La Petite Provocateur

Dating Detox: Feeding My Soul By Starving My Libido

2012-02-13T23:23:00.000-08:00

Dearest Readers,

It's OFFICIAL. I am off the market and totally in love. Yes, I am now in a long-term, stable, committed, passionate, and picture-perfect relationship...with myself. Yes, my lovelies. You've heard me correctly. I am taking myself off of the dating market for the time being and focusing on the one love affair that truly matters in this life: the love affair I have with myself (cheesy, I know...but hear me out...please.)

Why? Well, as you all know by now, I've been on a LOT of bad dates lately. And, by a LOT, I mean an obscene amount. I mean, at one point, I tallied up five different dates in one week. And, honestly, that's just plain silly. What is it that I thought I was accomplishing by going on all of these dates? What is it that I was even looking for? Was I even ready to be dating again? Really?

Plus, when I saw the following image on Pinterest (I'm addicted. I admit it.) and started to tear up, I KNEW it was time for a little self-evaluation...and a lot of change:

It was like the relationship Gods were hitting me over the head with this one. I certainly wasn't ready to be falling in love, but I definitely was lonely. But, really, what kind of solution is dating? All I got out of it is a few (or more!) horror stories (don't worry, there are still a couple more to share with you!), a bruised ego, and an incredibly distorted view of what dating is like nowadays. Oh, and a few free meals. I did get those, too. With each passing date, I truly felt more alone and even more confused.

Let's be honest for a second. This all happened because I jumped in to dating again too soon. It had only been a month or so before my ex moved out that I leapt back in to the race. And, at a time when I ended a relationship because I didn't know who I was anymore without the shadow of a partner looming over me, I really don't know why I decided to date again so soon. Or, perhaps, while I am being honest, I can offer my thoughts on that one, too. Anyone who knows me knows that I'm almost always in a relationship. In fact, this is the first time I haven't been in one since I was 19 years old. So, maybe (just maybe) I joined the dating game again so quickly because, truly, I wasn't used to being alone...and I was scared.

But, fear is never a good excuse for anything. So, after reading that honest little post-it note to my heart (thank you, Pinterest, for throwing that my way!), I decided to break out a book that I had been putting off reading for far too long and finally commit to a process of self-love and discovery that, in my heart of hearts, I just knew I had to take part in. Yes, my friends, I'm talking about "Becoming Your Own Matchmaker: 8 Easy Steps For Attracting Your Perfect Mate" by none other than the unstoppable and untoppable (yes, that's now a word) Patti Stanger (I'm a huge fan, but who blames me?!).

So, dearest readers, I am starting with step 1: Dating Detox. I am committing to NOT dating for the next 60 days. Yes, I can hang around men (I mean, some of my nearest and dearest friends are men, so what else do you expect). But, NO MORE dates. None. Nada. ZILCH. All men that I meet for the next 60 days will now be placed firmly on my "friends" ladder, and I will focus all of my love and attention solely on me. I am going to recommit to the things that make ME happy and fulfilled: getting in shape, seeing my friends, volunteering, cooking, reading, writing...the list goes on and on. And, I won't feel guilty about one second of it. Why? Because I'm worth that kind of love and attention....

Oh, and I am going to document my journey. All 8 steps of Patti's book will be taken to heart, followed through on, then blogged about. Yes, I'll be sure to mix in a few of my dating horror stories in there for you, too (you deserve it, after all!). But, the next few months are 100% dedicated to following Patti's rules...and seeing what happens.

So, wish my luck, dearest readers. This is definitely going to be a challenge for me, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it'll all be worth it in the end....

Muscles Don't Make The Man (also known as "Excuse Me, Sir...But Your "Cheapskate" Is Showing")

2012-02-07T22:30:00.000-08:00

Dearest Readers,

This story is so good. So ridiculous. So incredibly unbelievable, that I'm going to do something different this time. I'm going to Tarantino this blog post. You know, skip straight to the juicy gory ending details...and then rewind it back to the ever-so-innocent beginning. Because, seriously, this all started out so innocuously that even I can't quite figure out where it all went so terribly terribly wrong.

So, here it is. This is how this sad dating story ends:

Now, you might ask what I possibly could have done to entice such rage from a gentleman. I mean, I must have done something to make this suave suitor call me "bitch" and "hoe," right? I mean, those kinds of fighting words don't just come straight out of left field...or do they?

Well, let's rewind this texting conversation just a hair to see...

Interesting. Very interesting.

Seems like a normal enough conversation, right. Well, that's kind of because IT WAS.

So, let's back this thang up all the way back to the very beginning...which really was a mere 48 hours ago.

You see, late this past Sunday, I received a simple "wink" from a gentleman who went by the online name "TommyGunz3042." His profile seemed interesting enough (East Coast pro athlete with an MBA who loves his rescue dog and aviator sunglasses) so I decided to "wink" back at him. Innocent enough. Well, within minutes, this young man emailed me. You know, the normal "what's up? I'm new to the Bay Area and happy to find another East Coaster on here" kind of thing. Because I was sick and didn't want to be bothered with silly Match.com emails, we decided to exchange numbers and meet for a quick cocktail Monday evening after work. I mean, why not? He seemed nice enough, and I made it clear that this was going to a brief meeting because I was sick and needed my rest. Simple...right?

I certainly thought so.

But, interestingly enough, I was dreading the date all day Monday. I really wasn't feeling well (sniffles, congestion, headache...the works). Plus, I just had this nagging feeling that this wasn't worth the effort. But, I chalked my hesitation up to being nothing more than that side effects of Nyquil and decided to buck up and stick with the plan. Plus, once he texted me this photo of himself, it became pretty impossible to say no:

Yummm. Yummm. Give me some...right?!

Well, Beefcake (as my co-workers and I began to refer to him as) asked me to pick the bar because he wasn't familiar with San Francisco. I told him that I'd pick something close to the bridge for him and with easy parking so that it was less stress. He agreed, and I chose this lovely swanky lounge that I always love...even though it's a bit out of the way for me.

Well, I got there in time, only to get a text from Beefcake 15 minutes after we were supposed to meet to tell me that he was running late. Not a big deal...except I should've just left then. Because, from there, it was a quick and painful slide downwards....

Beefcake finally arrived 25 minutes late dressed NOT to impress. Saggy jean. Lame printed sports tee. Black sneakers. Oversized and shapeless black jacket. Black on black Yankees cap. He looked like a ghetto man child. I mean, he asked me to pick a lounge. And it was a first date. Did he think that shit was cute? Really?

I tried to play nice, but his instant fidgeting and demanding, "where is the waitress around this joint" really was quite a turnoff. When the server finally arrived, he asked what their "specials" were. Mind you, this is a nice place. They don't need "specials"...so they don't have them. When the server sweetly explained this to Beefcake, he stared at her like she had ten heads, then demanded to know "what mixes well with vodka?" Ummm..you're 33. Have you never had a cocktail before? What do you want with your vodka? The whole ordeal was painful and embarassing as the server explained typical mixers for vodka. Finally, he settled for cranberry juice, which was like pulling teeth for something so unoriginal.

When his drink finally arrived, he took a sip and asked why the bartender was "being such a hater." When the poor little server asked what he meant, he exclaimed, "I'm not paying for this watered down shit!" Ummm..drink it and shut up, fool. It's probably impeccable. Gooooddddd....

From there, I attempted to make some sort of civil conversation. But, really, all that kept coming up is that he's a "black brother" and that he's had a rough life. He hates him mom. Hasn't talked to anyone in his family in years. They only pretend to love him now that he has money and is famous. The white man will always try to keep him down. White girls only want him for the novelty of it. No one understands him. Everyone's out to get him. Blah blah blah blah blah

It was emotionally exhausting just talking to him.

So, finally, I politely inquired if I could ask him two tough questions without him getting mad. He stared me down then shrugged, "whatever...try me." Okay, so here was the first tough question:

Hhave you ever thought that maybe your life continues to be filled with trials and struggles because you expect it and you've now manifested this as your own reality? In other words, perhaps you expect other people (namely, white men) to treat you poorly...so they do...."

He told me that that rationale was just "stupid California thinking" and angrily asked what my next tough question was. I gulped hard...and was genuinely terrified by now of his angry and guarded exterior. But, I was determined to show this fool that I wouldn't back down to him. Because I won't. Ever.

"You're so guarded and so so angry. How's that working out for your love life..."

I asked.

Then, I held my breathe.

And he just stared at me like he was going to rip my face off.

So I stared back. Challenge accepted, Beefcake. Game on....

"It isn't helping me...but it definitely isn't hurting me, either. I still get plenty of bitches" was his pompous response.

So I smirked at him. Gave him one genuinely saddened shake of my head. Then flagged the server for our bill. The poor server approached our table hesitantly and threw me a knowing and sympathetic glance. Then, she placed the bill in front of Beefcake. And slowly backed away.

And Beefcake stared at the bill just like he had been staring at me... He looked like he wanted to kill it. Hard.

What followed was a 30 minute game of chicken for the damn bill. He'd stare at the bill. Then he'd stare at me. And, I just stared straight back at him. Some small talk was made, but, really, we were both just buying time. Finally, when both of our drinks were nothing more than straws and a lone ice cube. I did the obligatory wallet-reach (girls, you know what I'm talking about...). An,d he reached for his wallet, too. I sighed, thinking our game of chicken was finally over and, at long long last, I could go home and forget this date even happened.

He put in his card and passed the bill to me. I put in my card and put the book back down in front of me. He then inquired, "wait, can I see the total again?" so I passed the bill back to him. At no point did my eyes leave him, and he eventually passed the bill off to the server as she approached our table again.

Well, imagine my shock and horror when I went to sign my receipt and noticed that I had paid for the entire bill. Beefcake somehow managed to weasel his card out of the book! Seriously. HOW DID THAT HAPPEN? And, as I signed away my dignity and pride, he just stared at me with this self-satisfied look on his smug little face. But, I wasn't going to give in to his little game. I politely thanked him for the evening, got up, and started walking. Once outside, he shouted, "So, that's it then?" across the street to me. My response? "Absolutely. That's it." And I kept on truckin'.

I thought that it was all over. Until my phone started buzzing with texts about an hour or so later. "Why is that it?" I tried to politely explain that I didn't see this going anywhere, and that I have too much self-respect to date a man who makes me pay for the entire first date. His response? "Hell, haven't you ever heard of I fly you buy?" Really? REALLY? LAMEEEE. But, he kept pushing, asking me if he could cook me dinner. Telling me he wanted to send me. flowers. Explaining that I had now "earned" another date with him. I explained that I wasn't interested politely. Then I explained it not-so-politely. Did all of those hits to the head make you slow, Beefcake? NOT. INTERESTED.

Well, from there, you saw how it all went down. Except, I only shared the "PG" texts. He called me more profane names. Made fun of my thumbs. Called me a fat whore. Told me no man would ever want me. Laughed at the scar on my knee (from sucking too much dick, he told me). Told me that I smelled like sewage. Said I looked like a cheap $1 slut. I mean, he ripped right in to me. All the while, I simply explained (over and over and over again) that I am simply not interested in the type of man who believes "I fly you buy" is acceptable for a first date and that I sincerely didn't want to waste his time. I said nothing mean. Nothing even remotely rude.

Well, turns out that he used the very limited information he had about me from my profile (first name and college, really) and somehow found me through Google. So, he then started rattling off random factoids about me (my last name, my major, where I work, job title, etc)...all nonsense that had been in my LinkedIn profile, which is undoubtedly what he stumbled upon. But, in short, he was trying to intimidate me. Because, really, when a woman refuses to date you, intimidating her is the most obvious way to win her over, right? Right....

Well, his texting tirade continued for quite some time without any response from me until poor little Beefcake tired himself out...or he found some other sweet young woman to verbally abuse. Either way, I deleted his number, blocked him online, and reported him to Match.com. Oh, and I made a promise to NOT root for the Raiders next season.

Beefcake? You can kiss my ladylike, too good for you, not stupid enough to fall for your kind of crap cute little ass.

Moving on....

Promises to my Papa: I'll Stop Dating California Boys

2012-01-20T16:18:00.000-08:00

While I was home for the holidays, I got to talking to my Papa (love you, Dad!) about my dating life...or lack thereof. Sure, I've been in two serious long-term relationships. Sure, I've been on many wonderful (and weird) dates. Sure, I've kissed lots (and I mean LOTS) of frogs. But, seriously, where the HELL is my prince?

So, as my father and I dissected my dating past and poked fun at what are clearly some of my many dating missteps (I won't even go there right now!), my father proudly announced that he had found a common thread amongst many of my failed relationships: they were almost all with California boys! Go figure.

So, I made a promise to my Papa: I'll stop dating California Boys...to the very best of my ability. I would not turn away men who didn't fit my preconceived idea of what I thought I deserved (suave, smart, successful...) and, instead, accept that man that I want. Hands-on and working. Red Sox loving. Family focused. Resourceful and driven. A little rough around the edges but a gentleman at heart. I would throw out this stupid idea of "the Renaissance Man," and focus more on the type of man I know and love: a good ol' down home New England Boy.

Funny part is, since making that promise, I've gone on a number of dates (over 10 in the last 4-5 weeks..seriously) and, oddly enough, the only ones that I've liked (and I mean REALLY liked) were New England men. Who woulda thunk it....

There is James (no, not his real name), who does MMA fighting, loves his dog and his sister, is a bit of a successful nerd, has sexy bad boy tattoos, is a bit rough and rowdy, but he's a real man...and he handles me like a lady. Oh, and he's originally from Maine.

Then there's Scott (no, not his real name, either), who is athletic but sweet, loves his friends and his home state sports teams, is an industrial designer, who pulls out my chairs and holds open doors but still prefers Bud Light, and is enough of a man to ask for a second date before the first one is even done. Yeah, and, he's originally from Massachusetts.

Plus, it's absolutely worth mentioning that two of my nearest and dearest male friends (and greatest loves) out here in California are also good ol' New England men.

There's Scotty (yes, that's his real name), who smokes a lot and swears even more. He doesn't give a damn about offending anyone, but his loyalty is unmatched. He's a great kisser, a better friend, and an all-around good guy (though he'll probably cringe knowing I think that). And he's from Massachusetts.

And then there's Meatball. A.K.A. Kiwi. A.K.A. Jamie (yes, those are all his real names, too), who has a dirty mind and isn't afraid to speak it (out loud), who's accent is thick, heart is big, and ability to make me smile is sky high. He's the most amazing snuggler, a dreamy kisser, and the one of the few people in my life I know for sure would drop everything to help me out if I was in need. He's one of my greatest loves. Oh, and he's from Massachusetts, too.

So, dad, as much as I hate to admit it (actually, not really!), I'm taking your advise seriously. San Francisco may be my home. But New England men will always have my heart.

And, so it goes....

Dating (and Getting Dumped By?) a San Francisco Pretty Boy

2012-01-19T13:41:00.000-08:00

If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: I truly don't have a "type" when it comes to dating. And, anyone who knows me knows that I'm a sucker for a man in a suit. A great smelling cologne? I swoon. A general knowledge of fashion and trends? Why not. An openness to trying out different styles? Sure.... But, dating a bona fide pretty boy? Look, that just isn't for me.

Still, in my quest to opening up my heart and my mind in this crazy world of dating, I decided to give a pretty boy a chance. I mean, it only seemed fair.

Enter Chase. And, yes, I'm actually using his real name. And, yes, he does look like the man in the image at the beginning of this post. I know. ::GASP::

Chase and I met through Match.com, and I immediately questioned his photos (they SCREAMED pretty boy). I even had a sneaking suspicion that he was a bit "privileged." But, our emails to each other were always sweet, and I saw no reason not to give him a least one date. Plus, his online profile talked extensively about how he is an "old fashioned" kind of man, which I adore. Phone call vs text? I'll take a phone call. Handwritten note and flowers? Yes, please. So, really, I figured that he couldn't be all bad.

And, to be perfectly honest, Chase wasn't all bad...at first.

Our first date was at a little wine bar in his neighborhood. Earlier that morning, Chase had texted me: "T minus 9 hours until the best date of your life." Gee, dramatic, no? Why all the pressure, buddy? Still, ever the optimist, I forged ahead. When I finally arrived, he'd already settled in to a table outside on their patio. At a glance, my first reaction was that he was, indeed, a very very pretty boy (grey toggle sweater, tight jeans, and loafers with bright blonde hair styled all "LA-like"). But, he had a kind smile and a gentle demeanor, so I went all in. We ordered a glass of wine each and started up the usual first date chatter ("where are you from originally?" or "what do you do for fun?" plus the obligatory "tell me about your family."). We seemed to be getting along famously, and I truly enjoyed our playful banter. But...something kept nagging at me. Hard.

Not to be rude, but I truly thought he was gay. Maybe it was his spot-on impression of his chain smoking potty-mouthed grandma that got my mind on that track. Or, perhaps it was his incessant hand flailing and wild facial expressions while he talked. But, really, I think it was just a gut reaction to him overall. I literally kept having to remind myself that I was on a date with a potential male partner...not on a date with a potential gay boyfriend. And, trust me, I love me a good gay boyfriend. But, to have to actively remind myself that this outting didn't fall in to that category is never a good sign.

However, Chase and I agreed to meet up again, and took to occasional texting to keep in touch. Well, that promise of a second date should've become null and void when I received the following photos from Chase earlier one afternoon:

WHAT?! Chase took photos of me off of my Match.com profile and added fluffy little furry felines in to them. Then texted them to me. As if that's entirely normal when courting a lady. Shame on me for not running right then and there.

Still, always a woman a word (whenever possible), I saw Chase again. We had made plans to go to a comedy showcase, which is always a date night favorite of mine, so I had high hopes.

We were both running behind for the date (work work work!), so I took care of buying the tickets and left his at will call so he wouldn't have to worry. No big deal. Chase strolled in about 15 minutes later, and what I saw as he sat down next to me was truly horrifying to my non-pretty boy self. He was wearing black skinny jeans. And a fitted white tee. With a deep v-neck grey cardigan. With a fitted black with white stitching blazer. And, the cherry on the top of this "I'm not gay" sundae was his shoes. Black sparkly sneakers. Seriously. I wish I had taken a picture but, truly, I was too stunned to even move. I was speechless, really. So much, in fact, that when he complimented me on my top, I couldn't reciprocate the compliment in good conscience.

The comedy showcase itself was enjoyable, but the company was not. He kept trying to grab my arm to raise my hand for silly stuff that the comedians would asked ("who likes yoga?" or "who here has tattoos?"). Look, buddy, I'm a grown woman. I don't need you raising my hand for me. And, honestly, I wasn't at all comfortable with how handsy he was being towards me. And, quite honestly, I know that he started to sense my distaste for his behavior. But, instead of being a gentleman...or even human...Chase decided to just be a child.

He loudly and consistently poked fun of me for being "married to my job" and, when a poor older woman dropped her change in to the street, he literally threw his arms out wide, raced across the street squealing "CHANGE!" and then stopped inches from her and laughed loudly "just kidding." And, you guessed it, he didn't even help her finish gathering her change. Who is this dude?! I was so ashamed.

Needless to say, the date ended shortly thereafter. When we got to the intersection near his car and a few blocks from my apartment, he offered to walk me home. Not only did I no longer desire his company, but I was also not keen on him knowing where I lived. So, I politely declined. Plus, we were right next to his car. Why walk me the few blocks when we both know perfectly well that this nonsense isn't going anywhere. However, his response was the biggest shock of the night. He protested, "You know, Carly, chivalry is dead because woman like YOU want it to be." Excuse me? The exchange thereafter was strained and awkward, so I just let him walk me home. And, when we got to my front door, we halfheartedly hugged goodbye. That was it.

Truly, I assumed it was over from there. We are both grown adults, and we clearly didn't get along romantically...or at all, for that matter. I had no interest in dating a man child who dressed and smelled better than me. Or who wore sparkly sneakers. And he had no interest in dating a woman with any independence...or a spine. It would never work. So, let's move on.

But...noooo....

Within the next 30 minutes or so, I received the following text message from our dear pretty boy man child, Chase:

"Carly, I hope you find what you are looking for. You're a very sweet girl. Good luck."

Now, normally, I would find the gesture sweet. And, honestly, there is a part of me wants to believe his intentions were good. But, truly, there is a larger side of me who is so turned off by his spoiled attitude that I am certain having the last word and oddly "breaking up with me" (after TWO dates) via text is something that makes him feel better about himself. In other words, the gesture had nothing to do with me and everything with him needing to make himself feel better.

So, yes, dear readers. I've officially dated...and been dumped...by a pretty boy. Cross that off of my list. For. Good.

If Only Love Were Blind...And Deaf...And Dumb

2011-12-31T20:50:00.000-08:00

I had always wondered why my single friends bitched and moaned about the terrors of the dating world. "It's so hard to find a good man nowadays." "Dating is a like a war field filled with land mines, blood, sweat, and tears." "I can't wait to get this whole dating thing over with!" Me? I didn't understand these complaints in the slightest mostly because all of my memories of singlehood were exciting, sexy, and brought a smile to my face. Stolen kisses. Butterflies in my stomach. Exciting new experiences. The whole thing just sounded so glamorous.

However, that's frequently the problem with memories; they are, more often than not, far rosier than reality. Because, once I found myself single again, I was suddenly flooded with the horrible reality of the dating world: it's weird, wacky, and wearing. I instantly remembered why I had always valued being in a relationship because, let's be honest, it's more rewarding than the endless stream of meaningless awkward dates and lonely nights that often define being single.

But, ever the optimist and attempting to hold to my word to my boss that I wouldn't end up married to my job, I kept went on another blind date from Match.com even though my first blind date (see my previous post) was enough to make any self-respecting woman run and hide in fear.

Suitor #2 seemed sweet from his Match.com profile. He described himself as a dedicated organic farmer who was proud of his heirloom tomato crop and, thus, moved to the Bay Area to start his own farm in Sonoma. He sounded ambitious and sincere, and, after a few email and text exchanges, we agreed to meet up for a beer after work one night.

Well, when that night finally arrived, I found myself stuck in a meeting that started hours late...and looked like it wouldn't EVER end. I was going to be late for a first date! Well, he was incredibly understanding, and I was so relieved that I could hardly wait to meet him.

When the meeting finally ended, and I was able to head back to the city, I decided to park in garage near our meet-up spot so that I wasn't even later. However, because I had been running behind, Suitor #2 had texted me the address of some "really cool, hip bar" that he had stumbled upon while walking around. Imagine my horror when, as I searched for the address, I realized that this "hip cool bar" was actually the neighborhood karaoke dive bar. Hmmmm...this will be interesting.

As I walked in to "Silver Clouds," I nervously scanned the room to find my date, and what I saw wasn't any good. He looked nothing like his photo (angles can be so deceiving!) and was FAR shorter than I had been anticipating. ::SIGH::

Well, we awkwardly hugged and grabbed a beer. He was nervous and clearly felt out of place in the "bright lights and big city," as he described it. Yes, I have dated good ol' country boys before, but this poor little guy was so overly out of place that even I felt uncomfortable. We desperately tried to make conversation, but I couldn't help but notice that his eyes kept drifting to the sports game that was happening on the TV behind me. Yes, he was talking to me, but he was watching TV. And he talked so slowly that I was nervous that there was something genuinely wrong.

Yeah, well, there was something wrong. Because, as I soon learned, the term "organic farmer" is a really nice way of saying "pot farmer" out here in sunny California. Yes, this country boy is actually a stoner. And, he's heirloom tomatoes are a front for his very fruitful marijuana growing business. Sure, he's trying to get out of it because "he doesn't want to raise a family around that stuff" but, the reality was that he still did it. And, in order to get to this stage of our conversation, he actually used the phrase "are you 420 friendly?" to gauge my reaction. Jesus. Christ.

From there, I tried to politely excuse myself ("it's been a long day") but he wasn't getting the hint. In fact, he instantly said how wonderful of a time he was having and how much in common we have. WHAT?! Poor thing. So disillusioned. And so high.

So, I did what any desperate single lady would do: when Suitor #2 went to the bathroom, I texted my best friend that this was the worst date ever and to save me...quickly. Ever the amazing wing lady, she began texting and calling me with a fake story about her boyfriend dumping her and how suicidal she was as a result. I tried to play along, but he wasn't having it. He was going on and on about how she needs to deal with that herself, and seemed genuinely unconcerned about anything going on outside of this terrible terribly excuse for a date.

So, I did what any self-respecting woman in this position could do: I had another friend call me, I pretended it was my office, and very politely excused myself to head home and prepare for a surprise meeting in the morning (wink wink). But, what happened next was so alarming that I sincerely didn't know what to do. He started to tear up. His lip quivered. He looked at me like a lost puppy, and I wanted nothing more than to just run in the opposite direction. But, I did look back long enough to notice that his car was exactly what I would've expected: a white unmarked tinted window "rapist van." Seriously.

The best part of the night, though, was the fact the entire ordeal felt like it had lasted hours upon hours when, in reality, the whole date lasted only long enough for my parking garage fee to reach $1.50. I kid you not. I was so surprised that I even asked the garage attendant if he gave me the "bad first date discount." He laughed, waived the fee, and wished me better luck on the next one. What a gentle soul.

So, dear readers, you could assume that I am now one of those single ladies bitching about how awful the dating world is. And, yes, the dating world is pretty awful. But, really, I really am just just enjoying myself and loving the time to reflect on what it is that I want for myself and in a partner. Sure, that means having a few (but hopefully not too many more!) atrocious first dates. But, that's better than never really knowing who I am. Onwards and upwards, my friends ;)

True Confessions of a Kiss-aholic: The Kiss of Death

2011-12-21T21:20:00.000-08:00

Hello. My name is Carly, and I am a kiss-aholic.

Phew! It feels good to finally get that off of my chest.

But, seriously folks, it's a bit of a problem. I know I've blogged about it before, but it really does get out of hand sometimes. And, now is one of those times.

So, for the sake of my own sanity and to bring me one step closer to kiss-aholic recovery (wait, do I even WANT that?), I'm going to get in the habit of blogging about my kissing adventures. You know, the good. The bad. The ugly. And the REALLY ugly...like this one. Yes, today's kiss-aholic confession was so bad, I have no choice but to call it The Kiss of Death.

As some of you may already know, I am recently single. So, in an attempt to get to know myself better, I've dipped my itty bitty pinky toe back in to the dating pool..via Match.com. Go ahead. Laugh if you will. But, seriously, who has time to meet men in the conventional ways anymore? Not this chica. So, based on a very sweet recommendation from my boss (seriously), I posted on Match.com...and the date requests haven't stopped coming in. Some have been weird. Some have been sweet. Some have been plain pathetic. And some just aren't worth mentioning...though you know I will in a later blog post ;)

So, the online dating scene has been incredibly overwhelming for me, particularly because I'm still getting used to even thinking of myself as single, but mostly because the sheer volume of suitors has been a bit much for me to handle. So, the first date I accepted went to a man whose Match.com emails, IMs, and "winks" I had been ignoring simply because, well, he had weird stalker eyes in all of his pictures. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. Kind of squinty, like he hasn't slept in a few days...and he's trying to undress you with his beady little eyes. Yeah, his stare freaked me out. But, he was a persistent little bugger, so I finally agreed to a glass of wine after work one night.

Well, red flag #1 should have been that he wanted to get a glass of wine with me...on his birthday. Yes, he literally said something along the lines of wanting to have our meeting each other be his birthday gift. Good grief....

Well, he showed up...late...and I'd already bought the wine because I felt compelled to treat on his birthday. He was cute enough facially, but his googly stalker eyes were really freaking me out. Still, his body was positively LICKABLE (I wouldn't lie about that), so I hung in there to see what happened.

Oddly enough, we did connect. Sure, he was a bit too intense for my liking. But, overall, he started the night out as genuine and sweet as a man possibly could...until his stalker eyes began to make far too much sense to me. As in, he pretty quickly made no attempt to hide how in to me he was. Now, I don't know if most women go for that kind of gushy nonsense, but not me. He kept calling me "sweetie" and "beautiful" and "cutie pie" (can you hear me gagging already?!) and he was treating me as though I were some sort of precious porcelain doll. Now, again, I don't know if most women are in to that, too, but I was at a total loss for words. There are a few things that I am definitely NOT, and "precious" is certainly one of them. He kept commenting on my "perfect little hands" and "sexy little ankles." He called me "adorable" on more that one occasion. And he touched my face. More than once. This was going to hell in a hand basket....

Once the wine was finished, we decided to head out. We walked to the nearest intersection, and I hailed him a cab. And he waved it away. And he stared at me. And stared at me. And stared some more. Shit. I had no where to hide. It was like my first kiss all over again...I felt it coming on, and I wanted very badly to avoid it, but I had no where to run. I started to make my quick exit when ::BAM:: he went in for the kill and, yes, his tongue hit mine well before our lips even met. It was like some sort of sick karmic joke was being played on me. I'm 27. He's 28. You'd think we would have moved on from the awkward fumbles that I had experienced in my first lip lock....

But, ever the good sport, I tried my best to get in to it. I mean, I am a kiss-aholic after all. The least I could do was put in a full effort just this once.

Well, friends, I should've just run (screaming!) while I had the chance. Because, seriously, I'm not calling this The Kiss of Death for nothing.

His tongue was like a dagger. Pointy as hell and waving all around my mouth like he was fighting off a hellish demon. And his mouth was like little bird lips. Ugh. And, speaking of lips, he kept sucking on mine like some sort of primitive teat. And then came the face touching. It was like he was my boyfriend and we were long-time lovers. He kept stroking my face like I was a fallen bird. Then, he pulled away, sighed, kissed the tip of my nose and then my forehead, and then dove back in. More dagger tongue. More face touching. And, then came the most horrifying moment of all...the hair pull. Yes, the face stroking turned to hair stroking. The hair stroking turned in to light sexual tugs (weird, I know) and then the light sexual tugs turned in to an all-out "you dirty dirty whore" type of hair yank. I kid you not. He dug right in and yanked. I was honestly half expecting a spank to follow suit. Oh, and the cherry on this awful sundae? He told me during the break in our kiss that he's really good at oral. I kid you not. Plus, I quickly realized that, while he was fully engaged in sucking my face, my body was completely turned away from him. It was as if my face was stuck to his but my body had already let its "fight or flight" instinct kick in. My body was literally fleeing the scene of this heinous kissing crime.

So, I ended the kiss right there. But, instead of him reading my look of horror and apologizing (or at least graciously moving on), he asked if he could to my place...and snuggle. Oh. My. Christ. Almighty. He looked so thoroughly pleased with himself and so thoroughly pleased with me (he may as well have been panting) that I honestly didn't know what to say besides "ummm...no?" and quickly making my exit. I even zig zagged a few blocks on my walk home to be sure he couldn't trace my steps. Yes, he was that odd that I wouldn't have been surprised if he followed me.

Well, I survived the kiss...barely...and figured he would get my lack of enthusiasm as a sign that I wasn't interested. Oh, was I wrong. What followed the next day was an insane string of texts that, until that moment, I didn't think any man was capable of. To summarize (and, yes, these are his real texts):

Thanks for a wonderful night.

Stay beautiful.

So...are we still dating then? Can I take ya out this weekend?

I don't wanna move fast, but you seem so special.

You are an intriguing girl, too.

U kiss so well.

You are sincere, open and work hard. Many girls aren't like u and don't want to share a lot. I felt really comfortable with you. I was nervous at first, but you are such a soft person and I just wanted to hold u the whole time and kiss u. I wanted to do things for u and I just met u! My mind was racing about all that I could show u. It was a great feeling. I hope I made you feel something.

Dearest readers, that was just a selection of the texts that he has sent me. Now, I'd made it clear that I don't want a relationship, and that he is way too intense for me. And, guess what, he keeps pursuing. Hard. Nothing will make a woman like me run away faster than someone who will cage me in. I instantly felt suffocated with him. Plus, seriously, that kiss was inexcusable. There is no moving forward after that assault on my face.

As I write, he is literally begging me via text to give him another chance. I've said "no" every way that's polite. Yet, he still insists.

So, perhaps this one is called The Kiss of Death not just because his tongue and hair tugging was basically deadly, but because, somehow and someway, I sealed my fate when I locked lips with him. I have no escape. This, dear readers, is about to get real. Pray for me. I think I might need it.

Ask And You Shall (NOT) Receive: The Kissing Kiss Of Death

2011-11-22T23:11:00.000-08:00

Patti Stanger of "Millionaire Matchmaker" fame said it best when she explained that, while you can absolutely fall for someone physically and mentally, the real sparks start flying when you lock lips.

Yes, we've already established that I am a big fan of kissing. Yes, we've also already come to the conclusion that you can tell a lot about someone (and your connection with them) from their kiss. Yes, I've touched on the fact that the quickest way to ensure you DON'T get a repeat kiss is not to kiss poorly (though that'll do it, too), but it's to ASK for a kiss. However, that last part bears repeating. And repeating. And repeating once again.

Look, it's true that women appreciate a man with manners. It is also true that we value clear communication and open dialogue in a relationship. However, the only time where both of these go straight out the window is when it comes to kissing. At most other times, asking permission to do something is not only sweet but necessary (I can't think of more than a few sex acts that should require permission!).

Here's my Golden Rule of kissing: if you have to ask, the answer is probably NO.

In short, the other person's body language should tell you enough. Are they leaning in? Making eye contact? Touching you? Touching themselves (no, not THAT kind of self-touching, stupid!). All tell-tale signs that a woman is in to you and, therefore, would be open to a kiss.

I've previously spoke about the man who always asked me for a kiss, Max. Long story short, I met him while on summer vacation at York Beach in Maine. I was there for a week-long family getaway. So was he. We met on the beach one night and found ourselves meeting up on the boardwalk almost every night that followed. He was adorable, and sweet. I liked him. A lot. In short, it was the kind of "relationship" meant for cheesy teenie-bopper movies. But, every time he went in for a kiss, he asked first. Even if we had JUST kissed. He would literally pull away and ask for another. WHAT? I mean, this isn't "mommy, may I have seconds" time! Seriously.

I played along with his "Mother May I?" routine for a bit mostly because I was young and stupid. But, even young and stupid eventually realizes that asking for a kiss isn't sexy. I mean, it takes away all of the fun. You know, that anticipation that builds when you want someone to kiss you. The pulse quickening as they finally lean in. The sweet taste of their breathe as you finally get close. And, of course, that delicious moment when your lips are first touching theirs. ::SIGH:: Ask first, and all of that goes down the crapper. There is no anticipation. There is no chance for my pulse to quicken. Overall, the moment feels far less sweet.

Plus, let's be honest, ladies usually prefer a partner who can take charge. You want a kiss? Think I'm interested, too? THEN GO FOR IT. Seriously, what's the worst that could happen? She says no. She pulls away. You both move on. It's better that she think you're aggressive and/or assertive than have her assume that you're a big wuss who needs permission to woo a woman. ::YAWN::

On that note, though, a first kiss should be gentle. Your lips are just getting to know each other. Introduce them tenderly. Don't mash them together and hope that they get along well. Continue to build the tension. Tease a little. Throw in a few nifty tricks. But PLEASE, whatever you do, don't toss the whole bag of fun on the table all at once. Leave the other person wanting more...wondering what more kisses would be like. Like I said, a first kiss is an introduction. The appetizer, in a sense. Give them all of the goodies at once, and why would they even want to stay around for the dessert? They've already had it all....

Oh, and it is also worth noting that, if the moment is right and there is definite chemistry between you and another person, please kiss on the first date. I am begging you. Obviously, there should be nothing more than just a kiss (do I even have to mention that?!). But, nothing is worse than going through a few dates, really vibing with someone, finally getting a kiss...and being utterly disappointed. How depressing. So, get the kiss out there. Confirm that the chemistry really is there. And, whatever you do, DON'T ASK. Otherwise, you may not receive.

What 10 O'Clock Matt Taught Me About Men

2011-11-06T09:21:00.000-08:00

Wouldn't life be easier if, once you learned your lesson in relationships, you could time warp back and do it all over again...the right way? Well, that's the way I've always felt about this one particular "relationship," though I am not entirely convinced that I can even call it that. Perhaps it makes the most sense to start at the beginning....

Matt was a grade older than me in school. He had dirty blond hair, amazing eyes, and a devastatingly chiseled stomach. He was athletic and well-liked, especially by the ladies. In sixth grade, he had gym class the period before I did, so we always crossed paths as he was running inside from lacrosse or some equally manly/sexy sport. He always smiled. I always melted.

That summer, I showed up for my summer swim league and, much to my joy/fear, Matt was there, too. Over the course of the summer, he smiled while I melted, but we never really spoke. The same thing happened when we were back in school, me in seventh grade and he a worldly eighth-grader. He always smiled at me in the hallway, but we never actually spoke. However, the next summer, things were different.

Matt and I began an innocent flirtation during swim practice and at swim meets. He would constantly find excuses to touch/poke me, and I always blushed uncontrollably. Then came time for his summer vacation, and, much to my surprise, he asked for my address so that he could write to me. I almost couldn't speak, but I didn't actually believe that it was true until the postcards started showing up. Each note was incredibly sweet, and I was touched by his thoughtfulness.

When he returned from vacation, he began calling me, too (remember the time before text when men actually called?! I know, whatever happened to that?). At first, the calls were short and infrequent. But, eventually, they stretched out for hours. However, my parents starting noticing a very odd consistency in his phone calls: he almost always called around 10pm. A bit late, don't you think? Hence, the nickname "10 o'Clock Matt" was born....

The summer ended. Matt went off to high school while I was stuck in middle school still. However, we always had the summer and his late-night phone calls. And, so it went....

Yet, the real shock came when I showed up for my first day of high school the following September. I saw Matt in the hallways and smiled ear-to-ear. However, when we locked gazes, I instantly saw the panic in his eyes, and he scurried away from me with his group of equally hot friends right on his heels. Was there something in my teeth? Was my fly down? What just happened?

Then came swim season, again. In high school, the boys and girls both swim on the same team, so we started spending more and more time together. The calls started again (10pm, on the dot!), as did the flirtations. Still, nothing actually ever happened between us. And, eventually, he got a girlfriend, who just so happened to be my older sister's good friend. When Ali (my sister) protested to her friend that Matt was bad news because he was always calling me late at night, the girl confronted Matt...and he flat out denied even knowing who I was. I kid you not.

I was crushed. Had all of those phone calls and sweet postcards meant nothing to him? Had all of the touches and stolen glances been for show? For his ego? I didn't know what to believe anymore.... But, I was young and naive (yes, I admit it). So, when we crossed paths at the Thanksgiving football game while he was a freshman in college, I entirely forgave him when he asked if he could call me later that night and catch up. 10pm? BAM! The phone rings. It's Matt. I melt. We talked for quite some time, and we agreed to meet up when he was back in town for Christmas break.

I counted down the days (minutes?) until his return and, when the day finally came, he called (10pm, obviously) and asked if I was free the next day to help him shop for his Christmas gifts at the mall. I, of course, cancelled all plans and agreed. He showed up in his beat-up Jeep Wrangler and held my hand as we drove. He even held my hand while we shopped at the mall. And, when store clerks referred to me as "his girlfriend," he didn't correct them. Not once. Yes, dear readers, I was on cloud nine. So, it should come as no real surprise that, when he asked me to hang out with him at his place after the mall, I was all for it.

His parents weren't home, so we headed for his bedroom. The hand holding turned to kissing. The kissing turned to heavy petting. The heavy petting turned in to even heavier petting (remember my previous post about a boy who managed to bruise my nipples? That was Matt...on this exact day). Finally, Matt proposed sex. I declined. So, he proposed oral sex, which, to me, is still sex...so I declined that, too. I may have been naive, but I certainly wasn't dumb. Plus, I hadn't lost my virginity yet, and it wasn't about to let that happen now. Matt seemed fine about it all, and we continued to see each other over the next four weeks. He held my hand each time, and there was always a kiss to end each outing.

However, it all became so clear to me when winter break ended, and he went back to school. Sure, he still called (10pm, still!), but the calls seemed awkward and impersonal. So, I shouldn't been surprised that, when he called while on a ski weekend with college friends, our "relationship" finally came to a harsh end. Matt as being sweeter than he had been in recent weeks, complimenting me and insisting that he missed me. Then, I heard a girl's voice in the room with him, and he awkwardly answered her with, "yeah, it's just a friend from home." Oh, he is NOT going there.... He hurriedly tried to wrap up the phone call with lots of pretend "dude talk," very clearly trying to pretend that I was a guy. So, I ended the call with, "yeah, bro, shit was fun, but we really are 'just friends,' homie. Why don't you lose my number? Okay? Thanks." And, so it ended....

So, what did I learn from all of this? A real man not only pursues a woman (yes, men, we want to be "hunted," so get with it!), but he also publicly acknowledges her. Whether he's with his buddies, his family, or on his own, he always treats you like a lady...and like his number one priority. A real man doesn't wait until 10pm (well after most people are in bed) to call you. He doesn't deny knowing you when things get weird. He doesn't hide behind the false intimacy of postcards and hand holding. And, while we're on the topic of Matt, a real man doesn't aggressively bruise your nipples...at least, not without asking first ;o)

So, why would I want to take these lessons and go back in time to do it all over again...the right way? Because, I would've called him on his bullshit sooner, and taught him a lesson: that real woman don't put up with sad, soulless boys like him. I would've taught him that it isn't okay to treat people the way that he treated me. And, maybe...just maybe...there's a part of me that would've liked to have given him the wrong phone number right from the start....

Art Is Sexy, Too: Helmut Newton

2011-11-05T18:40:00.000-07:00

Every now and then, I like to share a bit about the people, places, and things that continually inspire and intrigue me. This week, I turn to one of my favorite art forms and one of the men who, to me, defined it: Helmut Newton, the famed German-Australian photographer.

I remember the first time I saw one of his photographs. It was on the cover of a book about his work, and I was instantly drawn to it. Raw and honest, his images rarely if ever show women staring lovingly at the lens or puckering up for the photographer. Instead, the women almost seem to be staring the camera down, daring the photographer to even blink. The models always seem empowered but still a bit fragile, just like women are in reality. Or, they seem entirely oblivious to the fact that a camera is even then, which is even sexier. Always erotically charged and utterly provocative, his photos were a staple in Vogue for many years, and it is easy to understand why.

I often find myself staring at his work and replacing his models with myself. I feel as though I can relate to most of them (a bit frisky, a bit frightened). Plus, who wouldn't want to be captured looking as fiercely confident as his models do?

Another case of a brilliant mind being tragically taken away, Helmut did leave the world with leagues of admirers and a wealth of images to admire.

So, for your viewing pleasure, here are just a few of my favorites. Enjoy!

“But I always say: one's company, two's a crowd, and three's a party” - Andy Warhol

2011-10-16T16:21:00.000-07:00

Early on in college, I was totally smitten with this one guy named Jeff. He was tall, dark, and handsome with a self-deprecating sense of humor and a wicked smile. To paint you a picture, just imagine Dane Cook (yes, the comedian) but younger, thinner, and a bit darker. Mannerisms? They seriously could've been raised under the same roof. Yes, Jeff was one of my greatest weaknesses, and he knew it.

Jeff and I met one very late night. My girlfriends and I had been out dancing , and I kept spotting this seriously adorable guy...and his asshole friend...eyeing us on the dance floor. As luck would have it, while the ladies and I were walking home, the adorable guy and his asshole friend saw us from across the street and called us over. We struck up a roadside conversation, and adorable guy asked for my number. Score. The asshole friend? He struck out with all of us. He was just too damn arrogant.

Fast forward a week or so. Adorable guy and I are "seeing each other," which is a nice way to say that we were doing the naked monkey dance together...but it was nothing serious. He lived in an apartment-style dorm room with two other guys, one of which was the asshole friend. Frequently, after adorable guy would "ring my bell," we'd hang out with his roomies in the common area. I found the asshole's total lack of humility to be utterly disgusting, and we frequently made public jabs at each other (Me? I'd make fun of the random chicks roaming out of his room looking sad and disappointed. Him? He usually quoted something ridiculous or filthy he overheard me yell out in the throws of passion).

Well, the adorable guy and I didn't last long, which was often the case for me during this time in my life. He was sweet and all...but he felt like more of a child than a man. Asshole friend, though, had slowly creeped into my evening fantasies, and he both drove me entirely bonkers...yet intrigued me, too. He kept me honest, and I liked that. I mean, he was a challenge, and I was going to conquer him. (Disclaimer: I was once totally misguided. Clearly.)

After a while, the asshole friend (who I came to know as Jeff) and I had started "seeing each other," too. This often consisted of long car rides in his Mustang, lovely evening strolls around the Boston Common, coffee at a local cafe, and then really unremarkable sex. But, I adored his personality, and I was bound and determined to break down his mile-high walls.

It too some time, but I had finally started making progress on Jeff's armor of steel. He was really starting to open up with me, and we had started seeing more and more of each other in our free time. One night, we had a lovely dinner together, driven around for a bit and talked about our families and our fears, then decided to go for a stroll around the Common again. We were holding hands, and it really was quite romantic. I mean, let's be honest. I was totally buying whatever Jeff was selling.

Then, Jeff said something so incredibly disgusting and unrealistic that I quickly remembered why I had once referred to him as The Asshole. Jeff asked if I would be interested in engaging in a threesome with him...and his girlfriend. WHOA BUDDY. Girlfriend? Threesome? What the heck just happened?

Long story short, Jeff was in an off-and-on relationship with some chick. They both dated other people (weird, right?) but he thought that maybe I could spice up their intimate time together. Excuse me? Where in our time together did I give off the "threesomes are my thing" kind of vibe? Obviously, I turned that creepy offer down. Sadly, though, I did see Jeff a few more times after that night, and I even met his long-term lady, too (I seriously have no excuses...I am so ashamed). But, I was really struck by his casual threesome inquiry. So much so, in fact, that I still think about it to this day.

I mean, are threesomes the new "normal sex?" Is sex itself not spicy enough that you need to add more flesh in to the mix? When did asking for a threesome become as casual asking for a little "tickle and tug." WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?

But, statistics show that this trend is true. An ABC News poll showed that 14% of Americans admit to having had a threesome...and 21% fantasize about it. This ranked just below actual cheating in the grand scheme of sexual misadventures.

However, this leads me to one of my biggest gripes with threesomes. Isn't it basically cheating? I suppose if everyone involved is single and ready to mingle, then it's all good. But, what about those who engage in threesomes with their otherwise committed partners? I mean, almost every committed partner I had ever had has been interested in having a threesome...and quite a few of my boyfriends have even had one...or more. Still, I have come to realize that almost every man has a gross misconception about what a threesome is. They see too many movies. Watch too much porn. I mean, in their minds, the only thing better than ONE chick is clearly TWO CHICKS. They sincerely believe that all girls are in to other girls and that a threesome means he gets a front row seat to some lesbian loving. WRONG.

Most people who are honest and open have admitted to me that their threesome was awkward and uncomfortable. It wasn't nearly as sexy as they had envisioned. Plus, almost every one of them has admitted that copious amounts of alcohol (or other illegal substances) played a role in their threesome action. There were a lot of "oppsies" and "ouches." No one left feeling fully satisfied...except maybe the guy.

Plus, in my mind, why does everyone assume that a threesome means a guy and two girls. You want a threesome, buddy. Sure! Call up your pal, John, and see if he's free. No? Not so exciting when another pair of balls are involved, huh? Doesn't seem as interesting when it's not all about you, right? ::SIGH:: Men.... ;o)

For me, threesomes are a true case of "just keep it simple, stupid." Sex and dating is complicated enough without throwing another person in to the mix. Why not focus on making the experience REALLY explosive for one other person rather than spread yourself thin and make it mildly exciting for two people? One person may get more attention that another. Jealousy ensues. People get awkward. Things get weird. Plus, I honestly can't imagine waking up the next day and not silently hating myself inside. Seriously, why even go there?

Plus, my number one reason for not being okay with a threesome is this: I just don't want to share. Call me a selfish lover, but I want ALL of his attention...and I want to focus all of my attention on him, too. For me, sex is, amongst other things, about connecting and feeling engaged. You should feel lavished and beautiful. You shouldn't be worried about how you stack up against contestant number 2, and you shouldn't feel like you're only getting a portion of the experience.

I mean, call me old-fashioned. But, to me, threesomes just sound...dirty...and NOT in the good way. I may be open to most kinds of sexual expressions, but two more people in my bed? That just sounds like a crowd...and I prefer company ;o)

"Love Is Just A Word...Until Someone Comes Along And Gives It Meaning..."

2011-10-11T22:49:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I got to thinking about the many relationships "firsts" that I have had the great fortune to experience so far in my life. I can remember almost every last one of them in perfect detail...except for the first time a man (boy?) told me that he loved me. How awful...and sad...is that? I mean, I remember the first time someone held my hand, for goodness sake! You'd think having the words "I Love You" uttered to you would have left a more lasting impression on me than the awkwardly sincere hand-holding fumblings that took place in the backseat of my mom's powder-blue Ford Windstar.

Perhaps the reason for the incredible lapse in memory, though, is because it really wasn't that memorable. Did he even mean it? Did I even care? I have a slight inkling that the first man (boy?) who ever told me that he loved me was a someone who I "dated" for less than two months and who, in the last week of our courtship, I actually hid from while at an ice skating rink. I mean, why would I ever even want to remember that moment?

But, what I do remember is this: the first time a man (yes, a man!) told me that he loved me...and meant it. He-who-shall-remain-nameless stared deeply in to my eyes as we stood on a snowy mountainside. We had been sledding together with a group of friends, and we had somehow lost sight of everyone else. It was late. We were drunk. And we were happy. He brushed the hair out of my eyes, kissed me softly on my wind-chapped lips, and almost whispered the most beautiful words the English language has to offer: "I Love You." I remember being completely caught of guard and utterly breathless. He laughed gently, and he kissed me again and, in that moment, I knew that he meant it. I felt it with every inch of my being...and I knew that I felt the same way, too.

Maybe that's why I don't remember the actual first time a man (boy?) told me that he loved me: because that beautiful phrase, the same phrase that can leave someone breathless and flushed and full of hope, has been used far too many times in entirely meaningless ways. Before he-who-shall-remain-nameless uttered "I Love You" on that snowy night, at least half a dozen men (boys?) had proclaimed the very same thing. Sure, some may have thought that they meant it, and I don't doubt the sincerity of their intentions. But, what I do know is this: when someone says it and means it, there is no question in your mind or in your heart that it is true.

So, dear readers, the moral of this story is this: cherish the phrase "I Love You," and only utter it when you truly mean it.

Me? I tell my siblings and parents that I love them each and every time that I get off of the phone with them...and I mean it each and every time, too. I tell a select few friends that I love them...and I mean that, too. I have also told some men (boys?) in my life that I love them. Unfortunately, though, I didn't really mean it each and every time. But, I am now older and wiser (or, so I am told), and I now hold the words "I Love You" more closely to my heart than ever before. Know that, if I say it, I mean it. I suggest you do the same....

There Are So Many YUMMY Flavors In The World. Why Sample Just One?

2011-10-06T23:42:00.000-07:00

While talking to one of my lovely sisters this evening (love you, Ali!), we somehow stumbled upon the topic of my utter lack of a dating "type." In fact, she put it something like this, "I think you've dated them ALL." And, you know what...she just may be right (she usually is!).

In college, my parents used to jokingly ask who the "flavor of the week" was. They asked this for a few reasons. First of all, they asked because they're nosy. I mean, let's be honest ;o) Secondly, they asked because there was a period of time where I dated around quite a bit. Lastly, and most importantly, they asked because I definitely dated lots of different "flavors" of men. And, who can honestly blame them for asking? I am more than certain that my various answers kept them on their toes...and kept them entertained.

As my sister so gingerly pointed out tonight, I've clearly always had a thing for Italian boys (Vinny, Marco...). I've dated men younger than me (bot not too young!) as well as older than me (but not creepy kinds of old...I think!). I've dated taller men and I've dated someone shorter than me (preference for taller because I LOVE stilettos). I've sampled a few different international flavors (French, German, Filipino, Greek, Portuguese, Italian...again...). I've dated career types and artists (oh, and a farmer, too). I've dabbled in jocks and geeks (and everywhere in between). I mean, I am honestly hard pressed to think of a type of men who hasn't, at one time or another, totally tickled my fancy.

Some may think that this means I don't have a type. And, honestly, they may be correct...partially. It IS true that I don't necessarily have a physical "type" that I prefer or gravitate to most frequently. I don't discriminate. I find all flavors of man to be tasty in their own rights. Plus, isn't variety the spice of life? Oddly enough, I even took an online quiz tonight to help shed some light on my what type of man I prefer. My results. "Failed." Seriously. Is that even possible? Are my responses so cryptic that you can't narrow it down a little? I mean, I'm sorry but, "does not compute" isn't an answer!

But, where I feel like those "Carly loves all men" preacher-types have it wrong is that, while I don't necessarily have a physical type that I most desire, I am most certainly attracted to a few key characteristics in men. Namely, I am attracted to men with a great smile and a warm presence; a man who is passionate (I find passion, regardless of what it is about, to be infectious!), and who is fiercely independent.

With all of this in mind, I always find it baffling when friends date the same type over and over again. Seriously, where is the fun in that? Plus, for all they know, artistic types could really get their juices flowing, if only they would stop dating lawyers and doctors!

So, in short, how did I respond when my sister told me that I've dated them all? I proudly stated, "I guess I have. I mean, life's too short. Why the hell not?!"

So, dear readers, I encourage you to branch out a bit. Date a different type. Try a new flavor (I highly recommend the exotic types). Dabble in something you haven't even dreamed of trying before. After all, what's the worst that could happen? You just may discover something new about yourself...and stumble upon a new "favorite flavor" in the process!

Relationship Rule #1: Keep Sacred Thy Bathroom Habits

2011-09-19T21:37:00.002-07:00

Intimacy is wonderful. Getting comfortable with a partner can be great, too. But, at what point does the blending of intimacy and comfort become, well, weird.

Take one of my previous relationships as an example.

Mark and I had only been dating for a short while when our intimacy level became such that showering at his apartment didn't seem odd. He gingerly showed me where the towels were and left me to shower in peace...or so I thought. Without so much as a knock on the bathroom door, I suddenly found Mark standing outside of the shower stall. I don't even remember what it was the he was doing, but I instantly shrieked, "THIS IS A PRIVATE MOMENT!!!" before clutching for the shower curtain...and promptly taking it down with me. That's right...I fell out of the shower and took the whole shower curtain with me. I mean, I know he had seen me naked before (shhh...don't tell my mother!), but there was something about being caught in an intimate moment without any warning that totally caught me off guard.

Afterwards, we had a good laugh about it, and "this is a private moment" became a long-standing joke in our union. However, at some point, the line between private and non-private moments continued to become blurred and, before I knew it, he was welcoming himself in to all sorts of other "private moments" that occur in a bathroom. Yes. I am dead serious. And, to be honest, I can't even remember how he slowly crept over the fine line between comfortable intimacy in to weird-ville, but I distinctly remember how I felt once that line was crossed: I felt violated. Oh, and I felt dirty...but not the good kind.

Look, I'll spare you all of the the dirty details (seriously, let your imagination run free, dear readers because, if it happens in a bathroom, he somehow weaseled his way in to being a part of it). But, seriously, WHO wants company in the bathroom?

Actually, maybe I'll share one more dirty detail just to help drive home the point (plus, you know me: the dirty details are just the kind that I like!).

Near the end of our relationship, after Mark and I had been living together in a one bedroom and one bathroom apartment for quite some time, Mark began to quietly merge his morning routine with my morning routine by taking his morning dump while I showered. Seriously, kiddos, you can't make this kind of stuff up. Imagine my horror and disgust at having those sounds and smells introduced in to what is supposed to be the cleanest part of my day. I mean, I know we shared just about everything with one another, but isn't ANYTHING sacred anymore?

Why yes, dear readers, there are, in fact, a few things that should still be kept sacred in a relationship, and bathroom habits is absolutely one of them. That is why I have christened this as relationship rule #1 (I feel like it is easily one of the most important): Keep Sacred Thy Bathroom Habits. Look, we all know what kind of stuff goes on in there. But, no one...and I mean NO ONE...needs to witness it. Ignorance is bliss, and discretion is sexy. Seriously, do your lover(s) a favor: shut the door, turn on a fan, run the water (I know, I'm not very eco-friendly!), light a match, spray some perfume. Keep that space and that time sacred. Sure, brushing your teeth together can be cute. Doing your hair side by side may even be a bit sweet. Even an occasional shared shower is enjoyable (more to come on that topic). But, really, that's about it.

So, do you agree? What is your #1 relationship rule? Has this relationship rule ever been violated in one of your relationships? Please tell me I'm not alone.... ;o)

Me-Oh-My, You Have MAGNIFICANT Melons

2011-09-19T21:37:00.001-07:00

I was an "early bloomer." So much so that my older sister, who was a later bloomer than me, took to calling me "Dolly Parton" because, compared to other girls our age, I was positively poppin'. Look at me now, though, and you'd NEVER know. Not that my melons are anything to sniff at (I've been told by many men that they're perfectly perky, so I'm not concerned). However, I am constantly joking with my very well-endowed best friend (shout out, ladybug!) that she's lucky I'm secure in myself because, regardless of where we are or what she is wearing, over twice the number of men approach her than approach me. Okay. Okay. Okay. She's also an absolute DOLL with a sparkling personality and a banging bod, too. So, no doubt she gets attention for more than just her lady bumps. But, I've always wondered if boob size has anything to do with it.

In other words, does size matter to men, too?

Statistically, 44% of American women have size B breasts (guess I'm in good company, eh?), 28% have size C, 15% have A cups, 10% carry around D's, and 2% have to settle for AA (poor things!). Oh, and a sneaky 1% have DD. Yikes!

So, with this in mind, wouldn't you assume that men hit on more woman with size B boobs simply because there are more of us out there? Maybe not. Check out this study. Here is my summary:

In a French study by Nicolas Gueguen, a 20-year-old woman was selected to provide insight in to breast size and courtship. The woman was rated as having average physical attractiveness by strangers at the beginning of the study. She was 5'6" and weighed roughly 123 pounds (it should go without saying that she was an A-cup, as a result). She was tasked with hanging around a nightclub and then a bar, each time with different breast sizes but always in the same clothing. She was instructed to not smile or gaze at the men while she was out, and she was also instructed to tally the number of times men approached her. The findings were pretty incredible. While at a nightclub, she was hit on 13 times while an A-cup, 19 times while a B-cup, and a staggering 44 times while a C-cup. She has a similar experience outside a bar. She was approached 5-times while an A-cup, 9-times while a B-cup, and 16 times while carrying around size C cha-chas.

So, what does all of this mean?

I suppose one could assume that men simply prefer bigger boobs. Obvious, right? However, I wonder if the woman in this study was simply holding herself with more confidence when she had inflated funbags on her side...consciously or not.

Either way, it's pretty provocative stuff.

Like I said, I've never heard any complaints about my tatas. However, the more cleavage I'm bearing, the more attention I seem to get. Again, though, it goes back to my previous argument that, perhaps, men aren't approaching me more because my boobs are spilling forth. Maybe (just maybe), I am acting more carefree and confident while bearing a little extra boobage.

In this day and age, though, most any woman can fake a larger rack. Outside of surgical enhancements (which are now increasingly more popular), every lingerie company is constantly reinventing the revolutionary "Wonder Bra." It seems like almost once a year, Victoria's Secret comes out with yet another "secret weapon" for increasing your chesticles. The market is thoroughly saturated with breast enhancing creams, cleavage creating bras, exercises and pills guaranteed to increase your bust ("I must...I must..."), and other crazy schemes. Between double-sided tape, my trusty silicon "chicken cutlets," and a titillating v-neck top, even I can make my breasts totally awe-inspiring...while clothed.

However, eventually, your clothes must come off (seriously, this isn't middle school, kiddos!) and you're left standing there just the way the good Lord intended. I always wonder what that feels like for a man. I mean, they may have just spent the entire evening salivating over a lovely lady's sweater swells only to find out later that her boobs are saggy and sad (think "wind sock" titties). Imagine how disappointing THAT must be (I'm tearing up just thinking about it). I mean, isn't it all just unfair and false advertising? Plus, how does a woman go about undressing herself when, deep down, she knows she's stuffed her bra to the point of explosion.

Personally, I've never experienced this. I may not have the biggest boobs on the block, but they're almost always dressed in something cute (have I mentioned that I ADORE Aubade?!). Sure, I may wear a slight pushup or a bra with a little extra "oomph." But, no man has ever seen me scramble to hide my funbag falsies while we prepare to get it on. It just isn't my style. I don't want to witness disappointment crossing a man's face when they see this chica in the nude. What you see is what you get, clothed or in my birthday suit. The birthday suit is just a bit more exciting to see ;o)

But, I can easily imagine that these sorts of awkward situations happen.

So, dear readers, does (breast) size matter to you? Do you believe in breast enhancements, surgical or otherwise? Ever have an uncomfortable rack reveal? Please, do share. You KNOW I love all of the dirty details.

“I think that the most important thing a woman can have (next to talent, of course) is her hairdresser.” - Joan Crawford

2011-09-13T22:17:00.000-07:00

Patti Stanger (the brains, beauty, and brawn behind "Millionaire Matchmaker") is frequently telling her female clients that, amongst a host of other physical attributes, men are always more attracted to long straight hair. Studies are also on her side, showing that both men andwomen typically rate the same female as more attractive when shown with longer hair.

Just glance through a popular magazine or flip those TV channels. The women with the shorter hair are rarely portrayed as sexual objects, though they are frequently the more independent and focused characters. However, images meant to evoke a sexual or lustful reaction almost always show long, silky, flowing straight hair.

I can speak from personal experience, too. I almost always had longer hair, and my hair can't help but be straight (curls and/or waves almost seem allergic to my locks). However, during college, my mother got sick and had to have her head shaved as a result. As a sign of solidarity and also as my own way of dealing with her circumstances, I decided to cut my hair short, too. I started with baby steps first (shoulder length hair followed but a leap to a cute bob) but eventually thought: to HELL with it...who needs hair?! Yes, I chopped it all off...and loved it. Check out the photographic evidence:

My morning routine became infinitely easier, I felt feisty and funky, and I never once noticed that men found me less attractive. In fact, my boyfriend at the time even encouraged me to cut my hair short.

However, for as much I loved my haircut and had the support from those around me, I quickly realized that world just isn't quite so kind. People were judgmental. I went to an all-women's college, and so many people began to question my sexual orientation (did I mention that I had a boyfriend at the time?). Seriously?! At pageants, I was told that, while I was well-liked, my haircut was likely holding me back. At work, it was assumed that I was "in charge" compared to my longer-locked co-workers because I looked "older." It was all so odd to me.

After many painful years of growing my hair out (it kept insisting on looking like a mullet!), I began to remember just why I always loved my longer hair. The options (ponytail? bun? curled?) were endless, and I loved running my fingers through my hair. I've since had my hair long and lovely for quite a few years, but recently got the itch to go shorter. Not that short, again, but shorter all the same. After posting an image of my desired haircut online (see below), I was struck by the negative male feedback.

One friend even joked that I should consider playing professional baseball with that haircut...because it is just that manly. Really? Overall, the feedback from my male friends was less than enthusiastic. And, suddenly, I got to thinking about hair length and sexuality all over again.

Men, do you really find shorter hair that sexually off-putting? Why?

My thoughts? As is so frequently the case, I instantly feel like screaming: "MAN UP!" Are you really that shallow and superficial? Are you really that intimidated by a woman who is confidently unafraid to be different? Who marches to the beat of whichever drum feels good to her? Of all the things to be turned off by, is hair length really that damn important?

So, I continue to debate my next hair cut. To go short and shaggy...or not. I promise you this, though: my decision has nothing to do my male friends' feedback, though, and more to do with the painful memories of attempting to grow my hair out. I guess I'm just one of those girls who defiantly refuses to make any decision based on how men feel....

"The scars you can’t see are the hardest to heal" - Astrid Alauda

2011-09-07T22:15:00.000-07:00

After my blog post about my first kiss, I got to thinking about all of the other "firsts" that come in relationships and dating. First time you have sex. First time a significant other meets your parents. First time you live with a partner. First time you cook them a meal. First fight. First make-up sex. The list goes on and one, and I promise that I share my thoughts and experiences about many of these at a later date. But, of all of the "firsts" that come with love, there is one that, to me, if the most important of all: the first time you get your heart broken.

I still vividly remember the first time I had my heart broken.

It was my junior year of high school. Nate and I had been dating for a little over a year which, at that age, is a great deal of time. I cared for him deeply, but we had some serious differences and frequently had problems communicating. One fateful day, Nate called me out in front of the entire cafeteria for being a "liar." In short, I had inadvertently bruised his ego (as I seem to frequently do), and he was dead set on making me hurt for it. The whole situation was unsettling, and I was upset. Driving home that afternoon, I couldn't stop crying. I felt like my whole world was spinning, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. After getting pulled over and almost getting a speedy ticket (I kid you not), I made it home in one piece. Nate and I talked, at length, in my basement about our problems together (lack of trust, low self-confidence, and bad communication, just to name a few) and decided that our life paths would eventually bring us in very different directions anyways so we were better off apart.

It really was the right decision for the both of us, but that didn't stop my heart from breaking. Every inch of me was screaming, and I couldn't stop crying, no matter how hard I tried. I began to doubt everything that we had shared and everything we had just said. I doubted the decision I had made, and suddenly felt very very alone. So, I cried some more.

Well, later that evening, my father came home. As was often the case, he was the one to console me. I can still remember him holding me tight and letting me cry before gently telling me that, even though I was hurting and felt like I might never love someone that much again, I would. He explained that we always say, "I'll never love someone like I loved xxx"...until we meet someone else who steals our heart. He then laughed and said, "I promise. You won't be crying about Nate when you are older and I am walking you down the aisle on your wedding day." My dad always had a way with putting things in to perspective and making me feel better. Have I ever mentioned that I love my Dad? ;o)

Well, time healed that wound, and I eventually went on to date many other amazing men. And, I also went on to have my heartbroken by some of those amazing men. I may have even broken a few of their hearts, too. Because, folks, that's the way it goes. To achieve something great, like true love, you sometimes have to take big risks...and get hurt in the process. As has been said, "There can't be a testament...without a test." Sometimes you fail. Sometimes your heart breaks. And, even when your wounds heal, there are often a few scars that remain. But, you get back up, you brush yourself off, and you move forward because, in the end, you believe in the beauty of what you are fighting for: a love that makes it all worthwhile.

So, dear readers, what was your first heartbreak like? How did you learn to move on? What drives you to keep fighting for love, even when you've had your heart broken?

"Poetry is all that is worth remembering in life" - William Hazlitt

2011-09-07T21:05:00.000-07:00

Writing has always been an incredibly important part of my life. Whether I was reading it, writing it, memorizing it, or studying its nuances, I have a hard time remembering when I wasn't entirely consumed by the written word. I covered entire notebooks with my own thoughts and, sometimes, when I was lucky, a poem was born.

The funny part is, for as often as I have written and for as many awards I have won for my writing, the thought of sharing my poetry (in particular) always makes me feel ill. I feel naked, which can be liberating and terrifying all at once. Why? Because, even when I read my poetry now, some time since I put my thoughts down on paper, the words often bring back to me that very specific moment or emotion that I was writing about. Every poem below, when I typed it just now, made me cry, or smile, or laugh. I remembered the exact inspiration...and those feelings can hurt some times. But, the hardest part about poetry, as with any form of sharing, is that honesty can hurt...you and others.

Well, dear readers, if you know me, you know that I am always honest. My poems are exactly the same. They may not be worthy of the praise and admiration that poetry's greats deserve, but I certainly hope that they bring you to a similar place that they bring me. That they paint you a picture. And, most importantly, I hope that they make you think....

Waiv-her

Before you kiss me again
Stop and read.
From this moment on
You are warned
And I am open.

Tomorrow, I will expect a phone call
And I will want increased frequency
In open-mouthed kisses,
Sleepovers, Showers, and Shared Desserts.

Can you dodge raindrops and appreciate rainbows?

Because, I promise you this:
I won't lie to you about one thing.
Clothing choices, restaurant reviews,
Politics, your ass in jeans, your hand in mine,
Your depth and diameter, my desires...
Does this turn you on?
Here? Harder? Now?

Are you still interested?
Even though I will always hate pickles
And am destined to have crow's feet?

Because I give you my word that
I will always throw my clothes on the floor
And leave dishes in the sink overnight.
I can't help but think too much
And I care too much
About what other's think.
I will try too hard and fall even harder.
Unlike my heart, my weight will be inconsistent
And my nails will be endlessly jagged.

I get turned on too easily.
I get hurt too easily.
My skin is not as thick as I would like you to think
And I can be reckless and wrecked.

I will want to be pampered, appreciated, flirted with, and fondled.
Handled with care.
Handled by your roughness.

I will always return the favor.

Are you in?

More Importantly

Do you think of me
And smile?
Recalling burnt salty death chicken,
My clumsy laugh,
Our lazy, comfortable love.

Do you feel your
Heart soar?
Looking back on drunken snow peak kisses,
Piggy back rides along Commonwealth Avenue,
Sunflower seed sprinkled adventures.

Do you reach for me
In your sleep?
Yearning for hospital bed spooning,
Sticky summer night sex,
Leather couches two inches too short.

Do you cry when
You remember?
Thinking about broken Hawaiian dreams,
Grocery store promises of little pattering feet,
Plans for a small home filled with big dreams.

Do you regret
Decisions long made?
Pushing back memories of too much gin,
Hammers through our shared walls,
Forced conversations over bar room chatter.

Do you miss me
Missing you?
Wishing boxes would remain unpacked,
Promises would continue being whispered,
I would wear your heart around my finger.

But,
More importantly,
Do I?

I Shouldn't Been Surprised

You surprised me
That night.
I wasn't expecting
To see you there
As I walked on stage
And I felt myself flush
Watching you
Watching me
From your single seat
In the last row
Of the half-filled theater.

You surprised me again
After the show.
I was expecting
To see you there, too,
As I entered the lobby
And I felt myself flush
Watching myself
Watching for you

I shouldn't have been surprised,
Though.

You always took
A single seat
In the last row
Half-filled or not

And I was
Always left waiting.

Clever Confusion

They said that you were no good for me
That you were too self-involved
Too self-righteous
Too motivated by a woman's touch.

Still, you stuck to my ribs
My lungs
My lips
As you quieted my nervous energy
And fulfilled my oral fixations.

And I was covered in you
Always
Felt you tangled in my hair
Nestled underneath my nails
Forming between my thighs

I was moved by your passion
Driven by your intellectual musings
Drawn to your stolen touches
And I felt weak knowing that
I was your weakness too.

They were right, though.
You were no good for me
Always
Partly mental
Fully sexual
Entirely wrong

Louder Than Words

I could taste your words for days
Get drunk on the inflections and
Filled with the sweetness spun by your tongue.
You speak with such intensity
That I can smell the
Rise and fall of
Your wicked waves.

Each time we meet with
My back pressed foolishly against cold concrete
And my feet desperately trying to grow roots
I pretend that I don't
Secretly collect your syllables and sighs.
To kiss or not to kiss
Torments our glances.
Would you dance across 18,000 miles
Just to touch your hips to mine?

I am drowning in all that I wish to say
Spitting on to paper drops of delirium and you
As the tides push past me and I fear
My words aren't nearly enough to keep us afloat.
Holding on and suffering alone
Is so much safer than
Letting go and getting
Taken under by you.

I suppose, sometimes,
My heart just speaks
Louder than my words.

Devour You

I kiss you:
because you taste good
and I am greedy.
I cannot get enough of
your smells
and cells
and sweat.
I want to fill myself
With your nectar.

I undress you:
because you look good
and I am jealous.
I need to be where
your shirt
softly caresses
your shoulder.
I want to wrap myself
like jeans around your thighs.

I touch you:
because you feel good
and I am selfish.
I wish for every inch of you
to become
familiar
and fluid.
I want to swim in
the lengths of your skin.

I taste you:
because you sound good
and I am impatient.
I like the way you
roll off my tongue
and cling to my lips.
I want to say these words
now
and here
and always....

Sadly Still

We still sit on opposite sides of the couch
And our toes still meet
Somewhere in the middle
And I still make your favorite dinner
So that we can still sit
Side by side in silence.

But, my still heart
Remains unmoved
When our toes touch
And my mind still wanders
To someone else's arms
While we eat.

And you still love me
While I still yearn for more.

...and we both remain sadly still....

A Lover's Tale: The Ladder Theory and Courtship

2011-08-31T21:21:00.000-07:00

There once was an incredibly charming and immensely intellectual young man.

Let's call him Dave.

There was also a relatively naive but undeniably enthusiastic young college student who was

Dave's friend.

Let's call her Carly.

Dave and Carly met while they were both studying in Boston, she at an all-women's educational institution and he at a neighboring co-ed college. They met through a mutual companion and instantly struck up a friendship. Or, so Carly thought....

They frequently hung out at parties, chatted after hours, and occasionally indulged in innocent flirtations. But, at some point in their blossoming friendship (as Carly naively thought it was), Dave took it upon himself to set her straight. "Men can't be 'just friends' with women that they find attractive. They'll always want to bone them. It just never works."

Dave was quite passionate about this, but Carly disagreed. "I have LOTS of 'just friends' that are guys. None of them have boned me. See, it is possible." Well, as Dave gingerly pointed out, these "male friends" may not have boned Carly yet but, in all likelihood, they wanted to. Carly called his bluff...and a challenge was then born.

Carly's task? Contact her male friends and ask whether or not they would pork her, if given the opportunity. Dave's task? Sit back and wait for the sweet smell of victory to waft over him.

Well, that night, Carly set out, determined to prove Dave wrong. She contacted her male friends, asked for the utter honesty...and came to the horrifying realization that every single one of her "just friends' men would, indeed, do the deed with her. Now, mind you, Carly was average. No Heidi Klum there. So, to learn this from her friends was truly startling. I mean, how could it possibly be that each of these men, all of whom she trusted and cared for but had never ever thought of romantically (or erotically) had all thought that of her at one point or another.

As you can imagine, Carly was shaken. She was also embarrassed. Having to admit defeat is difficult for her. But, in doing so, she came to another realization: perhaps Dave was telling her this as a not-so-subtle way to get in her pants, too. ::GASP:: The plot thickens....

Dave and Carly had a good laugh over all that had transpired, and Dave was excited to then educate Carly about "The Ladder Theory," which was behind this whole debacle (check it out for yourself here).

In short, the Ladder Theory explains that, upon meeting an individual, men and women consciously and/or unconsciously project a mental rating upon the new person which then defines their relationship. I largely disagree with what the founders believe we base this rating on, but I'll share anyways:

Again, I think these pie charts are rubbish. Honestly. But, I'll stick to the facts of the theory for now.

The theory explains that every individual has his or her own “ladder." Men only have one ladder, while women have two. For men, the top spot on their ladder is occupied by those whom they really wish to be dating and have a sexual relationship with, and those at the bottom are those they consider unattractive and undesirable. As for women, things get more complicated because they have two ladders representing those they consider as potential mates (“real” ladder), and those they only want to be friends with (“friends” ladder). Another diagram? Sure:

The problem with all of this? As the theory's webpage explains, "A woman never let's a man know which ladder he is on. Obviously there is a huge difference, or gap between these two ladders. All a man can do is "go for it" and make a move on a girl: ask her out, try to kiss her, write her a love note or whatever. If he's on the good ladder fine. If he is on the friends ladder this is a case of ladder jumping. The girl has two choices at this point. She can let him on the ladder and all is well, or, more likely, she can kick him in the head, and off the ladder. If you look you'll see that below the ladder is the Abyss. So the man falls into the Abyss."

Men, let's be honest. You've all experienced this before. You meet a lovely that gets your juices flowing. Numbers are exchanged. You chat. You hang out to watch the big game. You move in for a kiss. She rejects you, uttering the dreaded phrase, "but, we're just friends." Ouch!

In short, Google "The Ladder Theory" and check out the link I posted above. There are other fabulous parts of the theory that are worth reading up on (cuddle bitches? intellectual whores? this thing has it ALL!).

Oh, and whatever happened to our dear friends, Dave and Carly?

Well, Carly's suspicions were correct. Dave was trying to subtly (or not-to-subtly) explain to her that, while she may consider him "just a friend," he wanted IN. He was trying to jump ladders, or, at the very least, get clarity regarding what ladder he was even on in the first place. Lucky for him, he was already on "the good ladder," and his ballsy moves certainly pushed him up Carly's ladder a rung...or two...or ten. Let's just say that everyone went home happy from this ladder lover's tale ;o)

So, dear readers: what are YOUR thoughts on "The Ladder Theory?" My thoughts to follow in a future blog post. In the meantime, I am just DYING to hear you experiences, your criticisms, and your praises for this honest look at relationships.

Opposites Attract...But Do They Last?

2011-08-29T21:35:00.000-07:00

I am not sure what it is, but tequila (and margaritas!) always seem to bring out friskier conversations and deeply hidden truths when my girlfriends and I get together. One cocktail? We're relaxed. Two? Giggling a like little schoolgirls. Three? The secrets and sexy conversations start flying. And, trust me, I am NOT complaining.

Recently, while in an infamous tequila-induced discussion, a girlfriend of mine confessed about a secret crush that she had on a slightly younger male friend. After gushing over his sexy body and the chills she gets when she just thinks about him, she excitedly passed around a photo of him that she had on her phone (of the non-creepy stalker variety, of course). Sure, he was undeniably attractive. You know, the whole tall, dark and handsome thing. But, there was one part that was nagging at all of us...and one brave soul finally spoke up: "That's great and all...but I couldn't possibly SEE you with him. I mean, he's your total opposite." And, you know what, my friend didn't disagree.

This guy WAS her polar opposite. She's more of a Type A personality gal with classic tastes and a steady career. This guy? More of a tattooed artist who takes things as they comes. I mean, without even knowing him, you could visually see that he was very different from my J. Crew tees, ballet flats, and tailored jeans friend. Maybe his graffiti-covered skateboard was the first clue.

And, perhaps, that was just the point of it all.

My friend clearly wanted what she, in so many ways, couldn't have. But, in some strange way, he clearly fulfilled a need that she had, even if them being together was just a fantasy. Perhaps her neurotic Type A organizational twitches desired a care-free companion to help calm her nerves? Or, maybe it was a classic case of a good girl wanting the bad boy. But, whatever it was, all of us present couldn't help but wonder: do opposites every really work out? After fulfilling the immediate physical need of the other, does the thrill of their attraction wear off and leave nothing more than two people whose opposing personality traits drive each other insane? Or, do opposites really attract...and for good?

What are your thoughts, dear readers? Ever been in a relationship that was a clear case of opposites attracting? Did it last? Do tell....

Oh, and as for my friend...once the tequila wore off, she came to her senses (so to speak) and has yet to mention this crush again. Has it passed? I doubt it. I guess I'll just have to wait until our next happy hour together to see how this one develops ;o)

Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?

2011-08-26T20:59:00.004-07:00

Recently, over a few (or more) Skinny Girl Margaritas and some extra yummy tacos, two of my lovely lady friends and I began to discuss a dating/relationship topic that has nagged at me ever since moving to California: "where have all the cowboys gone?" By this I mean: where are the manly men? Please, let me explain.... I promise, it wasn't just the tequila talking.

The lovely ladies (shout out to Meg/ladybug and Ash/bean) and I all have fathers that we each would refer to as "cowboys" or, as Ashley so appropriately put it, "boy scouts." Camping? Done. Oh, build a fire? Got it. They know their way around a tool shed, enjoy "outdoorsy" activities, and, in short, get shit DONE. We each grew up with a male role model who was hands-on and decidedly masculine. And we each grew up outside of sunny San Francisco. And, while we each truly love and appreciate our West Coast metro men, we began to wonder: where have all the cowboys gone? Are men from the West Coast (namely the Bay Area) really all that different? Has the age of cowboys passed us by? Are women the new "cowboys" in relationships?

Look, I'm not going to sugarcoat it (do I ever?). I dated more than my share of "cowboys" when living on the East Coast (literally, even...I once dated a man who trained oxen and worked on a family farm). And, at the time that I was in Massachusetts, surrounded by "cowboys," I yearned for something more refined. I dreamed of a man who could share my appreciation for the finer things in life. A man with a more keen eye for style, who loved to travel, and was a bit more domesticated than some of the men I had encountered (I mean, I once dated a man who considered changing socks after a serious workout to be a special-occasion situation only). But, once I got to California, I was confused. It was a place that I always envisioned was bursting at the seams with cultured men. And, honestly, it is. Still, it is also a place chalk full of men (boys?) who don't know how to use a power drill. I mean, really? One of my high school graduation gifts from my dad (my first and favorite "cowboy") was my own tool chest. The other was pepper spray, but that's another story for another day. The gift was symbolic of my upbringing and of his expectations for me. In short, I was brought up knowing how to take care of business and it was expected that I would continue along that path of self-sufficiency, even if that meant handling a hammer without fear, assembling furniture in a jiffy, or setting up a tent without those damn instructions. Oh, and without anyone's help...particularly that of a man. Meg and Ash? Same thing.

But, as Meg, Ashley and I have found, many of the men we encounter now that we live on the West Coast are not nearly as skilled in "manly tasks" as we are. They may love the theatre, dress to impress on the regular, speak five different languages, and have discerning tastes when it comes to fine red wines. But, drop them in to the middle of the woods for the weekend, and it's the three of us that would likely "wear the pants" in the situation. We even joked that we would fear for the lives of some one of the men we have known if they were forced to go rafting with us. What. The. F$%K?

When I brought this topic up to a very dear friend (shout out, Miss Ann!) the next day, she responded along the lines of, "well, isn't it asking a lot to expect men to be both manly and metro?" Good question. My response to her, though? Today, men expect us to be a bit of everything: domestic divas, breadwinners (or, contributors, at least), culinary queens, runway models, and sexual BEASTS. And, we do it. Seamlessly. So, is it so wrong to expect a little reciprocation? I think not.

And, almost on cue, I stumbled upon an incredibly enlightening article from CNN.com. In short, the article explained that testosterone (the hormone that stimulates the development of male secondary sexual characteristics) levels in American men has been on the decline for decades. In fact, "two major studies have confirmed the phenomenon. In the U.S. study, total testosterone levels measured in men’s blood dropped approximately 22% between 1987 and 2004." Interesting....

Still, these studies and this article did nothing to really explain the coastal phenomenon that my friend's and myself have experienced. Is it just our imagination? Perhaps. But, can anyone really argue that, since our childhoods, men have become less, well, MANLY? Can any of you dear readers answer our heartfelt question: "WHERE HAVE ALL THE COWBOYS GONE?" Because, seriously, we'd like to meet one ;o)

For the Love of Lingerie: Kiki De Montparnasse

2011-08-16T21:03:00.001-07:00

As is often the case, I found myself tonight browsing the web for another lingerie company to love. However, tonight, I was inspired by the following FB story posted by my long-time dear friend, Judie:

I once knew a woman who spent her extra monies on the sweetest of laces and silks. Garters, thongs, bits of sequins and mesh. Not for any man, just for the love of lingerie. On her days off she'd slip into an outfit of choice and heels and do her housework.
Why? Because she could.
Back in those days, before personal computers and the Internet, before Al Gore invented global warming. The most impersonal personal social network was "chat lines". It was like dumping 10 strangers in a dark room and having them all try to sound the sexiest. Mating in the dark. The hunter and the hunted. How many phone numbers you could collect in an afternoon.
So on one particularly sunny Saturday afternoon with nothing much on her mind, our lady of the lingerie chose red silk. Red silk with black lace trim, fishnets and red heels. Covered in a red silk robe she leaned back in her chair and "chatted" with the group.
The talk was always the same. Where are you? What are you wearing? What do you look like?
She's in her apartment. She's wearing a red silk corset and heels. She is stunningly beautiful.
Always a doubting Thomas in the group, one gentleman took the dare when told to drive to a particular address, park his car and look up to the 4th floor balcony.
She stepped out on her balcony, waved and opened her red silk robe to reveal legs that went as far as Canada. All that she promised and more.
"Can I come up?" he asked.
"No" she said and returned to her solitude.
I somehow doubt he was ever the same again.

Lingerie tends to have that affect on people, doesn't it? For the viewer, who is on the ever-lucky receiving end of a woman clad in lingerie, pulses race, eyes grow dreamy, and the mind begins to wander. But, for the wearer of such lovely little things, the affect is even more memorable. You instantly feel powerful, desirable, and pretty darn steamy. But, to me, one of the most magical moments is when a woman wears lingerie (the heels and the whole nine yards) for no one but her own damn self...because she can. I mean, I would be lying if I said that I hadn't done it once. Or twice. Or more times than I could count. And I would also be lying if I said I didn't love it. Thank you, dearest Judie, doe reminding me of the fact that lingerie is just as much for you as any partner.

So, tonight, I was browsing through lingerie with a new set of eyes. Instead of looking at it as a viewer, I was looking at each piece as though I were wearing it for nobody but myself. I felt liberated from the constraints of what "others think is sexy" and felt free to consider options that were quirky, classy, kinky, and totally me. And, what I discovered was Kiki de Montparnasse.

Now, let me state for the record that I had at least HEARD of this lingerie company before. But, I wasn't very familiar with it (I am a creature of habit...and Aubade is my addiction). However, I am now most certainly saving up my pennies for a little "sumthin' sumthin'" from my new friend Kiki. I mean, this place has everything (lingerie, leather, masks, massagers, and restraints) all with such a high level of sophistication and class that I would almost describe their products as works of art. I mean, I may end up saving my pennies for some time before I can splurge on Onyx Restraints (yes, they sell them!), but I am most certain that they would be worth ever last cent.

Here is a short selection of some of my favorites from the current collections at Kiki de Montparnasse:

Red AND a hint of sheer? I think I'm in love

Adorable beyond words.

I think I may even have a hard time taking it off I would love it so much.

Yes, they actually sell this.

Mens dress shirt with undone bow tie.

I think I could live in it FOREVER...and would.

Google Translate that, my dear readers ;o)

Awwww...it comes with little bloomers. What's NOT to love?!

A Little Black Teddy. Timeless.

Be sure to check out their website and let me know what YOU liked best. I can't wait ;o)

"A Man's Kiss Is His signature." ~ Mae West

2011-08-15T21:13:00.000-07:00

I still vividly remember my first kiss...even though I sincerely wish that I didn't. It was on what only a middle schooler could call a date. You know, one of those "have your mom drop you off at the fish pond in town, and I'll go for a bike ride so I can meet you there" kinds of things. It was so lame that it was almost romantic...until I came to the utterly horrifying realization that this BOY may actually want to KISS ME. I touched upon this horrifying moment in one of my earliest blog posts (feel free to read it here...it recaps many of the horrific kisses I've received over the years). However, I felt like this was worth revisiting in order to shed light on the larger issue: the important of kissing compatibility and a solid kissing technique.

So, back to middle school and that fateful day.

Vinny and I met at the park. I remember how he smelled (an over application of "manly" deodorant combined with spearmint chewing gum) and exactly what he wore (oversized jeans, a baggy-ish grey tee, silver chain necklace, and white sneakers...the uniform of all middle school boys at the time). We walked around the pond a few times (oh, Heritage Park!), nervously chatting about movies, music, and school because, honestly, that's about all the topics a middle schooler can intelligently contribute to. He was a bit older than me (a high schooler!), so I distinctly recall thinking that almost every word he spoke was golden. Plus, he had the most amazing lips, so I was basically fixated.

Anyways, just a few moments in to our walk, he held my hand. It was very sweet. Gentle even. And, instantly, I had a knot in my stomach. Uh oh. This was going to a place I hadn't intended. I mean, truly, I should've known better. But, now, I was cornered, and I could tell that he was starting to set himself up for his next move (the kiss!), because he kept attempting to give me long meaningful stares...stares that I promptly cut short. He continually tried to grab hold of my waist and do all of the other lame romantic moves that high schoolers think they're supposed to make when courting a lady. The stares and the long silences where he attempted to "woo me" with his eyes became almost too uncomfortable to bare. He stared. I looked away. So, he stared some more and awkwardly attempted to push the hair out of my eyes. I squirmed. He stared more intently. So, I did what any self-respecting lady would do when placed in my position. I loudly announced I was thirsty...and it was urgent. I mean, I HAD to get off of these hidden paths and it to more populated spaces. He won't kiss me at the Big Y, right?

Well, I was about to find out.

We walked across the street. I tried to nurse my Diet Coke as though my life depended on it and the ENTIRE TIME...he STARED with this goofy lovey dovey weirdo grin. Except, well, weren't in love...and he was freaking me out. He kept leaning in oddly close and breathing so heavily that I was genuinely alarmed. Is this what kissing is supposed to be like? I mean, am I supposed to be frightened and is he supposed to stare like that? He tried with all of his might. I resisted with every bit of my energy. This tug-of-war was getting exhausting.

Sadly, a Diet Coke can only last for so long and I had run out of excuses for staying in the safety of the grocery store bench. So, back to the park we went, and he was becoming increasingly intent on accomplishing the mission that I now knew he has originally set out on. He was going to get this kiss...and he seemed totally oblivious to the fact that I was horrified.

Eventually, the kiss just became inevitable, and I accepted my twisted fate. Let's get this over with, right? Well, what happened next confirmed all of my building fears. Before our lips had even met, his tongue was all up in my mouth, thrashing around like a fish out of water. There was saliva. There were sweaty palms. And, oh yes, there was lots and lots of tongue. He pulled away, a look of thorough satisfaction smeared across his smug face. Me? I am sure I was ten different shades of red and hardly breathing. That COULDN'T have been it, right? Maybe he was just nervous? Maybe I'll get used to this? Oh, no no no. He came in again for seconds...a round of kisses EXACTLY like the first. I felt violated...and incredibly confused. Is THIS what everyone in the movies gets so excited about? If so, count me out. NO THANK YOU.

Needless to say, that relationship didn't last long and, after one or two other suitors locking lips with me, I quickly realized that those horrifying kisses were just Vinny and, indeed, kisses do come in many more flavors...some of which I adore. And, what I developed from then on is a strict policy. Kiss me poorly once? Shame on you. Kiss me poorly twice? SHAME ON ME! Never again was I going to let a sloppy kisser get past that first kiss because, as far as I am concerned, life is just too short. Oh, and I also came to the conclusion some time early in college that all bad kissers should be banned to a single island where they could live in relative ignorance. Let the bad kissers procreate with other bad kissers...and save the rest of us form having to deal with their disappointing interactions. But, that's another story for another time....

Mae West hit the nail on the head when she sternly stated, "A man's kiss is his signature." It is unmistakably you. And, as far as I am concerned, you can tell a LOT just from how your kissing signature melds with someone else's. Is there always more to be learned when it comes to kissing? Sure...and that's the fun part! But, I firmly believe you can instantly gauge overall attraction from they way you respond to a single kiss. Does your pulse quicken? You're probably headed somewhere good. Feel the urge to correct them? Run. Quickly.

As they say, "different strokes for different folks," and not everyone prefers the same kissing style. But, if you have to TELL someone how to kiss you, perhaps there is a bigger issue lingering there (I speak from experience on this one...I once had a boyfriend assert "NO, kiss me like THIS" while basically licking my face - match made in kissing hell). But, in general, a good kisser is a good kisser regardless of the way they approach it. Technique is everything, and I am not so sure that good kissing technique can be taught. But, it is undeniable all the same.

So, dear readers, what has been your most memorable kiss? What kiss would you rather forget? What was YOUR first kiss like? Please, do share. It's awful lonesome over here on the "sharing is caring" bench ;o)

The Thing About Thongs....

2011-08-14T20:13:00.000-07:00

Interestingly, I can still recall the first time I purchased a thong. I was young-ish (oh, very early high school, I am sure) and mischievous and surrounded by equally open-minded friends (ahem, Crystal!). We were on another one of our infamous marathon shopping session at the Holyoke Mall because, honestly, there is so little else for a teenager do on the weekends in Western Massachusetts. We strolled by Victoria's Secret and were giggling over how silly the word "panties" is (to this very day, I still feel like it is a ridiculous and totally unsexy word). We still felt incredibly awkward with our sexuality and had really never stepped foot in a Victoria's Secret. But, THIS day, we were feeling bold. Or, one of us dared the other. I can't be sure. All I remember is that a pact was born that day. We would each purchase a thong and wear it to school the next Monday.

For some reason, this whole thing felt entirely "forbidden" and, therefore, it felt absolutely right. It was like our own dirty secret, and we were prepared to commit to it. So, we each grabbed a thong and nervously raced to the register, undoubtedly blushing and giggling the entire way. Mine was maroon silk and, if gifted the exact same undergarment today, I would promptly return it without flinching. But, thongs have since come a very long way and, at the time, this thong represented everything I was craving: freedom, sexuality, and intrigue.

Monday came, and I proudly slipped in to my thong...and cringed. WHAT WAS THIS? All I remember thinking is that this couldn't possibly be fitting me right. I mean, perma-wedgie? Who knowingly accepts this? But, I had made a promise, so I wore this ridiculous wedge of fabric anyways. What came next, though, I will NEVER forget. One friend (who shall remain nameless) showed up at school, blushing and nervously darting her eyes across the hallways. It was almost as though she felt like everyone knew what she was wearing...and she was clearly uncomfortable. The other friend, though, came bounding down the halls with a little extra pep in her step and an extra inch or two of smile spread across her face. While one friend seemed uncomfortable, she seemed proud...and, so, a thong obsession was born.

I guess it's safe to say that you get used to the feeling of wearing a thong. And, as I mentioned earlier, I feel confident in stating that thongs have come a LONG way over the years. Better fabrics. A wide variety of cuts and rises. More precise fits. And, over the years, the friend who proudly sported that thong came to amass a thong collection that is sure to make the Victoria's Secret warehouse green with envy. To this very day, "The Thong Song" STILL reminds me of her and the many many hours spent cruising in her car, belting the song out at the top of our little lungs.

So, why the obsession?

For whatever reason, things have become synonymous with sexuality. Maybe it's all that ass cheek being proudly displayed. Or, perhaps it is just the hint of fabric that makes it alluring. Whatever the reason, any piece of clothing that has an entire song dedicated to it has to have SOMETHING alluring and addicting about it.

But, has the thong become passé? Are they STILL an instant sign for sexual liberation? When ranking the appeal of all undergarment choices, do thongs still come in first? Hard to say. Withso many other equally amazing undergarment choices out there today, I almost feel like relying on a thong to feel and look sexy can be a cop out. I mean, is that the best that you've got?Really? Even with the epidemic of thongs poking out of pants (see below)?

For me, thongs are still an trusted standby, saving me from the ever-dreaded threat of panty lines (yuck!) and providing a comfortable option for dressing your derriere.

But, with all of the other sexy options out there, I truly don't believe that the thong still reigns supreme. Here are just a few alternate garments that, to me, can be equally sexy if not more so and also provide a bit of the "unexpected" which, to me, is one of the sexiest attributes of all.

CHEEKIE (personal favorite, particularly if it's ruffled)

BOYSHORT (my preferred weekend loungewear when paired with a cute tank)

BRAZILIAN (not quite a thong, not quite a brief, entirely sexy)

HIPHUGGER (usually a bit more straight-slung and less-covering than a boyshort)

So, do you still prefer the thong? Men? Ladies? I am dying to find out....

I Was NEVER The Girl Next Door: Why I Will Forever ADORE Bettie Page

2011-08-14T18:29:00.000-07:00

I honestly can't recall that first time I learned about Bettie Page, but I am almost certain it was through the famed artist Olivia De Berardinis, whose works in Playboy Magazine I have always admired. Bettie's jet black hair and mischievous smile (naughty? nice?) captivated me. She was unassuming and wholesome looking but had a personality that went far beyond "the good girl next door." In fact, she is arguable most well-known for her bondage modeling, a fact that I absolutely adore. But, what I adore most is that she has not ONCE apologized for her life and her art...and why should she?

I had been intrigued by Bettie Page for some time when my boyfriend at the time oh-so-subtley pointed out that, beyond the personality overlap between Bettie Page any myself but that, in a small way, I physically resembled her, too, particularly when I went through my blunt bang stage. Maybe I subconsciously admired Bettie Page all of those years for that exact reason. Maybe it was a fortunate coincidence. Either way, I was even more smitten with Bettie from that day forward.

What is most amazing about her? Oh, let me count the ways.

TOP TEN REASONS I WILL FOREVER ADORE BETTIE PAGE

She was a jack of all trade, doing her own makeup and hair for shoots while also making her own bikinis and costumes. She knew what she liked and what worked for her, and she committed to it throughout her career.
She was undoubtedly a good student when she was younger, erning a college scholarship at a time when few women went on in their education. Plus, she was voted "Most Likely to Succeed" in high school...just like me :)
While well known for her bondage images, she is also very well-known for her quirky sense of sexuality. In fact, on of her most famous photos shows Page wearing nothing but a Santa hat, kneeling before a Christmas tree holding an ornament and playfully winking at the camera. I LOVE IT!
In 1955, Page won the title "Miss Pinup Girl of the World". That's a title that's hard to argue with, and a distinction that definitely sets her apart from other "models," past and present.
Through the years, to protect the privacy she craved, when people would recognize her and ask if she was Bettie Page, she'd answer, "Who's that?" Classically unassuming and so humble.
She has been quoted as saying, "I was never one who was squeamish about nudity. I don't believe in being promiscuous about it, but several times I thought of going to a nudist colony. Plus,I love to swim in the nude and roam around the house in the nude. You're just as free as a bird!" I feel you, Bettie. For sure.
Bettie page is also quoted to have said, "Sex is a part of love. You shouldn't go around doing it unless you are in love." Bold statement considering her line of business, which only makes her all the more intriguing.
Playboy Magazine once ran that tagline: "It suggested forbidden fruit as well as apple pie" when referring to her smile. Now THAT takes talent and the "it" that can't be taught.
Olivia De Berardinis always says she adores Bettie because,"She expressed sexual liberation. Also sexual experimentation I think she represents, self-gratification for women." What's NOT to love about that?
Hugh Hefner once said: "She became, in time, an American icon, her winning smile and effervescent personality apparent in every pose. A kinky connection was added by Irving Klaw's spanking, fetish and bondage photos, which became part of the Bettie Page mystique; they were playful parodies that are now perceived as the early inspiration for Madonna's excursions into the realm of sexual perversion." Bettie's influence went far beyond her intentions, which makes her a star and long-lasting icon.

Plus, with photos such as this in her portfolio, you can't help but agree that she is a sexual force to be reckoned with.

She was innocently sexy and unapologetic, two traits that all women can only HOPE to embody.

What do YOU love about Bettie Page? What is your favorite Bettie Page image?

Also, in case you missed the reference, I proudly consider Bettie Page to be one of my alter egos, and she is the FACE of my blog, too. Check out the banner!

The Famous Five (aka The "Free Pass" Five)

2011-08-07T19:57:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite topics of all time is known as The Famous Five or, as I have come to call it, "The Free Pass Five." This is an individual's list of five celebrities that, if given the opportunity, they could have hot and steamy adult relations with and their significant other doesn't need to know nor could they be upset. I always find people's lists interesting because, let's be honest, the chances of such an encounter happening is slim to none...so people have no reason to lie. What results, then, is an unapologetic glimpse in to what makes that person tick...and what traits send their pulse soaring.

For me, it is always a big, fat, flaming red flag if a man has someone like Pamela Anderson on his list because, in all honesty, it says something very raw but alarming about their sexual attraction. Say what you will about Ms. Anderson as a person (I, for one, think she's probably a very sweet woman). But, when it comes to listing her as one of the top 5 people you most want to bone without question, I start to question YOU. I mean, I am hard-pressed to think of a woman who personifies "plastic" more than Pam. The fact that plastic turns you on should more than disqualify me from your overall list of sexual attraction.

But, then again, what does MY list say about ME? It may vary slightly from time to time (take out Johnny Dep and add in Brad Pitt, for instance). But, overall, my list stays pretty consistent. So, I'll share...and you dissect. It only seems fair.

1. LL Cool J

The picture should (and does) say it all. Those lips. That body. That voice. And, seriously, he does seem like a sensitive manly man. What more could a woman want? He can sing "Doin' It" to me ANY TIME... ::shudder:: This is probably one of the very good reasons that I am ADDICTED to "NCIS: LA." Save me, LL. Save me.

2. Daniel Craig

Truth be told, I have a HUGE soft spot for almost all men who have played James Bond. But, beyond that, Daniel Craig just has the perfect combination of true ruggedness and refined renaissance man. You could take him home to mother, and you just KNOW he would charm the pants off of her, too. He is classically sexy. Plus, those eyes. SIGH. I am such a sucker for sexy eyes.

3. Vin Diesel

DON'T JUDGE ME. I mean, he may be a bit of an ape, but there a few movie scenes that get my blood pumping more than when he grabbed Michelle Rodriguez by the ass and had his way with her in "The Fast and the Furious." Goodness me. Plus, I have discovered that I have an odd attraction to men with shaved heads. Weird, but totally true. Plus, that body. Those shoulders. Yes. Yes. Yes.

4. Shemar Moore

Sure, I watch "Criminal Minds" because I am addicted to crime dramas. But, it certainly doesn't hurt my level of attention when there is a thoroughly modern man like Shemar Moore blazing across the screen in a tight black tee. That face is hard not to stare at. Plus, when I see images of him like the one below, my heart absolutely skips a beat. Please, Lord, tell me he's a real Red Sox fan. Just when I thought he couldn't get any more perfect....

5. Johnny Depp

Johnny Depp is who he is, and he isn't apologizing...and I like it. He is one of those people where I struggle to put my finger one exactly what it is that makes him sexy, and that may very well be the best part. Part mad artist. Part worldly zen master. Part tattoo ruggedness. All. Man.

So, dear readers. What does my my list tell you about me? Don't hold back. You know I can take it ;o)

Missed Connections Make me SMILE!

2011-01-27T22:22:00.000-08:00

Maybe it's just the silly little romantic in me, but I absolutely ADORE Missed Connections. While living in Boston, one of their local free magazines had a Missed Connections, and I quite literally counted down the days until a new addition and a fresh batch of hopefuls looking for a stranger that had once caught their eye. I even used to imagine writing my own Missed Connections letters. What handsome man had I conversed with on the train that I would like to see again? Would I even have the guts to do it? I couldn't be sure.

To me, though, the most important question of all is whether or not people ever even reply to Missed Connection notes anymore. There is a part of these "secret public notes" that seems a bit antiquated (perhaps that's why I like them even more?), and I can't imagine writing back to someone with the question of "is this really meant for me" looming overhead. Can you imagine the embarrassment if you were wrong and your Missed Connection turns it to one very large Miscommunication? OUCH! But, seeing as Craigslist.com still has a Missed Connections Section, people clearly are out there, searching for "The One That Got Away," or, at the very least, they're still out there, searching from the hottie whose eye they caught from across the bar.

So, as an ode to my beloved Missed Connections, I have collected some of my favorites from across the web. Enjoy! Oh, and many thanks to the following sites, which so readily contribute to one of my oldest guilty pleasures as well as this blog post:

http://missedconnectionsny.blogspot.com/

http://sfbay.craigslist.org/sfc/mis/

http://www.missedconnections.com/ (this site even has a "random" feature if you are a reader like me who wants a little national flavor in her Missed Connections reading)

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www.Nashvillest.com

man with red hair and cape – w4m – 24 (west end)

FIND ME PLEASE!!!

you had me take this picture for you in centennial park and I didn’t have the nerve to talk to you.

Please find me you are my night in shining armor

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to the guy in penguin suit on Price is Right the other day - w4m

Date: 2011-01-27, 6:35PM PST

adoreable. such a sweet costume. i was at the gym they had the volume turned down but you put a smile on my face.

yes good people of SF i know ! he will never read this + i will never know him. and it's sad.

this guy (or someone like him) is my missed connection

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Dear Walmart Shopper - m4w - 35 (woodlands,tx)

Date: 2011-01-26, 7:20PM CST

To the dark hair, about 5'10" with blue jeans, brown boots, lime green t-shirt with long sleeves with a nice face with boobs and butt to boot. I 'm sorry ! I wish i would have stopped to talk to you. That was one and million chance of love at 1st sight not lust. I know you saw me look at you all over the store and we keep making eye contact so i know you saw me. If by chance you see this and you are single and looking for someone please contact me even if its to say your name and your with someone. I have to know that you are taken or this will haunt me to the day i die!!! So if any body with a friend that matches this description and goes to the Walmart on grogan's mill on 1/26/11 please help me find her!!!

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what could have been can be - m4w (workplace)

Date: 2011-01-27, 6:18AM EST

We use to work together ..

YOU : have your B/F but he will not marry you .. you are hot . Sexy . smart . funny
While you Use to work with me I always desired you. Work and romance do not mix.

you no longer work with me ... The desire is there !

ME : with someone - not IN Love - you asked me the other day
Do you love her I said yes in a way then you said but you are not IN love with her .. I replied yes that is true..

I want ONE day : you + me / hot sensual touching.
I want to know what I am missing .... I want to share with you what we may be missing ...

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Impromptu snowball fight at 2am - w4m

Date: 2011-01-27, 4:21PM EST

want to thank the guy on 3rd avenue. While walking in the snowstorm, me in the street walking downtown, you on the sidewalk walking uptown. We locked eyes. Then you bent down and scooped up a pile of snow and gently lobed it at my head. I caught it, and tossed it back at yours.... then -- all out two minute warfare. I think you won.... Thank you for playing, it cracked me up all the way home

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Here is my very own Missed Connections note. Can you figure out who the note is for?

Title: Stolen Glances on a Cobble Street in Paris

I first spotted you while walking the streets of Paris late one night, which is about the most perfect setting for meeting your sole mate. Yes, SOLE mate. You winked at me from the window, and I searched around me for anyone else who could be receiving this intimate affection. Alas, it was just you, me, and our growing connection. I got scared, though, and quickly ran home. I mean, I could tell you had expensive taste, and I hardly felt worthy. Still, every day thereafter, I stopped by that same window hoping to catch you gaze and, every day, you winked back at me knowingly. But, as is always the case, my romantic getaway to Paris was coming to an end, and I had finally worked up the nerve to take the next step...and take you home to the States with me. Sigh. How dreamy would that be?

But, for the first time, you were no longer there. Gone. Never to return. Evidently, someone else scooped you up first. Seems as though I wasn't your only suitor. Was I surprised? No. Devastated? Without a doubt. Still, I would forgive you in a second for leaving me. Come back. I am waiting and ready for your embrace.

Lovingly yours,

Your Stateside Sole Mate

Can't figure it out? Check out my Missed Connection:

“It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.”

2011-01-25T20:25:00.000-08:00

Dearest Readers,

I know. It's been a while. I get told this a lot, and I promise myself almost ever night while driving home from the office that I WILL blog when I get home. Then, a funny thing happens. I don't. Amazing how that happens, isn't it?

So, I thought I would start out again nice and easy. You know, ease back in to this little relationship of ours with, well, my own musings on relationships. Yes, I write poetry, too. They're nothing special. But, they're all honest. So, please browse through a few oldies but goodies and feel free to let me know what your favorite poem about relationships is. Or, you know, leave me a little love just to say hi. I promise...I truly have missed you ;o)

xoxo

La Provocateur

____________________

LOVE IS A VERB

I know that man
(knew that man)

I recognize his sweet cologne
As it clings to his grey sweater
That once hung on my bedroom doorknob

I remember those broad shoulders
That once hung over me as his soft hands
Soaked in each shudder and memorized my moans

I recall the loneliness in his words
The overwhelming privateness of his pain
And the hollow emptiness of his promises

I know that man
(knew that man)
As he approaches across a crowded lot
But, he is a familiar stranger,
Two souls that once touched
Two lives that once collided

It is only
In that moment that I realized
Love is a verb

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THIS IS NOT ABOUT A DOOR

It has been said:

Doors only open if you swing them correctly.
Shall I try again?
Do you need me to be gentle?
I sense broken hinges and splinters.
And, while I am accustomed to breaking and entering,
I can learn to be patient.

Do you sense my urgency anyways?
Would you prefer I knock first?
I would gladly grease your corners and
Sand the edges of your past.
I carry tenderness in my pocket.
Shall I wait and try once more?

It is just that you feel familiar
So cool and sturdy beneath me.
You are solid oak to my soiled soul.
Can I rest here for a moment? Two?
Maybe, if we rub our scars together,
We can both learn to heal.

All I ask is this:
Please swing open when you are ready
Just don't leave me knocking
For two seconds too long.

________________________

UNCOMMON DENOMINATOR

You kiss me
And I know you mean it.
I can feel it
Multiplying in my bones
But I can't seem to
Divide my emotions in to
Digestible dialogue.

All I know is that,
For once,
My mind isn't
Preoccupied with
Counting out reasons
Or explanations
Or purposes.
I am not
Overwhelmed by the
Calculations of
Tomorrow's meeting
Yesterday's headlines
Today's trappings.

And, even though
I can't seem to put my finger on
Or wrap my mind around
The Uncommon Denominator
That makes your lips
Linger on my mind
And causes time
To drift and dip and sing,
I add it all up
One more time
Double check
The digits and dates
Count quietly with
Every finger and toe.

And, all I can seem to
Subtract from
The masses of kisses
Is
You.

So,
I kiss you back.
And I mean it.

_________________________________

CREAM

I love when you make me
coffee in the morning
while I sit in bed
and think
Delicious Dirty
thoughts about you.

Strong shoulders.
Rough hands.
You are eager to please.
And vocal.

And I feel the heat rising
Between parted thighs
Wanting you one more
before work.
Twice if we can get
Creative in the shower.

I am barely awake
But utterly alive.
Panting.

The coffee isn't even ready yet.
But, I already have the cream.

Bump and Grind Beats

2010-09-14T20:07:00.000-07:00

During my middle school years, I learned the undeniably value of a well-made music mix tape. Friends birthday? Mix tape. New relationship? Mix tape. Summer time celebration? Seriously, do you even have to ask? There was a song for every season and a mix tape to go with each memorable (or so I thought) moment.

Well through high school, my closest girlfriends and I would share in creating musical keepsakes together, though, now, we had the power of CDs on our side. We would make the same mix CDs together and share in the ritual of committing our emotions and memories on a single disc. I had an entire CD case of personal mixes, all neatly decorated and dutifully dated. "Hot Hits Summer 2002." "Swim Team Jams - 2000 Season." "Senior Skip Day Driving Single-A-Long 2003." Nowadays, it is an embarrassing habit to admit. But, then, it felt pretty cool.

However, college eventually came along, and I realized a whole new purpose for mix tapes and musical creations: setting the mood and masking the sound. You see, I went to an all-women's college and was a part of a very close circle of very open-minded friends. So, needless to say, we were often far too interested in each other's sexcapades than was normal or, perhaps, healthy. If I had a dime for every time I caught someone listening in on an adjoining room's "extracurricular activities," I would be rich beyond my wildest dreams.

Essentially, the walls were thick but the doors never made it fully to the floor. So, the room's occupants were also left with a larger then desired gap between the door and the floor through which everyone nearby (willing or not) could listen in on the romp season. I even had friends who were nursing majors and, on more than one occasion, used their trusty stethoscopes to help aide in the peep show. Trust me, they won't ever let me live those nights down.

But, eventually, I discovered the value in a well-made and timed mix tape. Not only did it set the mood (and, sometimes, the pace), but it also served as an amazing sounds-masking tool. Beat that, HCC, and DTE (you know who you are!).

To this day, though, it amazes me how there really is a song for every mood...and every kind of "nookie." So, folks, as a gentle nod to years past, here are some of my favorite "Bump and Grind Beats" of yesterday and today. Some are slow jams. Some are hard-hitting tunes (pun intended) and others are merely sexually inspiring. Feel free to add some songs of you own. I am always open to new suggestions for my next mix tape ;o)

* "I Love My Sex" - Benassi Bros. (so, I dated a DJ...the remixes of this song are seriously hot)

* Anything by The Black Keys (particularly "Your Touch." There is just something about that voice that drives me wild....

* "The Bad Touch" By The Bloodhound Gang - don't lie. You've done it to this tune, too. It is too appropriate to pass up.

* "Crazy Bitch" by Buckcherry

* "Holdin' On" by Citizen Cope - I shudder.

* Same goes for "Sideways" by Citizen Cope. I melt each time.

* "Colorblind" by the Counting Crows - I vividly remember this one being used in action. He was a smart man ;o)

* "Crash In To ME" By DMB - I have been seduced on more than one occasion by this one. Gets me every time.

* "Right Next To You" by Elizabeth and The Catapult - a newbie but great all the same

* "Call On Me" by Eric Prydz - any man that can keep up with that beat deserves a medal

* "Freak" by Estelle - hello, anthem ;o)

* "The Dumbing Down of Love" by Frou Frou - Iconic.

* "Beautiful" by G. Love - smooth lazy summertime lovin'

* "I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked" Ida Maria gets the point across quickly. Makes me laugh each time - and what good is sex without some occasional laughs?!

* "Brown Skin" By India Arie - divine

* "Incredible Love" by Ingrid Michaelson - lines like "the smell of your skin makes me stay" moves it up my list of favorites quite quickly

* "Better Man" By James Morrison - men, put this on and any women who truly loves you will quickly forgive you of any shortcomings...and drop her panties, too ;o)

* "Dance Tonight" By Lucy Pearl. Puurrrrr....

* "Pretty Wings" - Maxwell gets it right each time

* Almost anything by Ray LaMontagne - again, a sexy voice gets me each time

* "Sex Therapy" by Robin Thicke - this one is a given

* "Sex Fiend" by Steve Smooth & JJ Flores - if this doesn't inspire you, I don't know WHAT will....

* "Freak Like Me" by Adina Howard - oldie but goodie

* Anything by Prince - yes, he makes me "Cream"

* "Let's Get It On" By Marvin Gaye - I think this has become an unofficial theme song

* "Slow Motion" By Juvenile - as much as I hate to admit it, this one gets me in the mood

* "Too Close" by Next - it's a throwback

* "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails - YUMMMM

* "Get Naked" By Tommy Lee - I am still devastated that I somehow lost this CD

* "How Does It Feel" - I melt.

Just Because I Try To Hide You Doesn't Mean I Don't Love You So (Part 2)

2010-07-03T21:42:00.001-07:00

I haven't prayed in ages. And, when I say that, I mean real praying. The whole "our father who art in Heaven" thing. It just isn't me. I don't believe it. And, even when I did (I was once a good Catholic schoolgirl, after all), I never felt as though my prayers got answered. Maybe the Lord's voicemail inbox was full, or someone inadvertently ripped up my message before it got to him, but eventually, I simply wasn't buying in to the whole prayer thing. And, miracles? Please. Spare me.

However, I sincerely felt as though all of my unspoken prayers were answered the day that I first wore my heart-shapped, neutral-colored, lovely lace Nippies. In fact, I think I may have even exclaimed, "Thank you, JESUS!" when I realized just how wonderful these were. Why? Because these pretty little things are nothing short of a miracle. A very sexy miracle.

In the past, the nipple various coverage options that I used left me feeling sad and droopy. My nipples itched. My clothing bunched. The stickies failed me within two good whirls around the dance floor. I even had an incident when my silicone-filled nipple coverage became loosened with sweat and actually fell out of my dress...landing at my father's feet. Imagine that. So, when I saw the chic and understated packaging and felt the quality fabric, I knew something magical was about to happen.

But, I didn't want to be sold on packaging alone. If I am going to give a nipple coverage my seal of approval, it's going to have to earn it. Momma didn't raise no fool. So, to really put it to the test, I wore my Nippies when I was moving in to my new apartment. Not because I had to. But, there is no situation that I can think of that is sweatier, more disgusting, and less sexy than moving. So, if the Nippies could stand up to this situation without folding, falling off, or loosing their sex appeal, I knew I would have a winner.

Amazingly, after four straight hours of endless bending, lifting, unpacking, and crying (have I mentioned that I hate moving?), I had actually forgotten that I was wearing my Nippies. I was so preoccupied with finding the perfect spot for all of my valuables (which drawer for my lingerie, what shelf for my stilettos...you know, the important stuff), that I even ended up falling asleep in my Nippies. I tossed and turned in my Nippies for a solid eight hours, never once feeling a crumple, a peel, an itch, or even a bead of boob sweat (ladies, you know what I am talking about).

Imagine my confusion, then, when I woke up, stretched out, disrobed, then saw myself in the mirror. I actually felt a wave a panic thinking that my nipples were gone. Now, imagine my delight when I realized that, indeed, my nipples were still there...and my Nippies were, too! They had not only lasted through my unpacking, but they remained unmoved throughout the night. This, my dear readers, was nothing short of a miracle. And, what, then, makes it a sexy miracle? Check out the pictures of Nippies in action and you'll know why.

So, ladies and gentleman, call me a convert. I may not be praying on the regular, but I am certainly thanking the good Lord (or whomever that big man in the sky may be) for my Nippies. They are my sexy saviors, and I certainly look forward to the nights when I get to wear my Nippies out on the town...and then show them off back at home afterwards ;o)

PROS:

Quality Fabric
Chic Designs
Easy To Use
Painless Removal
Sexy Yet Sweet
Lasting Stick

CONS:

Non-reusable
Relatively Costly

Just Because I Try to Hide you Doesn't Mean I Don't Love You So..... (part 1)

2010-05-03T22:53:00.000-07:00

Twin Peaks.
Headlights.
Pleasure Peaks.
High Beams.
Chick Peas.
Pencil Erasers.
Titty Toppers.

No matter what nickname you give them, the actual subject is always the same: nipples.

I usually call mine "the on buttons." Don't ask. I won't tell. But, in all seriousness, nipples are often a much fraught topic of conversation. I remember thinking mine looked weird when I was younger only to later see "flying saucer nipples" and quickly realizing that there was a WIDE range of nipple types out there (pun intended). Dark. Light. Pink. Purple. Big. Small. There were just so many kinds of nipples out there.

But, considering the fact that we all have nipples, why is so little ever said about them? I mean, besides the occasional nipple joke (for example: what are the small bumps around a nipples for? It's Braille for "suck here."), very little serious thought is publicly given to nipples.

That is, until clothes became smaller, material became thinner, inhibitions became more loose, and companies and consumers alike began realizing what an untapped market nipples provided. Along came what some many have called "nipple band-aids." Flimsy band-aid-like sticky discs that woman use to contain their "headlights" when wearing tops that provide less coverage than often desired. Woman began adding these nifty little stickers to their trusty bag of beauty tricks, but fer were satisfied with the services that they offered.

Me? Let's just say that there are quite a few people who can attest to the over-excitedness of my own little "on buttons." I affectionately call my condition "nipple-itis," but, sadly, I can hardly wear anything less than a padded bra without drawing a wealth of unwanted attention to myself. It's not even like I require a cool breeze. My ladies are almost always at full attention...which has always made wearing sexy silky tops a bit of a challenge for me.

I once invested in a handful and a half of Victoria's Secret's nipple-itis solution, but was often left disappointed by their comfort and durability. They crinkled up almost as though my breasts were rejecting them, and, after just a few good shimmy shakes around the dance floor, they often became gooey and unstuck. Not helpful.

So, sadly, I sometimes resorted to wearing actual band-aids to help contain my lovely lady lights. This often worked better, depending on the quality of the band-aid itself (the waterproof sports strips work best...trust me!) and the activities of the night. Sure, it may last through my shimmy shakes. But, will it turn my dance partner on later? Yeah....no.... Let's just say that I have experienced the occasional "um....did you cut yourself or something because you sure have a lot of band-aids on" during moments of what should have been carnal pleasure. Take my word for it: nothing kills the mood more than "yeah, baby, ripe those band-aids off and take me." Not that I have EVER uttered such a thing....

Eventually, I upgraded to the self-sticking and reusable silicone "nipple petals." These worked well for a while. But really are good for far fewer uses than they advertise. I always cleaned them after use and returned them to their trusty plastic carrying case. Still, far earlier than anticipated, these restickable stickies began to come unstuck...and at the most uncomfortable moments possible. Long story short, I finally chucked my pair in the trash after one slipped off my nipple while at a crowded bar and got stuck to my stiletto. NO ONE wants to try and explain that one...myself included.

So, I gave up. I moved on. I hid my nipple-freeing tops in the back of my closet, pulled the padded bras and turtlenecks to the front, and tried to accept the fact that I would always have my nipple-itis, whether I (and the rest of the free world) liked it or not. I mean, it's not like I hated my nipples or anything. In fact, the opposite is true. The fact that I call them my "on buttons" should be enough of a hint that they have usually served me well in certain situations. But, still, I didn't always feel comfortable sharing that excitement with everyone around me.

However, one very fine day, the skies became clear, the Heavens opened wide, and my nipple prayers were answered, and the makers of Nipples (thanks, Bristol 6 and Kirsten!) provided me with a sample of what has not became my very own nipple saviors.

(more to follow)

Feeling Sexy Is Where It All Starts

2010-03-22T12:13:00.000-07:00

Being an occasional "girlie-girl," I can attest to the fact that, more often than not, if I feel sexy, that confidence and eases translates in to real sex appeal. Not feeling so hot? Throw on a cute skirt, some knock-out stilettos, a backless dress, or a new bra and, almost instantly, I am back to feeling fierce and foxy again. This is why I am constantly telling people how important it is to dress for the job that you want and expressing the importance of creating outfits that suit your moods.

So, needless to say, I am a HUGE supporter of the LBD (Little Black Dress), am addicted to beautiful evening gowns, and love finding sexy little cocktail dresses that are subtly sexy. I could look at evening gowns for hours and get lost in time watching "Say Yes To The Dress" on TV. But, I always hate to be a "victim of fashion." A sexy dress is only sexy so long as it carries with it a little mytique. Overt sexiness and an overdone and overly played out fashion trend can throw an outfit from sexy to so-so or, even worse, sad in mere seconds.

So, imagine my girlish delight when I discovered 1stdibs.com. It is like I hit the one-of-a-kind couture jackpot! Yes, I am in love with the amazing home furnishings, sensual artwork, and stunning jewels. However, I literally cannot stop STARING at the pages and pages of Haute Couture Evening Dresses. So, dear readers, I have chosen to stray (just for a bit) away from my stories of love, lust, and lingerie to introduce you to some of my most favorite finds from 1stdibs.com. It is my hope that you, too, will feel inspired to dress the part for the the sexy siren that you are. Enjoy!

Gucci White Jersey Gown

Torrent Haute Couture Gown

Harvey Berin 1960s Black Chiffon Mini Dress

Alexander McQueen Backless Silk Gown

Yves Saint Laurent Cocktail Dress

Sarmi Organza Cocktail Dress

Alexander McQueen Kimono Gown

Azzedine Alaia Plunging-Back Dress

Oscar de la Renta Cocktail Dress

Adrian Original 'Peace Dove' Silk Gown

1967 Donald Brooks Feathered Gown

Victor Costa 1960s Vintage Mini Dress

Kiss Me, Baby, One More Time: The Forehead Kiss

2010-03-03T23:05:00.000-08:00

Always the good student, I frequently do online research on a topic before I blog about it just to see what is out there and collect potential supporting images, too. Typically, I am not surprised with what I find. I Google "Mother/Son Relationships," and I get a wealth of articles about the psychology behind them. I look for "Love Letters," and I get book reviews, personal blogs, and examples of letters to lovers. I enter "porn" in a search engine, and I get, well, porn. And, last week, when I was researching "walking it off" for my blog, I found...nothing of use.

So, imagine my surprise when, while researching the glories of the forehead kisses for tonight's blog, I found multiple articles that listed it as "the kiss of death." WHAT? Come again...? KISS OF DEATH? Here is what I found:

www.romaticlyrics.com: "a forehead kiss is purely the 'motherly' kiss or a 'just friends' kiss"

Associated Content: "the forehead kiss is equivalent to the kiss of death, if you are hoping for an intimate relationship"

www.girlsaskguys.com: well, just watch the video...I can't even paraphrase this nonsense

I am shocked. For me, a forehead kiss from a lover (particular one from my Favorite Frenchman) makes me swoon. Few things in life make me feel more adored, cared for, respected, and valued. I mean, it's not like men just walk around kissing just anyone on the forehead. To me, forehead kisses are reserved for well-loved family members during moments of great care or emotion or for significant others. This argument about forehead kisses being friendly is, in my very humble opinion, a big steamy load of B.S. Seriously. Has anyone who was "just a friend" kissed you on the forehead?

In all honesty, I always long for forehead kisses. Even more honestly, I always longed for a significant other who accepted and appreciated me to the point that they showered me with forehead kisses...without me every having to ask. Up until this evening, I felt as though my years of yearning for a forehead-kissing boyfriend had been rightfully fulfilled. It as though my Favorite Frenchman was my forehead-loving soul mate. I never ask. He always kisses. It is perfection.

OR SO I THOUGHT.

These articles about forehead kisses being "the kiss of death" have me a all sorts of worried. Can they be true? The forehead kisses I receive hardly seem "friendly." But, maybe I am wrong....

Your thoughts? What do forehead kisses mean to you? Do they make you melt, too?

"Walking It Off"

2010-02-25T17:45:00.000-08:00

Somehow, people (even strangers) feel completely talking to me about their sex lives and personal relationships. Sometimes, it came be a bit weird ("Hi. Nice to meet you. You prefer WHAT sexual position?") but, overall, I consider it an honor that people trust me in that way. Plus, you know I love the juicy details.

So, it came as no real surprise when, over a leisurely Saturday brunch, two girls next to me decided to chime in to my conversation and divulge details regarding their previous night's escapades and, eventually, their sexual pasts. Our conversation started politely enough with general chatter about whether or not we were hungover from the night before (answer for all parties involved was "yes"). However, after getting to know each other a bit better (where we were all from, what we do for work, etc.), we somehow got on to the topic of the weird things that have happened to us during sexual encounters. Now, dear readers, I will save MY answer for a later blog post because I would hate to not give THAT story the full attention that it deserves. However, what one of the women sitting next to me shared is DEFINITELY worth passing on right now. So, here it goes....

Earlier on in a relationship from her college years, this woman encountered a man that, when their sexual encounters got too heated and the "passion" (so to speak) was about to explode, he had to "walk it off." Literally, he would get up from the bed (or other love-making location of choice) and wander around the room, walking off his "passion" before returning to pleasuring her some more. At first, she didn't know what he was doing, walking around the room, collecting himself. I mean, how awkward is that? Eventually, though, she began to take it as a compliment. In her mind, she had gotten his engine so revved up that he had to cool down or else he would explode...literally. I mean, how "hot shit" is she?! But, after a while, it got a bit weird, especially when one of his "walk it off" sessions took him all of the way in to the kitchen to get a sandwich. I mean, HELLO! Aren't you forgetting something?

Now, the story was amusing enough. But, what was most interesting of all was that none of us (male company included) had ever even heard of "walking it off." None of us had done it or had it done to us. None of us knew of anyone who had done it or had it done to them. None of us could even fathom someone "walking it off." So, my investigation and fascination began....

In the following weeks, I began to talk to my girlfriends about "walking it off." No one fessed up to knowing what it was or having had it done to them. But, all of the men that I talked to certainly understood. I mean, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do...right?

So, dear readers, what do you think? Ever have someone "walk it off" during sex? Ever "walk it off" yourself? How would/does it make you feel? I can't wait to hear about it, so spill....

Why Hickies Suck

2010-02-21T21:58:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, hickies were somehow cute. It was a way to "brand" your lover. It's kind of like you are placing the proverbial flag on a place on your significant other's body that no one else is meant to see. But, those times are called "high school," and, while these time may have slightly leaked over in to freshman year of college, they should be long gone by the time you are ready to give dating some amount of seriousness.

But, there truly was a time and place when a hickey seemed perfectly acceptable. I can vividly remember the first time my high school boyfriend asked to give me one. It was almost sweet. In theory, no one else is supposed to be near that spot behind my ear on my neck. So, he wanted to mark it as his own. When I finally had the honor of seeing his bare abs, I felt compelled to return the favor...so I did. Oddly enough, it felt appropriate, and I look back on those early-day hickies with fondness.

But, I can also distinctly remember the day when a hickey went too far. It was early sophomore year in college. I had been "casually dating" this one guy at a nearby school for a week or so, and had spent a Sunday night at his dorm "hanging out." He asked if hickies turned me on, and I promptly said no. Did they turn him on? YOU BET. He literally spent the rest of the night trying to weasel his way on to my neck, lips at the ready, feverishly waiting to suck away at my naked neck. Needless to say, I was grossed out, and come morning, I was MORE than eager to get back to my room. This guy had gone from quirky to creepy faster than you could even say "hickey," and I was done.

Well, in the process of walking back to my dorm, I passed my Political Science professor, who stared at me oddly before asking if she would see me in class later in the day. "Of course," I tried to chirp back, getting a very real sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something was up. Food in my teeth? Fly open? Bad breathe? Bed head? My mind raced through the million ways that I could have caused such an odd look from a trusted professor. Well, once I returned to my room and saw the HORRIFIED look on my roommate's face, I quickly understood why. Not only did I have a hickey, but it literally looked like someone had taken a baseball bat to my neck. Ear lobe to chin, I was COVERED and GREENISH PURPLE "love bites." I seriously had no idea what to say. Neither did she. Until she laughed. Truly, there was nothing left to do. But, really, I felt like crying. So, I called my neighboring school boy-toy to see what the deal was. Had I unknowingly fallen in my sleep? There simply HAD to be a reasonable explanation. After all, I had made myself perfectly clear. But, HE laughed...because he had, in his pea-sized mind, won. He had marked his territory. But, once he got my verbal lashing, he understood very clearly that he had marked MY territory for the LAST TIME. Yeah, we never saw each other again. But, I DID end of seeing lots of my trusted turtlenecks and scarves in the following week. I thank my lucky stars that it all happened in the Fall....

Since then, I have proudly been hickey free. But, I look back on that particular "walk of shame" with an overwhelming amount of disgust. For the very first time, I felt objectified. Like someone had wanted to own me. Like my desires didn't matter. Like I didn't matter.

But, perhaps it's just me. How Do YOU feel about hickies? Giver or receiver? Lover or hater? Is it ever appropriate to mark your lover with a hickey...past the age of eighteen? Am I overreacting? Please, do share. But, first, let me remind you that, in reality, a "love bite" is really broken blood vessels beneath the skin's surface. How can THAT be sexy?

Pretty Little Things: Aubade 100th Lesson in Seduction

2010-02-17T18:05:00.001-08:00

My recent trip to Paris was filled with countless amazing discoveries and unforgettable experiences: lingerie and otherwise. However, one experience has certainly earned the right to be called transformative. Yes, seeing The Eiffel Tower took my breathe away. The Rodin Museum was unforgettable. The food was fantastic. The company was even better. But, it takes something truly life-altering to be called transformative.

Well, any one who has seen my lovely cleavage since my return can attest to the fact that something is a bit, well...different. Why is that? Because my girls are now carefully cupped and proudly put on their pedestal, all wrapped up in Aubade. Seriously, it's like I got a new pair all together.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Aubade (it's okay if you are because I was, too), here is what their website says:

Lingerie created by Aubade is the fruit of a delicate alchemy between our demand for quality, a long corset-making experience, constant research into new materials, shapes, colours, an in-depth analysis of fashion trends and our long-standing passion for women and their power of seduction.There is today a true seduction “à la Aubade”, revolving around the Brand’s very own four strong values: Sensuality, Complicity, Creativity, and Glamour.Wearing Aubade is equivalent to wearing top-of-the-range, elegant and refined lingerie, enhancing the body for your own pleasure and that of your loved one.The Aubade woman is at ease with her body, asserts her sensuality, and plays on her natural femininity. She is romantic, provocative, delicate, naughty, gentle, discreet, audacious, and elegant as well as knowing… She is the mistress of her seductive power, wanting to play with and share it with her man, a willing victim to this game full of humour and seduction.Welcome to the Aubade world, that of the French Art of loving, where men and women rival each other in seduction, humour and complicity.

Known worldwide for their iconic black-and-white "lessons" advertising campaigns, which was first launched in the 1990's, I was so excited to purchase the gorgeous bra that was part of their much-anticipated 100th "Lesson in Seduction." The photo is on the top left, but it hardly gives this stunning piece of lingerie justice. Detailed with lace, multiple straps, satin bows, and Swarovski crystals, I literally said, "I think I would cry if I didn't buy this" after I tried it on. Seriously, my world would have crumbled if I didn't buy this bra for myself. Good thing I had saved, because it certainly wasn't cheap...but it was absolutely worth it! It even comes with an adorable satin embroidered satchel to protect your piece of lingerie. Sigh. It is perfection.

Since buying it, I am all too eager to flash my friends so that they can glimpse this beauty, too. I am constantly getting compliments on my cleavage, and I constantly catch men and women alike checking out the goodies when properly displayed with my Aubade bra. Plus, I feel damn sexy in it, too, which I am sure doesn't hurt.

So, should a wonderful piece of Aubade lingerie ever cross your path, here or abroad, do you and your girls a favor and BUY IT. Your figure will be transformed and you'll be hooked. I guarantee it.

Also, be sure to check out their English website:

http://aubade.com/Accueil&langue=en

Lastly, here are some more photos from their Lessons advertising campaign. I am sure you now understand why their billboards are known for stopping traffic ;o)

Dearest Aubade:

You have forever changed my life. My endless thanks and gratitude for fine fabrics, delicious detailing, fabulous fits, and killer cleavage. I think I love you.

Forever Yours,

La Petite Provocateur

Lead Me and I Just May Follow

2010-02-16T17:06:00.001-08:00

For as long as I can remember, the idea of slow dancing with a man has made me anxious and uncomfortable. For the longest time, I assumed it was the result of my negative association with middle school and high school dances. Long story short, I was never really asked to dance during the slow songs (or the fast songs, for that matter). So, the moment a slow song came on (cue "Stairway to Heaven"), I would start to sweat as my eyes nervously darted around the room and my heart pleaded to someone to ask me for a dance. It never really happened, and I was left with a pit in my stomach every time a slow song came on.

However, as I got older, I realized that my anxiety over slow dancing not only stemmed from my lack of swaying partners in my younger years, but it also was the result of my near inability to be led. Yes, any one who knows me will tell you that it is true: I am independent and a tad stubborn. I like to lead in almost every sense of the word. Now, I am not a control freak. But, I can more than take care of myself and, every time the chance to slow dance now arises, my lack of rhythm coupled with me inability to be led makes me look exceptionally foolish.

Take, for example, my high school relationship with N (names are withheld, of course!). He was shorter than me and, when we danced, it almost felt like dancing with a child. He was sweet and had rhythm, but I felt awkward letting him lead, so I didn't, and dancing together became even more uncomfortable than it already was. I felt like the Jolly Green Giantess, swaying to the music with a tree branch in my arms. Not sexy.

Same was the case with my long-term relationship with M. We never really had the chance to slow dance together for the first year or so that we were together. However, judging from the ways in which we interacted, I always suspected that we wouldn't dance well together, so I avided the inevitable. The few times in which I suggested that we dance together at home were always met with disdain (why would I EVER want to do something like THAT?), so I simply waited for the proper moment to arise on its own.

Well, the moment finally came...a mere three plus years in to dating. We were at a wedding together, and our interactions were already strained. So, when a slow song came on, I was eager to test these waters and see how we worked together in that arena. He fought off my dancing advances for as long as he could ("I need another drink," "I don't like this song," "I need another drink," I am talking with John," "Don't you want another drink?") until, finally, my persistence paid off. But, low and behold, I couldn't be led by him. It is almost like my body just wouldn't let me. Every time I tried to relax in his arms and let him lead, I felt itchy. I kid you not. And, sadly, he sensed it, too, and he was fighting to contain his anger. "Relax. Follow my lead," he was whispering heatedly in my ear. "Stop doing that!" His whispers became roars. Yeah, this wasn't going well. Before the song was even over, our time dancing together was. And, before the year was out, our relationship was over, too.

I began to feel as though I simply wasn't meant to be led, and I was overwhelmed by the thought of never being able to slow dance with a man I love without frustration on either of our ends. However, it also occurred to me that, perhaps I will know a man is right for me when I am actually able to let myself be led. So began the formulation of "the slow dancing test." I vowed then and there to make every effort to slow dance with a man before investing too much time and hearrt in to the relationship. Can't lead me? Time to move on. Somehow, that seemed to make sense.

Then came P. Not too long in to dating, we went to a wedding together and I seized the moment by asking him to dance. I was nervous. I already liked him so much, and the thought of another dancing failure was devastating to me. This was one man I didn't know if I could give up on, lead or no lead. Well, somehow, the stars had aligned, and, after just a few moments of swaying together, I felt my body relax. Was it really true? Was I being led? So it was.... It was a miracle, in my eyes. Finally, and man who was enough of a man to actually lead even me.

Now, P and I slow dance any chance that we get. We slow dance while cleaning the dishes. We slow dance at weddings. We slow dance during commercial breaks. And we enjoy it. And, while my rhythm may still be less than perfect, our dancing together is easily one of my favorite things around. There is something special about finally letting myself be lead.

QUESTIONS
1. Do you think a man should always lead when dancing?
2. How valid is "the slow dance test?"
3. As a woman, would you stay with a man if you had a hard time being led by him? As a man, how does it feel when you aren't able to lead a woman?

Sexy Read: "Dear Old Love

2010-02-07T23:13:00.000-08:00

We've all been there. A relationship comes to an end. You are the bigger person and you are also a better person as a result. You've truly moved on. But, if you had the chance to tell your ex one last thing.... Yeah, you probably wouldn't pass up the opportunity, especially if your last words were anonymous.

Most of us have also experienced the urge to speak directly to an unrequited love. A high school crush? Someone you met once at a party and have never seen since. A best friend that you wish were something more. Don't you wish you had a chance to also send them a little message from the heart, too?

Anonymity has always brought out some of the most interesting sides of men and women. When we don't worry about public acknowledgment or embarrassment, we frequently feel free to express all that we hold inside: the sad, the perverse, the bitter, the joyous, the kinky, the kooky. Our secrets secrets come spilling forth. We all have the courage to be open and honest.

These are the situations that the amazing Blog and subsequent book, "Dear Old Love, are based. As the author himself states in the book's introduction, "Here, we are reaching out to the ones that got away, and the ones we held on to for years. This is a collection of notes from the world, to the world. And, they all being, 'Dear Old Love....'"

True tales of the heart condensed to just a few short lines, these messages to old flames or would-be flames are far more interesting than the sloppy, blabbering, and overdrawn love letters that we are more familiar with. Taking up five and a half pages of lined loose leaf paper, this kind of love letter is wandering, exploratory, and, often, more embarrassing and uncertain than they should be. Me? I find these little "love sonnets" far more interesting. Here is a sampling of my favorites:

Still a Solid Education
Hey, Reach!
I ended up marrying my safety school.

It's Not You
Yes, we had good sex.
I have good sex with everyone.
That's me.

Measurement
Even though we broke up five years ago,
I still rate the way I feel about someone on a scale
that goes from Zero to You.

Balance
I do not miss you drunken rages.
I do not miss paying for everything.
I absolutely do not miss you insane family, and do not miss uncovering your many lies.
However, I think of you often while masturbating.

Location, Location, Relation
I could live
In the same small town
my whole life
If you were there, too.

Been Bad
You turned and said, "Spank me. I give you permission.
But I couldn't bring myself to hurt you.
I sure would like to take you up on it now, though.

How's Spot?
When I see you, what I really want to ask about is your vagina.
It'd be like asking about a beloved dog.
"How's the vagina?
What's it up to?
Any adorable mischief lately?
Give it a pat for me!

Opposite Days
For the record:
I Hate You = I Love You.
I said it a lot.
I still do.
Hate you.

Wood Paneling
I prefer bars built to resemble old basement rec rooms,
Because they remind me of you
And being young
And going wild.

The Joshua
I finally opened up that restaurant,
And I named a sandwich after you,
Like you always wanted.
Greasy hair. Bug eyes.
Bad social skills
And a small penis.
On rye.

Hi, Honey
Coming home to you never got old.
Every day was like a miracle

Screw That
I realize I can't fix you.
I'll leave that to your husband.
He's the biggest tool I know.

Doppio
Since you left,
I still make two cups of coffee in the morning.
I drink both of them.

Tonight's Special
I never tired of looking at you
Over the tops of menus.

Have a "Dear Old Love" message that you want to send out to the world? The author's website still exists and people are still submitting daily: http://dearoldlove.tumblr.com/. Mine? Here we go:

So Fresh. So Clean.
I now have a new appreciation
For my morning showers.
They are so much more delightful
Now that you aren't using the bathroom
While I am trying to clean myself.

Cheerleader
When my then-boyfriend told me
That you asked about me
During lacrosse practice,
My heart skipped a beat.
I could never tell him
That I really came to his games
To watch you run in shorts.

Fluttering Heart
I forgive you for
Breaking my heart
Simply because you planned great dates.
Being kissed by butterflies was more than worth it.

Not feeling as bold?
Feel free to post your "Dear Old Love"letters here.
You know you want to ;o)

Is He a Good Boyfriend? See If He is a Good Son

2010-02-04T22:01:00.000-08:00

Truth be told, I have had more than my fair share of not-so-perfect boyfriends. This is not to say that I have always been a perfect girlfriend. However, I would argue (and win!) that I am about as close as one could get without being a certifiably Stepford. So, needless to say, it has often bothered me why it is that I have historically attracted some pretty awkward boyfriends. I mean, if only men came with warning tags. Or instruction manuals. Or, at the very least, it would be appreciated if all of the bad boyfriends in the world could send out an electric shock when engaged in a kiss so us unsuspecting victims-to-be could be trained to run in the other direction. I mean, give us something. Please.

But, alas, there aren't warning tags. I have yet to find the instruction manual. And, as a big fan of kissing the wrong men, I can assure you that they don't send out any shocks scary enough to send me running in the other direction. In fact, the opposite is often true. It's like all of the bad boys in the world bathed in my favorite pheromones. I kiss. I fall hard. I can't help myself. And, eventually, it ends and I wonder how I got myself in to the mess that it all become in the first place.

So, you can imagine my surprise and delight when, recently, I found myself face-to-face with the Holy Grail of "Good Boyfriend"signs. Now, I didn't think it existed because, after years of trying to find that telltale sign myself, I was certain that we were all doomed to months of wonder before discovering that our Prince Charming was a Court Jester. But, let me tell you, when you see it, there is no denying it. And, so, to you, I pass my knowledge.

How can you tell how a man will treat YOU in a relationship? Easy. See how he treat his mother. Yes, it's that simple. Now, as is always the case, I am sure that there are a few exceptions to the rule. But, really, why bother wasting the time and heart only to find out that your evil mother-hating boyfriend IS the rule. Let's just nip this one in the bud from the very start.

Perhaps, it is easiest to illustrate this rule so that you can see the difference. Please note, however, that, as always, all names have been changed so as to spare my past lovers the public embarrassment that would be inevitable should they know their cover was blown. I may not date them any more, but that doesn't give me the right to ruin their game, ladies!

So, back to my illustration....

In high school, I dated Nate. He was your classic All-American boy with charming good looks, scholarly tendencies, athletic abilities, and a six-pack that could make an Abercrombie and Fitch model stop and stare with envy. He wasn't boisterous, sloppy, smelly, or dysfunctional. And, from the outside, he seemed to have the perfect family life. However, after months of dating, it occurred to me that, oddly enough, he was embarrassed of his mom. She was forbidden from fully engaging with me, and he hated being seen out in public with her. Nothing she said was ever taken seriously by my boyfriend, and, somehow, she always managed to be wearing the exact wrong outfit for any given occasion. Her car was ugly, her hair was bad, and her job was sub par. In short, I felt awful for her, because she tried so hard to do everything right, but she was fighting a losing battle. In her son's book, she just wasn't good enough...and she never would be.

Inevitably, similar insecurities soon spilled over in to our relationship. He hated when I wore heels, so I didn't. He still wasn't happy. I was always either too busy, or being lazy. He hated that he couldn't tell me what to do. And, he constantly tried to surprise me by showing up unannounced at friendly functions, but his visits were more to check in on me than anything else. Surely, I was doing something wrong, and he was going to catch me doing it. It was a disaster. But, when it ended, I couldn't figure out how I didn't recognize these warning signs sooner. And, I vowed to learn and do better next time.

But, I didn't....

Quite a few years later, in college, I dated Mark. At first, he seemed warm, sweet, attentive, and honest. He appeared socially well-adjusted and caring and, by his accounts, he came from a truly stand-up family. And, for the most part, this was all true. However, we dated from some time (in ignorant bliss, mind you) before I ever had the opportunity to meet his mother. She, too, was sweet and caring. Kind to a fault, and always attentive to the needs of those around her. Everything seemed perfect...until I saw my then-boyfriend truly interact with his mother. Talk about red flags! He was demanding and frequently took advantage of her kindness. He rarely said "thank you," was emotionally inattentive to her needs, and oblivious to her obvious needs to connect.

Such was the case with our relationship, too. Consistent requests to connect were never understood, and I began to realize that my seemingly perfect boyfriend was perfectly emotionally unavailable. Even worse, he began to take advantage of me, too. I despised it. And, as is the case, our relationship quickly unravelled. So it goes....

Still, I was left with questions. How I didn't notice these red flags sooner? I mean, he rarely even called his mother. Shouldn't I have known? Why hadn't I learned. How is a girl supposed to know better from the get go?

Well, my friends, my questions were recently answered, and the Holy Grail of Good Boyfriend Flags was revealed. My current boyfriend had always spoken highly of his mother, was complimenting of her physical attributes, held her opinion in high regards, and indicated that much of who he was as a man was a direct result of her. I was suspicious. Had I been here before? Is this perfect man as perfect as he seems?

Well, when I first saw him with his mother, it all became clear. He adored her, and she him. There was mutual respect. There was true honesty. And there was real love. It was all so obvious. A man who treats his mother this well is a KEEPER. And, ladies, that's exactly what I have done. Only a dummy would let THIS one get away!

Sadly, personal attraction and chemistry isn't always enough to keep a true meaningful and mutually satisfying relationship going. So, you want to know if your partner is as good as they seem? Watch him or her interact with their parents. In particular, watch how they engage with their mother. It couldn't possibly be more clear....

Pretty Little Things: My Boudoir (San Francisco)

2010-02-01T17:41:00.000-08:00

Ever since returning from my holiday in Paris, I have been going through severe lingerie withdrawal. Why? Because, like any truly good addict, I crave the GOOD stuff.

That is not to say that there isn’t some good lingerie to be found in the States. However, it is, more often than not, like finding a needle in a haystack. Victoria’s Secret clearly lacks the sophistication and high quality of most European brands, and the fit isn’t nearly as flattering. Sure, most department stores carry undergarments, too, but their typically dated and always limited styles hardly allows me to call their items real lingerie. Panties and bras are all you will find.

That is why, whenever I stumble upon a REAL lingerie shop, I will absolutely share it with you. Because, let’s be honest. You deserve it.

Enter: My Boudoir at 2285 Union Street in San Francisco. With it’s laundry list of credentials (Best of the Bay 2008, Best of San Francisco, and Best of the Bay Area , just to name a few), it is almost shocking to me that I hadn’t discovered this little gem before now. Either way, though, I am just thrilled that I can now call it a favorite shopping destination.

Small in square footage and limited in its depth of stock, this shop may very well be easy to miss if it were not for the adorable cupcake shop next door and the lush views inside of the shop from the street. However, the shop is undeniably mighty in terms of what beautiful pieces of lingerie it holds within in doors. Wendy Glez. Chantelle. Lise Charmele. Myla London. Aubade. Seriously, if it’s sweet, sexy, or seductive and is also high-quality, you’ll find it at My Boudoir.

Let me be clear about one thing, though. While you do not need to be a size zero to find something that fits here, this is also not a shop for extra large sizes or special “gotta hold these puppies DOWN” kind of bras. Still, I am, by no means, runway ready, and my size was in ample styles. Plus, the staff is accommodating and will certainly either point you in the right direction or, if at all possible, special order items that are not seasonal, should that work best for you.

Plus, one of the salesgirls told me that they have occasional events, which is divine in itself. Lingerie parties to welcome all in to the world of elite lingerie? I’m in.

Other pluses:
· Stock is constantly changing, and they do actually have sales, so you are bound to eventually find something you simply cannot live without
· Partners are allowed in to the dressing rooms (unlike most lingerie stores, My Boudoir understands that, sometimes, lingerie enjoyment is to be shared and opinions from significant others is appreciated)
· The staff knows their stuff (history of designers, direction of the lingerie industry, key market decision makers, you name it)
· Everyone there is NICE! Seriously!

· They proudly stock maternity bras that are sexy AND functional. Not that I will be needing one in the foreseeable future, but this is a detail that even I could appreciate

So, if you can get over the initial sticker shock of paying more than $45 for a bra (VS and Gap Body devotees beware!), this is absolutely the place to be. Love your body enough to wrap it in lace? Want the girls to truly stand at attention and cause passing crowds to salute with appreciation? Seriously. What are you waiting for? You won’t regret it.

http://www.myboudoir.net/

Sexy Poet: Aimee Herman

2010-01-25T20:43:00.000-08:00

Always a fan of the well-written word, I am constantly on the search for writers who get my juices flowing and my imagination running free. Sometimes, I find a writer or two who occasionally deliver. Some writers never live up to their hype. And, still, other writers don't get nearly the hype that they deserve. The latter more than deliver, time and time again. They constantly raise the literary bar in new and exciting ways, and I am always eager to see more of their works of linguistic genius.

Enter: Aimee Herman
http://aimeeherman.wordpress.com/

Always provocative, Aimee Herman is undeniably sexy in her ability to translate raw emotions in to words that simply stick. After reading her works, it's like her emotions are caught in my teeth: I can taste her words for days and, even once I swallow, they stick to my ribs and settle in my chest.

Google her. Read some poems. Be inspired. Here are my personal favorites:

Faking It
I'll Tell You Where To Put It
This Is Not About a Motorcycle
Confessions of a Twelve Year Old Pillow Pusher
How to Eat Pussy When All Your Utensils Are Dirty

Can't find her written word? But the CD(s) or download the audio. She is even more intoxicating when she speaks.... Plus, that tossles red hair? SHE'S ON FIRE!

"I could color all day every day. If I had my way, I would use every crayon in my box. And, when Big colors, he rarely stays within the lines."

2010-01-20T22:37:00.000-08:00

Girl talk. It is the essence of female relationships, the glue that binds women together, and the reason conversation often quiets (or erupts in to laughter) when men approach or attempt to join a group of women. Though many may try to deny it, women truly thrive on good ol' fashion girl talk. Need proof? Look at the popularity of Entertainment Magazines such as People, In Style, and Entertainment Weekly. I have gotten in the habit of calling these magazines "girl porn" because, like men and their personal porn stash, we aren't always proud of this seemingly innocent interest and often go to great lengths to hide or deny that we have the habit. But, when we see that glossy magazine in our mailbox, we get chills down our spines. Sad but true.

It is not true that all girl talk revolves around nasty gossip, though. To the contrary, my girlfriends and I avoid gossip simply because there are far more interesting things to laugh about in our own lives to even bother with the lives of others.

My college girlfriends and I were girl talk queens. We would pile in to one of our dorm rooms (usually mine), lounge around for hours, and laugh about men, dating, sex, kissing...and many other deeper "issues" that I would rather not admit to. Yes, we discussed just about anything, and usually in great detail. Because, whether or not we wanted to talk about certain things, real girlfriends have an interesting way of bringing the truth out of you anyways.

And, yes, girl talk is often coded. In middle school, my friends Nicole, Lisa, Amy and I referred to guys that we liked as "apple juice," a reference to the brand "Very Fine" apple juice. In college, my girlfriends and I had nicknames for each other so that, while in public, we could discuss intimate details without incriminating ourselves. Christina was HCC, Elina was DTE, and I was CLC. Yes, the letters stand for something. No, I won't share. Those who need to know do know.... ;o)

Sometimes, girl talk can even occur without words. A simple knowing glance can bring about laughter or sympathy. While at a club, all I had to do was look to my girlfriends while talking with a guy and could tell from their body language (subtle or not) what their opinion was, though I didn't always listen to their silent advice. We even had hand signals for when we needed a girlfriend to swoop in and save us from a guy we weren't interested in...and little "signs" to let each other know when to not to disturb us in our rooms (if you know what I mean).

On the surface, girl talk might seem frivolous or immature. Guys may never understand, and that is just fine. In fact, it just might be better that way. However, girl talk is truly the way that women bond and build relationships. It is all of those moments of honesty that let you truly get to know one another. Plus, it's just plain fun...

Of course, there's lots of fish in the sea, but you're the only one I'd love to catch and mount back at my place.

2010-01-20T22:25:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make. I am not proud of it, but I ADORE cheesy pick up lines. With the right delivery from the right guy, a pick up line is social entertainment at its best. However, if you are serious about wanting my attention (and don't want me to laugh at your expense while at work on Monday morning), a pickup line is not exactly the safest way to go. Too much can go wrong too quickly, and few men have the social graces or luck to recover from that kind of false start.

But, beyond pick up lines, flirting is one of the safest forms of fun a single lady can have these days without feeling a little bit dirty and just a tad ashamed the next morning. Call it an art form, a favorite past time, a sport of sorts...and you would be right on all counts. Flirting, like so many other activities in life, takes practice, some skill, impeccable timing, and, above all else, a large dose of confidence.

And, like most other girls, I love to flirt. Maybe it is just a good ego boost (come on, who doesn't like some attention from the opposite sex?) or maybe it is just plain fun (because, well, it is). Either way, I like to flirt and, on occasion, even flex my flirting muscles simply to get my way. Waiting at the bar? Long wait for a table? Missed a deadline on a paper for class? Pulled over for a speeding ticket? FLIRT! And, yes, there is a fine line between innocent flirting and soliciting yourself. Please, don't cross that line and do not think that I would ever cross that line myself. Yuck!

But, every now and then, I find myself flirting with a stranger of the male persuasion...and have NO IDEA why I am doing it. Though I am not the kind of girl that has a "type," I can tell you that i have innocently flirted with many men that I didn't even find attractive nor was not trying to get something out of them...and sheer boredom wasn't even an excuse! I would be chatting away and, mid-conversation, discover that, indeed, I am (GASP!) flirting....

This happened just the other night. While leaving Long's after grabbing a few quick items, the man in the line behind me commented as I passed "nice tattoo" and pointed to my foot. This struck up some light conversation and it wasn't until he proclaimed, "So that tattoo wasn't to commemorate an ex-boyfriend? That just means you haven't been with the right man...." that it dawned on me that not only was he trying to pick me up, but I was actually flirting back. To say that this was a startling discovery would be an understatement.

This mystery perplexed me from some time until I stumbled upon the following article:
http://www.acmelove.com/flirting/women-are-natural-flirts.php
Basically, a group of researchers found that women often use flirting as a means to take control when meeting strangers. In a sense, they use flirting as a means to "buy time" while they fully assess the other person. The only thing that turned women off? When the man talked too much. You try and figure that one out! But, it is noted that this process of assessment does take a few minutes for a woman to complete.

This explained a lot. For all of those men who have scored a girl's phone number only to have her not answer or return your calls, your answer was not that women are cold-hearted, self-absorbed brats who will drag your heart through the mud. It is merely that you may have gotten her digits before she realized herself that she was not interested. Sad and unfair? Perhaps it is...but it is true all the same.

And, while we are on the topic, I want to set the record straight regarding my own flirtatious habits. Yes, I love to flirt. Yes, I am relatively good at it, given the right mood and set of circumstances. Yes, I have used flirting to get my way. But, let it be known that my intentions are never bad when I flirt and, to be honest, the number of times that I flirt without meaning too are pretty astounding. Plus, if I discover that I am flirting with a someone at a time when I also just so happen to have a significant other, I always promptly stop. No need for broken hearts or bruised egos on either side of the situation ;o)

The Art of a Well-Crafted Love Letter

2010-01-13T23:13:00.000-08:00

While surveying the book section on Overstock.com, curiosity got the better of me, as it often does. I was looking for some light reading to help fill my evenings, and came across the following title: Other People's Love Letters: 150 Letters You Were Never Meant to See. Never meant to see? Okay, you now have my attention. Coupled with the phrase "love letters," I could tell that this would be a book that I would absolutely devour. It was like my inner child was just told to not unwrap the birthday present...I just HAD to see what was inside.

I waited anxiously for almost ten days, cursing the cost-effectiveness of media mail for persuading me to delay this delivery in the name of saving a few extra dollars. But, when the book finally arrived, it became clear that the wait was well worth it. The best part? Each love letter is the scanned original, heightening the voyeuristic experience.

The first page I flipped to simply read "i bought whipped cream." Now THAT is a love letter worth receiving. The second one was an email dated July 14, 2005: "I'm having terribly naughty thoughts again today, and I was wondering if you might want to hear about them. Am trying to focus on work, but you know how that goes - I keep having these delicious new ideas. Oh well, have a pleasant afternoon." What kind of book did I purchase? Still, I was intrigued. Love letters were steamier than I remember.... ;o)

The third love letter I flipped to, though, sealed the deal.
The man of your dreams,
perhaps not.
Maybe just one of the
many that have fallen.
But, for now, I am
ridiculously happy
to be the one who
curls himself around you.
Okay, forget steamy. THAT is the kind of love letter every woman wants to receive.

The rest of the book is filled with all kinds of love letters: break-up letters, postcards from loves long lost, emails that were never sent, drunken confessions scribbled on bar napkins, steamy text messages, Valentine's cards, and even a picture that a young girl drew for her elementary school crush. Each note had its own story to tell, and it struck me how vulnerable such confessions can make us, and how love can be a gamble. But, it also reinforced just how beautiful it all can be....

And, I got to thinking about all of the love letters I have received in my very brief 23 years of life (author's note: some names have been changed to save the innocent...or myself...from embarrassment). There was Tim's middle school letter etched on to yellow-lined math paper and passed via Lisa in between classes: "I think you are cool. Want to be my girlfriend? Circle YES or NO." I said no, but I still have that letter in my shoebox marked "Things That Make Me Smile." No Lie. I also still have postcards from the two Matts that occupied the summers during middle school and in to high school. Each summer, they would both send me simple but sweet postcards. Some mentioned little inside jokes, others described the beach and how that wished that I could see it. But, both turned out the same way. We went back to school come fall, and such innocent feelings were forgotten. Still, each summer, the postcards came. And, still, I have kept them in my shoebox, smiling fondly whenever I stumble upon them.

I had naughty holiday cards from Nate, and silly drawings from Andrew. There was that one guy who wrote me poetry in English class, and he made me blush whenever he had to read them aloud, staring at me knowingly from across the classroom. Mark used to draw me sexual notes on our chalkboard while I was at work, but also gave me the most gentle and sincere cards each holiday. I still remember Charles's note that he slipped in to my desk after helping me move in to the freshman year dorm. Jack used to slip me notes with flowers throughout college, and Jeff was notorious for drunken confessions via AIM late at night.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized just how many love letters I have received over the years. But, I also realized how they have grown less frequent as the years have passed, and, the older I get, the harder it is to let go and share the most vulnerable part of yourself, your heart, with someone else.

Eventually, I got to thinking about all of the love notes that I have written over the years, the ones that I have sent and the ones that I have kept for myself. I even started to think about all of the love letters that I should have written but never had the nerve to. I have books and books of poems that I have scribbled late at night, during class, or when I should have been studying...but never shared, all of them permanent reminders of innocent moments and heartfelt emotions. Most of them, though, will never been seen by anyone other than me.

But, perhaps, those "love letters" are better kept that way. Perhaps it is for the best that I have kept them to myself, knowing that at least I will always appreciate them and that they are safe with me. I do know with a great amount of certainty, though, that, on the rare occassions when I have shared my "love letters" with he who inspired them, I have not regretted it, regardless of the outcome. I also know that I have always meant what I write, regardless of how silly I might feel afterwards.

For now, though, I will continue to write these "love letters" late at night and tuck them away safely in my journal and in the deepest corners of my heart. And, I will continue to cherish the love letters that I am fortunate enough to receive. Maye I could start my OWN book.

Now for YOUR thoughts:
1. What has been your most memorable love letter, written or received?
2. What qualifies as a love letter?
3. In the age of technology, is the sincerity of a love letter getting lost in the form of emails, texts, and online chats?
4. Have your ever regretted a love letter?

Weird Science: First True "Robot Girlfriend" Unveiled at AEE

2010-01-12T20:55:00.000-08:00

In what is sure to be one of the most interesting development at this past week's Adult Entertainment Expo (AEE) in Las Vegas, a New Jersey company named TrueCompanion has developed ROXXXY. Marketed as "the world's first sex robot," ROXXXY is a life-sized rubber doll that can do just about everything...except actually move. Check out http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/01/10/roxxxy-sex-robot-photo-wo_n_417976.html for more details, or just youtube "ROXXXY Sex Robot." The cyber world is abuzz over this lovely little gem, and there certainly isn't a shortage of footage from the AEE on this one.

What first struck me when looking at this "product" is how eery the doll itself looks. It literally just sits there: arms wide, legs gaping, and mouth open and waiting. Sure, it may be anatomically correct and feature lifelike skin, but the doll itself just gave me the creeps.

And, speaking of creeps, who is even buying this stuff? Wait, don't answer that. One look at the youtube video from the AEE and you know who is buying ROXXXY. Socially-awkward, mildly unattractive, and decidely geeky middle-aged men are clearly the target market, which is why that is exactly who is selling it. I mean, the product demonstrator himself is the target market. Trusty oversized glasses? Check. Puffy pleated pants? Check. Giant bald spot and graying hair? Check. Check. Awkward presence and nerdy demeanor? Wow. This man has it DOWN. But, seeing that the doll runs from $7,000 to $9,000 each, the buyer at least has to have a little extra scratch in his back pocket. So, I guess that's one point for the creepy doll-lover.

Oddly enough, the developing company is claiming that the biggest advantage of this doll is not what it can do sexually (GASP!), but that it can create companionship. That's right. Because after you stuff "it" in to a 5 ft. 7 inch 120 pound piece of plastic heaven, you certainly want it to compliment you on a job well done or tell you that it likes holding your hand.

The developers even brag that, after you pick the physical attributes you most desire in your love doll (skin tone, tan lines, hair color, you name it), you are also able to load in the personality of your choosing. In the video demo I found online, Mature Martha tells you (in a ridiculous monotone robot voice) that she has a lifetime of experience, likes Porsches and soccer, and likes your "wiener." Mmmm....hot. "Frigid Farrah" complains about her day and resists you until your irresistible sexual charm and skills win her over. There is even a personality type called "Young," which said, "What do you like? HaHa. Besides children. I am barely 18." I kid you not. The video can be found on YouTube or in an article in SmartPlanet.com.

Being largely open-minded myself, it is rarely in my nature to look down upon people's personal sexual decisions. As long as everyone involved consents (and is of consenting age), no one is hurt, and no major law is broken, what's the harm, right? In this case, however, it all couldn't be more wrong. In fact, I am almost tempted to begin lobbying for a law that specifically prohibits lifelike doll lovemaking just so I can qualify this. Or, maybe I will argue that the doll isn't really consenting, so the act is wrong in and of itself. Hell, I will take almost any excuse I can get. Why? Because it worries me that this is what we've come to. ROXXXY supporters can't argue that this is a sexual exploration tool because no sex ed class or "sexually inexperienced" little twit can afford this beauty. Argue that the doll is about companionship all you want, I am just not buying it. Not only does the mere physicality of the doll suggest otherwise, but who are we even helping by allowing actual adults to experience the joys of companionship via plastic play parts and an artificial voice?

I may be a supporter of safe sex toys (in moderation), but this is one that I simply cannot get on board with. Sorry, ROXXXY. I am just not buying it...in every sense of the phrase.

Pretty Little Things: Princesse Tam.Tam

2009-12-23T15:06:00.000-08:00

Every little girl has a dream. For some, that dream is a big white wedding dress and and equally big wedding ring. Other little girls dream about their own Prince Charming, who will someday save them from the dooms of their hometown lives. Still, some have more intimate dreams set for themselves, dreams that, being a small town girl, they never believed might coming true.

For me, I almost felt as though I had a better chance at snagging my own Prince Charming than I did at seeing one of my own childhood dreams come true. As a young girl, I somehow got it in to my head that I wanted to see Paris. For some, that may seem easy. But, as a child in a decidedly non-traveling family, seeing The City of Lights in person seemed like an unachievable feat.

But, here I am, blogging from Paris...Prince Charming and all. I guess some just have all the luck (like me!), and, even in my wildest dreams, I couldn't imagine a more beautiful city.

But, I digress....

The real reason for tonight's post? As anyone who has visited Paris can attest, this city is SWIMMING with "pretty little things" (aka lingerie), and I would be remiss if I didn't share some of my findings.

Today's "pretty little things" adventure took place in a little boutique that packed a pretty little punch: Pirncesse Tam.Tam. I had the pleasure of visiting this little gem with three other wonderful women, and, even though the selection was far less vast than that of, say, Macy's, we each somehow managed to find something that we just couldn't live without. After all, besides diamonds, isn't lingerie a girl's best friend?

Me? I left with a gorgeous retro-inspired black silk loungewear set. High-waisted short shorts with sailor-esque white buttons and a matching black silk tank top with little white buttons down the back. Absolutely adorable. The other women I was with? Well, let's just say that some lucky Prince Charmings out there will be the only other ones to know. After all, what's the fun in lingerie without a little bit of mystique?

Even if you aren't able to hop on the plane to Paris (what, is lingerie not enough of an excuse?), you, too, can own your own a Parisian "pretty little thing." Check out http://www.princessetamtam.com/PrincesseTamTam.Site/en/home.aspx

Happy shopping!

Fringe, Feathers, Fashion, and Fantasy: Victoria's Secret 2009 Runway Show

2009-12-01T23:09:00.000-08:00

The 2009 Victoria's Secret Fashion Show just ended here on the West Coast, and, as promised, I am prepared to give my two cents. However, I feel as though it is appropriate to begin the post that, earlier this evening, I was looking forward to bashing VS around a little bit. After all, I have been finding their quality shabby, their designs unimaginative, and their overall feel to be, well, low-rate. I can vividly remember being a young woman and flipping through the VS catalogs. I wanted everything in there (except for garters, which still seem a bit odd to me). Even walking past the stores when I was younger is still memorable. Bright lights. Sexy clothes. Pinks and reds and whites. VS was iconic. However, for me, those days have quickly been fading after one too many VS underwires having broken free and attacked my poor, unsuspecting breasts. Not nice!

But, I tuned in to the fashion show anyways because I have a soft spot for all things fashion, and a particular weakness for runways. LOVE IT! But, I often leave the VS runway show feeling fat and a tad bit sad for myself. Seriously. Those skinny bitches just make me want to scream. And, I woudld, if my mouth weren't already full of M&M's and pizza ;o)

Let me tell you, though, after watching this year's VS runway show, I am suddenly singing a slightly different tune. Let's recap....

First and foremost, I must say that the stage, while at times a bit overwhelming, was fairly genius. The "V" shaped runway with a fabulous center stage for performers along with the sky-high backdrops and running screens? It was rocking. The Enchanted Forest set was breathtaking, and the open sequence was simply HOT. Someone floating away with a bunch of red balloons in hand? Well-placed, and a truly thoughtful touch. But, I will admit, the set design for the "VS Pink" line was a bit uninspired, and the final song setting lacked luster. Even still, the lighting and camera angles for the broadcast were divine. Bravo to the producers!

However, some of the dancers got to be a bit much. All of the throwing around of luggage in the second set was distracting, and the insane lights for the opening walk was a hint over the top. Still, I think that is what they were going for. Maybe I am just being picky.

Let's be honest. Even as a heterosexual female who fiercely loves her men, I find the VS Angel models to be simply drool-inducing. Heidi was absolutely radiant (did she REALLY just have a baby?!), Marisa rocks my world, and I am in LOVE with Miranda. Even the new girl, Kylie, is to die for. Fit, flirty females who come across as fun without being trashy always win. And, truly, most of the models were in such great shape without being skin and bones that I found them motivating rather than repulsive, unlike my response to some other runway models, who are just too thin for most anyone's tastes.

Plus, the music couldn't be beat. Current and runway-appropriate while still appealing to the masses. Black Eyed Peas seems a safe bet these days, but even their songs got a bit of a remix that kicked the fierce factor up a notch or two. Also, I am a sucker for Kings of Leon, and using "Sex is on Fire" for one of their runway songs was genius. Too perfect for words. But, the last runway song with the chorus was just sad. Please tell whomever did this group's wardrobe that black satin evening gloves are out. What were they thnkining?

I will admit, though, that I was a bit disappointed that the musical sequences seemed to loose their intensity as the show went on. I either prefer shows that hit a high note at the end, or maintain its momentum throughout. Shows that start hot and taper off at the end makes me yawn. Why stop or slow the intensity when it is working so well? At the very least, end on a higher note. Plus, the final model review was a bit to short for my liking. Too many models to get one last look of in too short a period of time. I prefer them doing one last walk in a never ending sequence. A true runway review. But, maybe that's just me....

What was also disappointing was some of the costume choices. While I appreciated and understood the typically over-the-top VS approach, that silly train made out of balloons was just plain weird. Socks with heels? I don't think so. And some of the shoes themselves (particularly the clear-heeled wedges) were distracting for me. Keep it sexy. These looked clunky and a bit out of place. Also, the satin crotch on Fergie's green dress attire made her seem more "poochie" than I am completely positive she is, and her attempt to walk sexy in those incredible silver heels was sad. Maybe it was nerves?

What I always find disappointing, however, is that your average consumer cannot buy the complete fashions seen on the runway. Some of the most amazing parts of the outfits are not for retail sale, which makes me more than a bit sad. I understand that I can't afford the famous "Million Dollar Bra." But, some of the corsets or knee-high boots were amazing. Where are they in the catalog or online? Also, some of the costumes were so over-the-top that I couldn't even SEE the lingerie pieces that VS sells. Sure, the futuristic space pieces were cool. But, where are the actual items you sell? I can't even tell.

Still, I am entirely entertained throughout the hour-long production. The inclusion of the VS Angel model contest was a cute and engaging addition, the model search winner was fabulous, and the behind-the-the scenes runway footage was interesting to watch. The production quality and set design was incredible, and the energy that the models themselves brought to the show was undeniable. I almost felt like cheering!

And, THAT is when it struck me. All of my recent disappointment with VS was because I was expecting more from the company than it is. After growing up some and investing in real quality pieces of lingerie (Undrest, anyone? French panties dotted with Swarovski crystals straight from Paris, please?), I began to hold VS to this higher standard. But, at the end of the day, that is NOT what VS is about. People don't buy VS for the quality or comfort, overall flattering design or value. They buy it because they want what VS is selling us: SEX. Yes, VS is not selling us lingerie. They are selling us a lifestyle. And, especially after this runway show, it is a lifestyle that many will surely continue to buy.

Of course, there's lots of fish in the sea, but you're the only one I'd love to catch and mount back at my place.

2009-12-01T20:07:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make. I am not proud of it, but I ADORE cheesy pick up lines. With the right delivery from the right guy, a pick up line is social entertainment at its best. However, if you are serious about wanting my attention (and don't want me to laugh at your expense while at work on Monday morning), a pickup line is not exactly the safest way to go. Too much can go wrong too quickly, and few men have the social graces or luck to recover from that kind of false start.

But, beyond pick up lines, flirting is one of the safest forms of fun a single lady can have these days without feeling as though she is missing out on something better. Call it an art form, a favorite past time, a sport of sorts...and you would be right on all counts. Flirting, like so many other activities in life, takes practice, some skill, impeccable timing, and, above all else, a large dose of confidence.

And, like most other girls, I love to flirt. Maybe it is just a good ego boost (come on, who doesn't like some attention from the opposite sex?!) or maybe it is just plain fun (because, well, it is). Either way, I like to flirt and, on occasion, even flex my flirting muscles to get my way. Waiting at the bar? Long wait for a table? Missed a deadline on a paper for class? Pulled over for a speeding ticket? FLIRT! And, yes, there is a fine line between innocent flirting and soliciting yourself. Please, don't cross that line and do not think that I would ever cross that line myself. Yuck!

But, every now and then, I find myself flirting with a stranger of the male persuasion...and have NO IDEA why I am doing it. Though I am not the kind of girl that has a "type," I can tell you that i have innocently flirted with many men that I didn't even find attractive nor was not trying to get something out of them...and sheer boredom wasn't even an excuse! I would be chatting away and, mid-conversation, discover that, indeed, I am (GASP!) flirting....

This happened just the other night. While leaving Long's after grabbing a few quick items, the man in the line behind me commented as I passed "nice tattoo" and pointed to my foot. This struck up some light conversation and it wasn't until he proclaimed, "So that tattoo wasn't to commemorate an ex-boyfriend? That just means you haven't been with the right man...." that it dawned on me that not only was he trying to pick me up, but I was actually flirting back. To say that this was a startling discovery would be an understatement.

This mystery perplexed me from some time until I stumbled upon the following article:
http://www.acmelove.com/flirting/women-are-natural-flirts.php
Basically, a group of researchers found that women often use flirting as a means to take control when meeting strangers. In a sense, they use flirting as a means to "buy time" while they fully assess the other person. The only thing that turned women off? When the man talked too much. You try and figure that one out! But, it is noted that this process of assessment does take a few minutes for a woman to complete.

This explained a lot. For all of those men who have scored a girl's phone number only to have her not answer or return your calls, your answer was not that women are cold-hearted, self-absorbed brats who will drag your heart through the mud. It is merely that you may have gotten her digits before she realized herself that she was not interested. Sad and unfair? Perhaps it is...but it is true all the same.

And, while we are on the topic, I want to set the record straight regarding my own flirtatious habits. Yes, I love to flirt. Yes, I am relatively good at it, given the right mood and set of circumstances. Yes, I have used flirting to get my way. But, let it be known that my intentions are never bad when I flirt and, to be honest, the number of times that I flirt without meaning too are pretty astounding. Plus, if I discover that I am flirting with a someone at a time when I also just so happen to have a significant other, I always promptly stop. No need for broken hearts or bruised egos on either side of the situation ;o)

"I wasn't kissing him, I was whispering in his mouth."

2009-11-27T11:16:00.000-08:00

Okay, you can call me a kissing whore, if you so wish. I accept it. In fact, I almost embrace it, though I prefer to call myself a kissing enthusiast. Semantics aside, in my short 24+ years, I have kissed a good amount of men, and Ihave the stories to prove it. Feel like traveling down memory lane with me? Keep in mind that, in typical Carly fashion, all names have been changed to protect the lips and lives of those who I have tongue tangoed with. Enjoy!

The First Kiss: I was in middle school and he was a high schooler from a different town. We met at Heritage Park for a "date," and I kept avoiding the kiss as though my life depended on it, though I don't really know why. Either way, the kiss became inevitable and he swooped in, shoving his tongue in to my mouth well before our lips even met. I thought that maybe it was just me and, when he went in for a second kiss, was hopeful that it would be better than the first. Wrong! Tongue, tongue, and more sloppy tongue. Let's just say that we didn't last too long in a relationship. Too many terrible kisses to make it worthwhile. Plus, he was psychotic and followed me on the weekends. Yup...you better know I ran in the opposite direction just as fast as I could.

Flopping Fish Kiss: I had met this guy, Jeremy, out at Avalon nightclub one night during my freshman year of college and ended up exchanging numbers after a few sexy romps around the dance floor. He was super sweet, adorable and had nice lips, so I figured he was worth getting to know. We talked on the phone a few times because he lived outside of the city before meeting for a first date on Valentine's Day. He showed up with two dozen pink roses, which was a bit much for my taste, but the gesture was kind all the same. After hanging out for a while, I walked him back to his car and, as we stood under my dorm window (Christina, Elina, and Alix all watching from above), we kissed. In my mind, he was basically the perfect guy, so I was expecting some magic...and what I got resembled a flopping fish, gasping for air, flailing in my mouth. Seriously. I was shocked. My perfect guy was a perfectly atrocious kisser. I backed away and he sighed, as though some sort of magic had just transpired. Did we engage in the same kiss? I went in for a second one for the sake of fairness and, sure enough, more flopping fish kisses ensued. The mere thought of those kisses, to this day, sends shivers down my spine...and not the good kind. He should be banned from kissing, or at least fined.

Darting Daggers: In high school, I was friends with a guy named Eric who was an absolute doll but was also absolutely NOT my type. Too whiny. Too wimpy. Too "safe." But, we were good friends and we hung out often. One day, while his parents were out, we were hanging out and watching movies. I was about to leave when he grabbed me by the belt, told me that he always thought I was beautiful and kissed me. Sounds romantic and, perhaps, in some Hollywood movie, it would have been, but I was paralyzed with terror. And, what came after his very forward and vary awkward intro was even more paralyzing...not only did he dump a bucket of saliva in my mouth, he proceeded to dart his tongue in and out of my mouth as though it was a dagger and he was fighting for his life. Poking, darting, and stabbing me in the mouth is hardly sexy, and I about cried. Let's just say that our friendship was tainted from that moment forward.

Ask and You Shall Not Receive: One summer, I met Max on my family's summer vacation to York Beach. We went on a few romantic strolls on the beach before he went in for the kiss, and, while a sweet guy, I wasn't expecting much. Good thing because he ASKED if he could kiss me. I thought it was a bit odd, but that it was kind of sweet, so I obliged. Decent kiss but nothing magical. Still, he then backed away and asked AGAIN for another kiss. Talk about manners! For the rest of my trip, he asked for a kiss each and EVERY time...until I finally told him "no." His asking killed the moment as well as any chances of future kisses.

Everyone Looks Hotter in the Dark: Back in my crazy clubbing days, I made out with many sexy nameless men while dancing. I want through a Latin phase and then a "muscle" phase...and found various hot men to fit the bill, including a Chip & Dale's dancer at The Roxy (adored him!). But, the cream of the crop was the German boy whose name I am glad I don't remember. My girls and I were at Axis and I had been dancing with German boy all night...we were getting pretty hot and heavy when Elina pulled me aside and told me that, while a fabulous dancer, she couldn't believe I was making out with him. I responded as I always did: "It's not like I am marrying him." Plus, I didn't think he was that bad looking. For proof, Christina took a photo of me and German boy making out and showed it to me the next day. Yes, he was a great dancer. Sure, he was a great kisser, too. But, much to my horror, he was AWFUL. Not to sound superficial, but I was horrified with what I saw in the light of day. I was almost ashamed, though I was too busy laughing to really feel badly about it. I guess what they say is true: everyone loos hotter in the dark ;o)

Never Been Kissed: My first long-time boyfriend, Nate, was a great guy and we hit it off right from the start. But, he seemed to avoid kissing me and, after quite a number of dates, it really started to worry me. Was there something wrong with me? Was he endlessly repulsed by me? What gives? So, on New Year's Eve, I went in for the kiss myself after almost 30 minutes of awkward silence when my friends left us alone...and I was DENIED. Shut Down. Refused admittance. I was crushed. The next day, though, he called and timidly tried to explain why. Long story short, he had never been kissed. Sadly, I don't remember our actual first kiss...but vividly recall the first (and last!) time I have been denied a kiss. That kind of pain sticks with you.

Hug Me, Thrill Me...Kiss Me, Kill Me?: I have experienced twice in my life a kiss that was so violent, I almost feared for my life. One was during my senior year of high school when my long-time crush, Smith, decided to finally make a move. We were making out and all was going well until he sucked on my bottom lip so hard that I thought I might pass out. I didn't even think something like that was possible, but it most certainly was. Somehow, I summoned up the strength to continue on...until he sucked somewhere else so hard that I almost cried. It has been said that love hurts but this was getting ridiculous. That was my last time with Smith...I don't care how long I had a crush on him, that was unacceptable. Then, in college, I was dating Jerry off and on for some time. He was a quirky kind of guy and had a weird and zany kind of sexual humor. Well, one night, he took it too far and BIT me. Hard. So hard that I bled. Note to all kissers out there: blood is NOT sexy. Period.

Turtlenecks Are A Girl's Best Friend: Another college escapade involved a little Portuguese fellow that I dated very briefly. One night, we were "necking" (do people still call it that?) when I felt like, perhaps, he was being a bit rough on my neck. Okay, was was biting as though his job depended on it. And, while it hurt, we swore I wasn't getting any hickeys so I played along. The next day, I was walking from his place back to my dorm when I passed my Political Science professor, who stared at me oddly then said she would see me in class. While I thought the encounter was a bit weird, I didn't think much of it until I got the same odd look from my roommate and realized that, not only had he given me a hickey...he had given me one that covered almost the entire right half of my neck. To top it off, the hickey was almost purple. It was ugly, to say the very least and I had to hide my shame for quite a few days with turtlenecks. Little bastard just laughed. Yeah, I stopped seeing him.

Open Wide and Say "Ahhhh": Yet another college fling had a habit of kissing me as though he were searching for yesterday's lunch in the furthest corners of my mouth. I felt like I was at the dentist except, at the dentist, they at least provide some water for such extensive procedures. He kisses weren't just oddly invasive...they were DRY. Talk about bizarre.

But, some of my kisses have been far less traumatic. In fact, a few have even been pretty darn amazing. And, even fewer have made their ways in to my kissing hall of fame. I actually spent one whole evening after a house party making out with Jack, who was an extremely gentle kisser and definitely earned a gold star for finesse. Dan had particularly thoughtful kisses that always left me wanting more. And then there was Pete, who had the absolutely ideal mix of passion, sensitivity, fierceness, and pure sex in each and every kiss. In fact, his kisses often left me speechless (I think he should either patent his kisses or teach lessons to all of the less fortunate kissers in the world).

Sadly, though, the bad kisses were far more common than the good ones. Though they make for great stories now, I look back and feel kind of sad for those poor guys. I hope they have gotten better or have at least found a girl patient enough to teach them to be better kissers. Me? I'm not anyone's teacher. Never have been and never will be. Kiss me bad once? Shame on you. Kiss me bad twice? Shame on me. And so the story goes....

"Kissing is a means of getting two people so close that they can't see anything wrong with each other." -Rene Yasenek