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.
In the New Yorker article “Looking For Someone” Nick Paumgarten came up with an analogy for what kind of person each dating site would be at a mixer. He almost got it right.
Match.com is nursing his Corona light (it’s gluten free), while picking sunflower seeds out of his teeth and trying to guess your sign. E-Harmony's sitting in the corner with a cranberry soda, buttoning up her Brooks Brothers' cardigan and giving ChristianMingle.com advice. And, OkCupid, the devil with a prohibition-style mustache, is watching you down your second whisky while plotting to finger blast you in the back of a cab later. Nobody wins. I don't care how many success stories I hear. My own experience says get out of this bar and go down the street to play apples to apples with your friends.
Somehow, incredibly, even when the New York Times publishes a piece about the dating world that actually makes some sense, they still manage to somehow make sure that it's utterly insane. In this case, Joyce Wadler's meditation on the catch-22 of dating in the over-60 set, in which an imaginary, vodka-swilling dybbuk taunts her about romantic prospects. Huh.
Whenever I’m asked if I'm into men or women, I always say I like sharks.
That's right, the people who will order you a drink without asking, push you up against the wall outside the bar, and had decided you were their prey before you even made eye contact. They don't care what you think, they just want you. They may never call you back, but there's something magical about being pulled up from your bar stool while they whisper in your ear, “Hey, let's get out of here.” I'm no pushover, but cocky and confident folks flip my switch, no matter the gender.
Yesterday I went to an upscale restaurant in Carroll Gardens where the very handsome Argentinean chef took notice of my bare midriff and sent over his specialty—tongue. The brave taster I am I dug in heartily.
Later that night as he was giving me his other specialty tongue at his swank Clinton Hill apartment, I started throwing up. I am still throwing up.
His profile was long and devoid of any real information about himself. I was bored one night and so sent him a message saying simply "????"
I got a flippant reply. Silly girls always fall for this. In my curiosity to figure him out, it prompted me to ask "what are you looking for?"
He responded quickly.
"I want a mature, willing submissive. A girl willing to listen and obey when I command her. A girl who gets wet having me in control, humiliating, degrading her, bringing her to orgasm in whatever way I please."
Yes. I am that friend. I’ve been labeled, with varying degrees of respect, a whore, a sex addict, a feminist, a gay man in a woman’s body. I’ve been diagnosed with all sorts of issues of the daddy and self-esteem variety, and prescribed some awesome and downright irresponsible medications as a result. Maybe I am all of these things, but ultimately, I like myself, and I like other people, and I really like having sex with other people. I give no fucks, which is to say, I give all the fucks. I’ve been proposed to, let Serbian royalty touch my butt, and endured a meth-fueled threesome at the Crown Heights Best Western. I have banged my waiter after he served me two steak dinners at once. If I had to choose one title, I’d say Optimist.
Racehorses must have physical sex for their foals to be considered thoroughbreds, an Australian judge ruled, upholding an international requirement that prohibits the use of artificial insemination.
Federal Court Justice Alan Robertson in Sydney today dismissed a bid to make the country the first to allow artificial insemination for thoroughbreds, following a trial that spanned four months and concluded Dec. 19, 2011. He cited potential international consequences as a reason for his ruling.
Bruce McHugh, a former chairman of a Sydney racing club, sued thoroughbred authorities to legalize the use of artificial insemination, arguing the ban on the practice was an illegal trade restraint as he seeks to start a breeding business. The suit, which threatened to upset traditions behind horseracing’s appeal to kings, queens, sheikhs and billionaires, according to Tony Bannon, attorney for the defending Australian Turf Club, could have “downgraded” the status of thoroughbred races held in Australia, if upheld, Robertson said. [Bloomberg]
Noooo! Think of all the downgraded horses! With the caveat that again, I know nothing of horse husbandry and really only am interested in this story because the idea of some judge having to write up a ruling about how horses have sex tickles me, the idea that the offspring of two animals is somehow vitally altered by the method of conception is...odd.
The World Health Organization (WHO), the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA), UNAIDS, and the Global Network of Sex Work Projects have developed a set of technical recommendations for effective programs to prevent and treat HIV/AIDS and other STDs among sex workers. The complete report, "Prevention and Treatment of HIV and Other Sexually Transmitted Infections for Sex Workers in Low- and Middle-income Countries," was published by the WHO Department of HIV/AIDS in December 2012. The guidelines advise that nations should decriminalize sex work and increase the access of sex workers to health services. Regular, voluntary screening and treatment for sex workers and empowerment regarding condom negotiation were other key elements of the guidelines. [The Body]
I seriously cannot think of an argument against legalizing sex work: it is safer on every level for both the buyer and seller of sex. C'mon, puritans, get it together.
What a year, right? The election, the hurricane, and all that other stuff I don’t remember from the first half of the year. 365 days is actually kind of a long time. So let’s take a pleasant stroll down memory lane to revisit some of this year’s arbitrarily chosen moments in sex news. We had so much fun together!
Anyway, this guy sued the Hustler Club because he was too dumb to not get charged $28,000 in drinks and dances, and the suit has been tossed and now must pay his bill.
William Ilg’s lawsuit — claiming that he was fraudulently billed at the West Side jiggle joint in 2011 — is a bust, too.
Manhattan Supreme Court Justice Manuel Mendez tossed out the suit, in which Ilg alleged he was served too many drinks, leaving him “no longer capable of conducting financial transactions.”
When Ilg discovered $28,109.60 in credit card charges for a night of pleasure he couldn’t even remember, he demanded a full refund.
“There is no duty upon (Hustler Club) to protect plaintiff from the results of his (voluntary) intoxication,” Mendez wrote in a recent decision. [NY Daily News (Headline: "What a Boob", classic)]
"Come at the king you best not miss"—Larry Flynt.
Just as “Sex and the City” made the Rabbit vibrator an acceptable household appliance for single women more than a decade ago, the erotic novels’ popularity has made restraints and so-called love balls acceptable stocking stuffers this year. [Bloomberg]
The dark trinity of Sex and the City references, "so-called love balls," and "stocking stuffer"...I just...I don't know. Trying to stay sex-positive this season, you know?
According to Die Welt, Manwin’s German headquarters was raided last Tuesday as part of an ongoing tax evasion probe, which was spurred in part by the newspaper’s own investigation into the company. [Domain Incite]
Everyone always gets it for tax evasion! Gotta pay those taxes!
Cosmopolitan magazine and Harlequin will publish a line of romances called Red Hot Reads, a series that “will present independent, adventurous women in contemporary settings and feature fast-paced plots, great dialogue and compelling romance.” The snappy eBooks will all be about 30,000 words apiece. [Galleycat]
Yay? I dunno, for my money I'd rather read Best Women's Erotica or something, but I doubt I am Cosmo's target market, seeing as how I am old and the kind of feminist that takes the fun out of everything.
It is apparently still very important to remember that pink is for girls and blue is for boys, though, which explains why the sets' building blocks come mostly in fuschia (specifically Pantone 219, Barbie's signature color because it helps highlight her cheekbones.) (I made that last part up.) And none of this racetrack riffraff stuff for the ladies, please: package choices include a mansion, a fashion boutique, an ice cream cart, and a beach house.
The 60-year-old son of sex research pioneer Dr. William H. Masters has admitted masturbating in Central Park.
William H. Masters III pleaded guilty Monday to misdemeanor public lewdness. He was arrested in May after a New York police officer reported seeing him expose his genitals and masturbate. [WSJ]
Masters is the son of the Masters in Masters and Johnson, the authors of Human Sexual Response.
Masters also is charged with exposing himself to a sheriff's deputy and another woman on a Michigan river in September. That case is pending. [WSJ]
In my defense, it works either way, & I love your stuff...
Ha - never mind, just re-read it properly for the 1st time (LOL)
I know you're an online writer, but you should use 'know' & 'now' properly if…