halfway down the Panhandle, I realized I'd had sex with most of them. Actually, we all participated in a very messy six-way in college. How do you have casual sex without any casualties? In this case the more the merrier got us all out alive.
Aw, geez, guys! I mean, I was really only expecting a dark chocolate Whitman's Sampler and a cheap bottle of riesling, but this is great, too. Three different clinics — the CABS Health Center in East Williamsburg, the Caribbean House Health Center in Crown Heights, and the Dr. Betty Shabazz Health Center in East New York — are offering free HIV and Hepatitis C screenings (and access to doctor consultations) in honor of Valentine's Day.
Now, maybe I'm just being an unnecessary jerk. Maybe this really is a better, healthier, more productive option for a solo Valentine's Day than the natural alternative,
getting drunk with your friends and actually enjoying yourself sitting at home amid a growing nest of tissues, Cathy Comics, and crumpled Dove Promises wrappers. It makes logical sense. Endorphins help you feel good, exercise gives you confidence, etc. etc. And yet, somehow, SoulCycle's planned 7:30 pm "Achy Breaky Heart" ride on Valentine's Day sounds to me like the very worst kind of hell.
Yes I am.
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