My Latest Girl Drama

For most of my life, I had a lot of female friends. I get along well with women who don’t expect anything from me but an ear and a sense of humor.

After I finished college, I came home and fell in with a crew of friends that's strictly male. I really didn’t think anything of it until recently, when I realized that the last few years of my life have been the most drama-free of my existence.

I don’t want you to misunderstand me, and think that I’m really bashing women here: I love women! But if you think that women don’t just inherently have more drama than men, you’re psychotic. If you’re going to hang out or be involved with women in any capacity, you just have to learn that drama is part of their charm.

I don’t mean to imply that guys don’t have drama. But guy drama is so different from girl drama. Girl drama is a hysterical phone call 3 in the morning saying, “I’m only attracted to assholes, yet I’m somehow surprised when all they do is treat me badly. I need to eat chicken nuggets and cry!” Guy drama is when your friend gets drunk and breaks his hand in a mock-boxing match on the frontlawn.

Unfortunately, because I choose to date women, I’ve been sucked back into the confusing, irrational, mind-fuck world of Girl Drama. That’s what I’ve been dealing with the last two days…and a good reason why the last two posts are late.

Amy is a girl who I’ve known since she was 16. And by “known” I mean “loved.” The first time I ever saw her, she came walking into a meeting, two hours late, wearing a blue-green tie-dye dress. She had long blond hair, brushed back. And she smelled like summer rain and wild-flowers.

The problem is, no matter how bitter and dramatic I get, I always end up back right where I am in this story: powerless, defenseless, and utterly head-over heals stupid for a girl.

We had a complicated relationship, the two of us. She’s very much into being independent, non-conventional, and generally unpredictable. She also hates talking about her feelings—I know, I know. She really is the perfect women.

We had a weird relationship—first friends, then strictly sex-friends, then sort of dating, then not, then we’re broken up (even though we never officially dated) then we’re back together…it was next to impossible to keep track of.

We’d see each other one night and she’d tell me she had a fantastic time. Then I wouldn’t hear from her for 3 weeks. So I’d go down to see her and we’d have amazing sex, after which she’d curl up in my arms and tell me how much she missed me. Then I’d get pissed because she wouldn’t call me for another two weeks and we’d break-up and she usually sounded like she was bored through the whole conversation.

If you’ve ever been in a car accident, you know that the worst second of it, isn’t really the moment of impact—it’s the second when you know, clearly, that you’re going to crash and there’s not a solitary thing you can do to stop it. That’s what my whole relationship with Amy was. It was me being totally, absolutely ready to do anything for this girl and knowing the whole time that I was doomed from the beginning. I had to try…It would kill me to think about her 20 years down the road and think I hadn’t done everything in my power to make it work, but at the same time I knew that she really didn’t care. That’s the heart of the whole thing.

Never accept excuses for important shit. I learned that the hard way. “It’s a bad time for me.” “I need to get my head together.” “I’m not ready for that step.” Bullshit, all of it. People aren’t afraid of commitment—they’re afraid of commitments to people they don’t love. When something or someone is important to you, you don’t let anything stand between you. That’s just how it is.

When we finally ended things, months ago, it was mostly because she didn’t think I was fun anymore. Which I understand. I was knocking myself out to try to win her over to such an extant that I wasn’t even me anymore. I was some weird mutation of what I thought she wanted and my own imagination and insecurities. It was also due to me knowing that I had to move on with my life: either she was going to be my life and be with me, or I had to start the healing process and find someone new.

It’s hard to get too upset about an ending you saw coming years ago.

I was fine. I was really fine. I was super fine…until…BAM, Girl Drama. Out of no-where I get an Instant Message from little miss long-lost-love –of-my-life:

“Hey, will you come to New Year’s with me and my family?”

You have to understand that when we were together she spoke to me of her own volition probably all of twice. But I had to make all the plans, I had to call her, I had to provide all the effort. And suddenly, she’s back, after all this time extending the kind of gesture that I had wanted from her for so fucking long I could taste it.

What was I supposed to think? I really had no idea what was being offered. Was she just trying to be friends? Was this a statement that she wanted me in her life? I had no idea.

And then typical Ehren-Amy relationship: I tell her that I have to talk to her. Could she meet me that night at midnight? “Sure” she said.

And so, like clockwork, I found myself in her drive way at 12:25 with no one to talk to but that sickly ball of rejection in the pit of my stomach. She called me an hour later and said that she’d gotten caught up in a Star Wars marathon. Well, at least it was something important. Now she was tired, though, and had to go to bed.

You know, after that, I really didn’t need to talk to her anyway. Her actions said everything I needed to hear.

And that, my friends, is fucking girl drama at its absolute purest: it sucks you in, just enough to give you hope, and then casts you down again into pits of despair. It involves you doing things that you KNOW are stupid, yet you’re always crushed when you fail. And then you get up and do them again and again and again.

So tonight, I plan to eat a pint of ice-cream and then call up my female friends and harass them with drama and self-loathing. Not really because I feel that way. Just so they can finally get a taste of their own medicine.

Body Hair

Puberty was a rough time for me. I guess it’s a rough time for everyone, though. I like to think of Junior High and High School as boot camp. It’s a miserable, sweaty, forced labor period of a person’s existence, where you feel that everyone’s going out of their way to make your life a living hell.

One of the weirdest parts about being a guy is the hair situation. I remember one day when I was 13, I was at the beach and I happened to look at my feet. “Holy shit! Why am I growing hair on my toes???”

Guy hair is strange because it just suddenly explodes over parts of your body that, as an adolescent, you’re already insecure about. It’s like insecurity highlighter. It never really stops, either. Just when you think you have handle on the hair situation, you find that the enemy has expanded its terrain. I’m convinced that by the time I die, I’ll be a dead-ringer for Cousin It.

Originally, I thought it’d be creepy to start shaving my body hair. I mean, guys are expected to have hair. Most of the girls I’ve polled on the subject agree that perfectly shaved is kind of scary. However, it reached the point where I decided that it’d just be too creepy not to. When you’re wondering whether you should dred or braid your pubic hair, you’ve officially reached the limit. Do yourself a favor and buy one of those hair trimmers.

The problem with shaving is that once you’ve tidied one area up and you’re standing in front of the mirror with a running clipper, the temptation to move on to other regions becomes entirely too strong. Listen to me, men: once the hair clippers travel north of the navel, you've officially crossed from self-improvement onto a slippery-slope of self-mutilation. Trust me, you’ve got better things to do then trying to get your armpit hair perfectly symmetrical again. And if you don’t…take up a hobby, for Christ’s sake.

I once dated a girl who asked if she could shave me. I told her, “Look, I don’t even trust you not to steal my wallet when I’m asleep. What makes you think I’m going to trust you with my cock?” in retrospect, I may have over-reacted a little. Here’s a free tip about women—um…don’t ever say that line to them. Because one way or another, whether you’re conscious or un, they’re going to shave something…and probably not just your balls. I just told everyone that eyebrows were over-rated, anyway.

I sometimes hear girls complain about men’s reluctance to give head. Girls, if a guy hates giving head, shaving probably isn’t going to make the difference. If he’s on the fence, though, you’re chances are a lot better if he’s not secretly wondering if your most feminine of regions shares a stylist with Don King. I’m not saying you have to scorch the earth bare…but at least trim the hedges. Nothing kills the mood quite like flossing pubic hair out of your back teeth, mid-kiss.

Fun In Moving Vehicles

I believe that there is a direct correlation between the decline of Drive-In Movies and the dearth of good sex. Think about it.

The drive-in movie has to make a comeback. I located one in Cap-Cod a few years back and it was all I dreamed it could be. It was phenomenal. And not just because of the cramped car sex. Ok, it was partly because of the cramped car sex.

We brought a cooler full of beer and a bottle of wine. If I were really enterprising, I would have brought a grill and tail-gated. I had my subwoofers blaring, so the sound was good, and it wasn’t technically “in public” so there were no needs for the symbols of our oppressive, puritan society. This is to say, I had my pants on for all of 15 minutes.

Car sex is this whole weird variation of sex. Suddenly, things you’d never considered before become vitally important. Things like, “Will my seat belt really hold my full weight?” “How far back does my seat go?” and “Is my dome light stain-resistant?”

Road head takes balls. It’s a certain kind of woman who risks discovery, the gag-reflex and both your lives for the sake of fore-play. My favorite Road Head story happened to some friends of mine. They were driving down Route 90, between Buffalo and Cleveland, when the girl decides to go down on her boyfriend, who’s behind the wheel. They were in an SUV, so they were high enough up off that she figured no one would be able to see inside. Turns out she had forgotten about tractor-trailers. If you think it’s hard to concentrate on driving while receiving oral sex, you should try concentrating on driving when a truck horn gives you blaring salute, mid-orgasm.

Contrary to popular belief, it is possible to give road head to a woman. It requires cruise-control, two legs on the dashboard, and a total disregard for the safety of everyone else on the road. ‘Nuff said.

I remember hearing that oral sex is outlawed in a number of states. What I really want to know is whether they have a breathalyzer for that. The fine would probably suck (no pun intended), but that’d be a charge that might be fun to have on your permanent record.

“Hey baby, I’m a convicted head-hunter.”

Mmm...Sexahol

I like to tell women that I’m not immature; I’m just stuck in that awkward phase men go through from age 12 to 85.

Men get a bad rap a lot of times for being shallow and obsessed with sex. I don’t think that women really get it. Even girls that really love sex don’t understand. Sex isn’t just something that men like to do; it’s this urge that everything in our body pushes us towards.

My basic train of thought at any given time on any given day is typically like this:

“Gotta get those reports done. That girl on the stairs had a fantastic ass. Now was I supposed to check those against the numbers for the day or for the week? What the hell happened to all the good blowjob givers? I think girls are getting lazier. I should check my notes from the week so I can type up a summery. Remember that time that you moved that girl’s bed across the room because you were plowing her so hard?”

It sucks! Being a man is like being a crack addict. I'm ten minutes away from making a sign that says, "Will Give Head For Sex" and standing on a street corner. Sometimes I think of all the extra shit I could get done if I weren’t totally obsessed with it. Then I wonder what my odds are of meeting a pair of double-jointed Japanese twins.

I remember being so much more relaxed as a child. Maybe it’s because my brain wasn’t constantly screaming, “THIS IS TIME THAT COULD BE SPENT FUCKING!!!” As soon as they make a patch substitute for sex, I’m there.

My friend Rashad has a theory that everything a man does is basically motivated by ass. We shave so that we can get girls. We buy fancy cars to get girls. We go to college to get good jobs to make money to get girls. (Of course, college in and of itself is usually enough to get sex).

I sat with him for about 40 minutes and tried to poke holes in this theory. It took me two days to think of a single thing that guys do or buy that was not somehow linked to getting ass: sound systems.

I rushed next door and told Rashad about my idea. He pondered for a moment and then said, “I don’t know. You ever had sex in front of a matched set of 12” subwoofers?” Touche, my friend.

Women, I hope you’re taking notes here. A man’s world can be boiled down to three goals: sex, sports and occasionally subs. That’s it.

It’s an illness. When there’s a real possibility of sex, men can be convinced of just about anything. Here are some lines that some how seemed plausible to me at one time:

• “Your friend and I have been broken up for almost 2 days. He won’t mind if we sleep together.”
• "My boyfriend never comes home early."
• “When you put the seat down, the car is just as spacious as a four-door.”
• “My room-mate’s asleep. She’ll never hear a thing.”
• “It’s not difficult to drive while getting a blowjob.”
• “Don’t worry. No one can see us behind these trees.
• “Don’t worry. No one ever checks the Janitor’s closet.”
• “Don’t worry. No one ever checks in my suite-room.”
• “My shower has a non-slip floor.”

So girls, the next time you see a man staring at your chest while you’re talking, or catch him checking out your sister’s ass, or finding mid-thrust in your neighbor, just remember: We’re addicts. We don’t know any better.

The Merciless Regime of The Flower Children

Here's the lovely, wonderful, amazingly hypocritical thing about the 60s generation: it was a crock. Everyone loves to talk about how rebellious that generation was, how open-minded, and high-moraled. They rallied behind such noble causes as equal rights, world peace, voting rights, yet once you get by all that, the fact is that these people weren't trying to transfer power from the high to the low; they were trying to transfer power to themselves.

I make this statement because that generation is now the one in power. The rebels have become the empire, and they are just as grudging relinquishing their influence as any generation before them has been. But worse than that, they didn't even hold on to their ideals at all. They still say they were opposed to Vietnam, but how many now support war on Iraq? They say that they are for equal rights, yet they support, hell, encourage the purchase of goods made in sweat-shops.

The generation that was in charge during the 60s garners more respect from me. They may have been horribly prejudiced and conservative, BUT THEY MADE NO EXCUSES ABOUT WHAT THEY WERE. They came from a background that was just that and made no pretense. They didn't grow up calling the system evil then say, "ooops! Now that we're reaping the benefits, the system is just hunky-dory."

The Hippies and Flower children didn't want an establishment that excluded them. Now that they have the power, they don't want one that diminishes their own, bloated needs. They have no problem selling the new generation out with issues such as Social Security. What makes them despicable in my mind is not that reluctance to dilute their influence, but their continued insistence that they "changed the system," that they remain rebellious, that they remain liberal.

Their power came from the fact that they were a generation united: perhaps they all had different causes to fight for, but the single characteristic of the age was rebelliousness. Our generation has no united cause. To quote Chuck Palahniuk, (author of some wonderful books like Invisible Monsters, Choke, and Fight Club):

"We're the middle children of history, no purpose, no place. We have no great war, no great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives."

To put it simply, we have no united cause. We're a generation of Nintendo addicted, Ritalin abusing, crack babies and abortion rejections. Any situation that pits us against our elders will result in our whole sale massacre. The 60s had the focused, "grab the power," "change the world" messages of Bob Dylan and The Beatles. Ours the ineffectual, adolescent, misdirected rage of Limp Bizkit and Eminem. They are united, we are not.

It depresses me that my generation is inferior to bunch of hypocrites. Make no mistake: we need them more than they need us. Our economy is so fucked that few of us will ever be able to afford our own houses and support our families. The few of us who do will be sent running back to our parents' basements when the inflation, caused by the government's inevitable monetizing of our national debt, reduces our savings to nil.

We've been hopeless screwed by these hemp-smoking hypocrites. If I have to read one more account of what wonderful rebellious people they were, I'm going to go on a yuppie killing spree. My generation sucks, but the saving grace of apathy is that it's impossible to whore out.

What Would Jesus Drink?

Christmas is a great time for us Jews. All the carpenter worshippers are staying home, stuffing themselves with food and swapping presents. Some Christians think that the Jews are jealous of the pageantry, decadence, and full-on hedonism of Christmas. They couldn’t be further from the truth: We’re just happy to get you people off the streets.

It’s a day when Jews can once again roam the earth, without fear of racists, rednecks, or republicans. That’s the real magic of Christmas.

I hear that Christmas is a big drinking holiday. I think that if you’re using the Virgin Birth as an excuse to drink, you may have a problem. But hey, what ever gets you through a day with your family. If you are drinking, on this, the holiest of day of the Christian faith, you should take a moment to reflect: What Would Jesus Drink?

Everyone always serves egg nog. What’s the deal with egg nog anyway? Why do we need the word “egg” in the name? I’ve been on this earth for 26 years now and never once encountered any other kind of nog besides egg. Then again, maybe somewhere there’s a whole family gathered around a piano, singing carols and sipping nice big mugs of Beef Nog.

It doesn’t seem like Jesus would be much of a nog drinker. It’s definitely a little too festive for him. Let’s see...born to carpenter who had to put his pregnant wife up in a stable: sounds like a 40 of Olde English to me! Yeah, I can see it now: Jesus and the apostles hunched down with a bunch of lepers behind a seven-11, sipping OE out of paper bags. I guess every Easter the Apostles would get together behind a convenience store and spill some out on the ground. “Here’s one for me, and one for my hommies…”

I recall that Jesus hung out with a lot of destitute peeps, so maybe a box of wine. Of course, he was Jewish, so maybe it should be Manishevitz.

Then again, Jesus probably wouldn’t be much of a wino—I mean, if the dude could make it from water anytime he wanted, it’s probably the last beverage he’d want to party on. Maybe mixed drinks? There’d be something poetic about Christ walking into a bar and ordering a Bloody Mary.

I bet Jesus could walk into any tavern and someone would say, “That’s the son of God! Somebody get this man a margarita!” Then they’d slide up next to him and make him do some of his magic tricks.

The more I think about it, the more I think that Christ probably doesn’t care what you drink. According to the Catholic Church, he had sacramental wine running through his veins. “Who are you to tell me I’ve had enough, Jesus? You’re blood-alcohol level is 12.8 percent! Next to you, I’m the fucking pope! Now give me your keys. Remember last time when you said you could drive on water? Come on, man, give me your keys.”

Folks, if you’re depressed this time of year, letting the man get you down, hanging out in gangs, bemoaning your absentee father, and falling over drunk, just remember: you’re only following Christ’s example.

Happy holidays! Drink up, bitches!

Delayed Gratification

And now a quick word about anal sex.

Considering how generally homophobic large groups of men are, it’s always seemed weird to me that they tend to go on and on about how much they enjoy anal sex with women.

I’ve never tried it. I’m not morally opposed to it…I just never really had a desire to try it. I always sort of figured that if you’re running out of holes then you’re not really using your imagination.

The guys I’ve spoken to about it all seem to agree that it’s a power thing. It’s supposed to be the ultimate form of possession—an act of exerting power. I say that if you’re looking for power, try taking up martial arts…or do it the American way and buy a gun.

Some day, maybe I’ll be motivated to try it. Until then, I’ll just content myself with hetero-sex.



Sex about to be had is infinitely better than sex already experienced. It’s because you always end up imagining some sort of sexual perfection. It’s the best part of a new hook-up or relationship: the discovery and the anticipation. For the same reasons, young love isn’t really sweeter—it’s just newer.

I guess it’s a delayed gratification thing. For some reason, I get a twisted amusement out of making out with a girl on a first date, getting her and myself all hot and bothered—and then driving home. In my experience it does three things: first it establishes that you have self-control and self-discipline. Second, it states that if she wants you, she’s going to have to bust her ass. Lastly, she’s going to be that much more wound-up and waiting for it the next time you go over.

It’s pretty evil, I admit. But it really goes back to my earlier posts that state that respect and attraction are not always the same thing. Obviously, you don’t want to over-do it. If you keep neglecting a girl, she’ll walk. But if you mess with her just a little, go out of your way to seem a little unobtainable or mysterious, she’ll usually respect you for it. At least, that’s always been my experience.

To a lesser extent, the same theory applies in bed—delayed gratification is better than instant gratification. Nothing, NOTHING sends a woman into a frenzy quite like taking her to the brink and then stopping at the last moment. Then you do it again and again. It’s a trade-off of quantity for quality. When she finally orgasms, you’ll be lucky if your back has any skin left on it.

One of my favorite moments was back at college. My girlfriend of the time and I had finished an afternoon quickie, and I threw on a T-shirt and went down the hall to the bathroom. I was throwing water on my face and gargling, when the guy brushing his teeth next me gives me a double take and says, “Dude, are you ok? You’re bleeding.”

I take a glance at my t-shirt and I’ve got red stains spreading down my back and sides. I guess I my mind had been otherwise occupied.

Delayed gratification had cost me a T-shirt. But that’s a trade-off I’m always happy to make.

Girls, Sports, and the Return of Black Jesus!

I was visiting a friend and her family in upstate New York a few weeks ago. I sat at a table with her, her mom, her grandma, and her father sipping coffee. I listened to the girls rattle on about decorating the front room and who was dating who for about 40 minutes. Finally, I turned to the dad, who was sitting right next to me and asked about his new GTO.

I swear it was like a bomb threat had been called in. My friend got up and loudly declared how she had to get going, while the mom and grandma decided they needed to get a start on wrapping the Christmas presents. I got dirty looks from the friend for the next 10 minutes as I drove her home.

Basically, we guys were expected to listen to a twenty minute list about why Brad, the guy around the corner, was bad for Julie, who went to middle school with a friend's sister, but the second I tried for a side chat with the father about somthing we found interesting, forget it. How dare we disrespect the conversation like that!

See, situations like this absolutely crack me up. This is why I start to laugh every time girls ask me, “What’s the deal with guys and sports, anyway?” As if girls aren’t perfectly content to ramble on and on about the latest episode of “One Tree Hill.”

I’d like to make something clear: I’m not looking for a girl who can recite the starting lineup for the 1961 New York Yankees. I don’t even need a girl who fakes an interest, because she’s out of her mind if she thinks that I’m going to sit through anything on the WB.

All I ask is that she understands that a few nights a year are off limits. I don’t care if there’s a fire, flood, or rise of the living dead—I’m watching every single Yankee Playoff game.

I’m not sure if girls get concerned over their men and sports because

1. They feel threatened by the obsessive level of interest when most guys can’t even remember their anniversary or
2. They begin to get serious doubts about the maturity levels of a man who has his own touchdown celebrations.

Deep down, every guy thinks that under the right conditions he could have been a professional athlete. It’s ridiculous, I know. But ladies, before you laugh, think about the stuff that you’re watching. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not on Dawson Creek and your chances of looking or living like any of those characters are about as good as me starting at short stop for the New York Yankees.

It’s nice to have a girl who’s a little bit of a sports fan. One of the sexiest things a woman can say is, “how about we cuddle and watch the Mets get their asses handed to them?” (Of course, the sexiest thing a woman can say is the same line, with a certain Boston team inserted instead of the Mets). But honestly, it’s not a huge deal for me.


__________________________________________________



On another topic, my post from yesterday got me thinking. I’d like to get an artist and write a comic book. Anyone interested, should send me a message. It would be: “The Adventures of Black Jesus, Featuring the God Squad.” I imagine the entire thing would be a blaxploitation story. I’ve already got a few lines in mind such as:

• Black Jesus doesn’t go out like no punk bitch, Judas!
• My will be done, cracka!
• My Dad told me about you. He said He’ll be seeing you real soon, sucka!

I picture him dressed in a black leather robe busting the skulls of Romans and sinners.

“I hear that cat Black Jesus is a bad mutha--”
“Shut your mouth!”
“But talkin’ ‘bout Black Jesus”
“Then we can dig it!”

Mmmmmm…sacrilicious…

Happy Kwanzaa, Bitches!

I’ve officially reached my gift limit. That’s it. I’m done. I thought I’d finished my shopping on Friday but I keep getting over-run by cards and gifts from friends and family who weren't on my list. And everytime I get an unexpected gift, I have to go to the mall to buy a present for them in return. And each time I have to go to the mall, I die a little inside. Damn my charming personality! My New Year’s resolution is to make fewer friends so they’ll stop guilting me into buying them presents every year.

I’ve had it. I’m not buying anything else until X-mas 2006, so if you’re sending me a gift, you’re shit out of luck. All I’m giving out from now until next year are drop-kicks to the torso…and I’ve got plenty to go around.

I’m not doing the Christmas card thing, either. I can never find ones that properly convey my feelings for this time of year. So I made my own card that really sums up the Holiday spirit. Enjoy:

I’m Dreaming Of A Black Kwanzaa

This year, we must continue our fight against the man in honor of one of the greatest superheroes of all time: Black Jesus. The white man has tried to steal black Jesus from us and tell us he was weak, white, punk. We must keep the truth alive, brothers and sisters.

Conservative, republican white devils look at Jesus and pay lip service to his religion. They claim to be all for his teachings of uplifting the downtrodden, healing the sick, and giving away your wealth, then violate our civil rights with the Patriot Act, cut medicare and welfare budgets, all in the name of giving tax cuts to the rich. Fuck white Jesus!

It’s at this darkest of times that we must bring the fight to the doorsteps of our enemies and keep the name of Black Jesus alive and true. In his name, I urge all my brothers and sisters out there to take back Black Jesus! I have taken the first step by re-coloring a crucifix in my local church. And while the clergy and the Police say I’m being held on charges “Vandalism” and “Breaking and Entering,” I know that all I have vandalized is their evil, self-serving ideals. All I have broken is their tenuous hold over our spiritual insignias. All I have entered is a higher plain of enlightenment.

So I end this holiday message with prayer that we all free ourselves from the tryanical rein of white men and their fairytale savior. All praise black Jesus!

As sala'amu alaikum my family and a happy fucking Kwanzaa, bitches!

-Ehren

Sex Reference Questionaire

I really think my idea for dating resumes could catch on. I was speaking to a girl and the topic of sex came up. I said, “I have references!”

The conversation progressed from there until she asked how she would contact them. I guess I imagine that girls chat about this type of thing all the time. It shouldn’t be a big deal to call someone up and say, “Hey, I was thinking about sleeping with Ehren. Can you share some of his high points and low points?”

One of my jobs a few years ago was calling references that applicants had placed on their resumes. Basically, they gave me a questionnaire to read. In order to help my brilliant idea for dating resumes catch on, I proudly present the “Sex Reference Form”:

• How would you describe the individual's sex drive? (rating 1-10)
• How would you describe the applicant’s foreplay skills?
• Does the individual perform well orally?
• How do you rate the individual’s responsiveness?
• Was the applicant open to criticism, suggestions, and new ideas?
• Does the individual have any quirks, preferences or needs that might be considered “out of the norm”? If so, please describe.
• How would you describe the applicant’s physical equipment?
• Please rate the individual’s stamina. (rating 1-10)
• Please rate the individual’s recovery time. (rating 1-10)
• How many times, on average, did the applicant succeeded in bring you to climax per session?
• If you had to pick one area in which the individual could improve, what would it be?
• What is the applicant’s strongest attribute?
• How would you rate the individual’s overall bedroom abilities?
• Is there anything else that you’d like to say?

You know what? Screw the sex reference; this is the type of thing you should have to fill out after every hookup! This is the type of shit that people need to know.

I can just imagine it now: we’re both all sweaty, lying in bed, gasping for breath. She reaches out to ruffle my hair affectionately, when I whip out a clipboard and a pen and start on the questions. What can I say? I’m a sucker for romance.

The problem is that people tend to get way too uptight and defensive about sex. Like there was one girl I dated who gave the WORST head ever. There was jamming into the back of the throat, teeth were involved, and I have the sneaking suspicion she was gargling with concentrated bleach. The problem was, she was sure that she was a great at it. I’m betting that somewhere, some guy was too scared to tell her the truth and she just assumed herself a great cocksucker from then on. Much in the way that no one will ever tell a couple that their baby is ugly, people have a hard time saying when you’re bad in bed.

I remember a girl who was crushing for me in the worst way. She was pretty good looking, too. But she kept blowing herself up because we’d make out and she tried to stick her tongue down my throat. It was like a scene from “Alien.” After 10 seconds there was more of her spit in my mouth than my own. I'd tried to suggest that she back off a little…maybe not make it her goal to lick my kidneys, and she'd just look at me blankly. Eventually, when the suggestions didn't get through, I sat her down and explained that I’d like her to try some changes in her kissing technique. She got pissed.

Oh well. Folks, you heard it here first: flexibility (in every sense of the word) is the key to good sex. Play limber, people!