Go Crazy on Condoms

Who hasn’t been there?

The throes of passion. Four in the morning. You’re fantasizing about what a fabulous couple you’ll make at brunch. He’s fantasizing about his favorite porn and wondering if he can play it on silent without you noticing. It’s romance out of a fairy tale. Everything seems perfect, until someone realizes you’re missing condoms.

This discovery can put a lot of pleasurable activity to a jerking halt. The good news is guys will do pretty much anything for sex, so usually end up disheveled at Lucky’s 24-Hour Deli or Duane Reade at dawn, only to return home and find their partner happily passed out in a cocoon of bed sheets that would take large scissors to get her out of. So he scowls, leaves you to sleep and becomes especially embittered upon realizing he still has to go to brunch with your friends. The next day over breakfast, he acts like an asshole.

Sad story.

So in the era of the internet where everything’s available online, why not check out a service like CondomJungle.com? Not only do they carry every major brand (Trojan, Durex, ONE, LifeStyles and eighteen others I’ve never heard of) they have every size and style that you can peruse at your convenience without feeling like ‘that loser mesmerized by all the condom options in aisle 4.’ Exploring their site, I actually learned that different condom companies use slightly varying ‘recipes’ to make their product, which makes sense because while I’m clueless, I’ve noticed most guys become attached to one brand over another. I mean, you’re putting these things on a pretty sensitive part of your body. Shouldn’t you take the time to find one you really like?

While I’m a confident adult, condoms at the cash register still make me feel sixteen. I’m not sure why, but buying lubricant is even worse. No, men aren’t the only gender who needs lubricant. When you’re newly in love and having sex five times a day, women need it too. The good news is that CondomJungle.com sells lubricants as well (again, so many varying brands and options!) Oh, and all these items are at a sharp discount from what you’d find in stores. On orders over $29 you get free shipping, and even get free sample condoms with your order. There’s no embarrassment factor since shipping is Secret Ops level discreet so no one knows what’s in the package. Plus you can leisurely get aroused reading the nitty-gritties about products before buying.

The site even has a cute purple finger puppet called the Trojan Vibrating Touch Her Pleasure. I like anything with the world ‘pleasure,’ especially if said with a Brazilian accent. Sadly, I’m an infant and still terrified of sex toys, but someone more courageous should check it out and get back to me.

So:
-Discount prices
-Free shipping
-The privacy to peruse
-Free condoms
-Non-descript packaging

Versus

The everybody loses at 5 A.M. deli – pissy brunch situation?

Sign me up!

Model Behavior’s an avid supporter of safe sex. Since it’s officially spring, it’s just a fact that we’ll all be getting it on more. So bulk up on condoms now. Happy love making!

Shut Up & Be Feminine

Late on a weekday night, I found myself at my friend’s elegant New York apartment enjoying a cup of herbal tea after an utterly uninteresting night out. We’ll call my friend Rio because his background includes a decade long stay in Brazil, as well residence in several other South American countries. As we sunk into the sofa listening to Portuguese love songs we got to discussing (surprise surprise) the enigma that is male-female relationships.

“Describe sexy,” he prompted me.

I went on to pause, gather my thoughts and illustrate sexy as:

“Confident, independent, and strong.”

“Interesting,” he replied. “Because I’d describe sexy as vulnerable, dependant and warm.”

Thus ensued a conversation in which we dissected our theories about the difference between Italo-Latin and American love.

In a nutshell, Rio made the point that Brazilian woman are experts at being feminine – they’re used to relying on men. They constantly ask men to do things for them with the charm of a child and males relish in attending to their every need since it makes men feel ‘like the shit.’ Interesting, right? Because as girls growing up in America the mantra is that we can do everything ourselves, should strive for utter independence, and never rely on men for anything. Ever. To which Rio responded:

“You’re never going to keep a man like that. Okay, you’re never going to keep a Latin man like that. Men stick with the woman who makes him feel like he’s ‘the man.’ He wants you to ask him to do things for you.”

“Wouldn't I be bothering him?”

“Are you kidding? If he loves you and can fulfill your needs that’ll be the high point of his day. That’s the feeling he’s going to crave and come back for: Validation of his worth.”

Me: “I guess that does explain why so many guys I like end up with stupid, silent, needy lapdog girlfriends.”

Rio: “Those girls aren’t as stupid as they look. They’ve learned to use their feminine vulnerability to keep men. Again, if I want someone independent who didn’t need me I could hang out with my co-workers. That isn’t what male-female relationships are about.”

“But don’t you want a best friend? An equal?”

“Best friend, yes. An equal…”

“OMG this so wrong.”

“No, no, no. You’re misunderstanding. Yes, an equal. But American women often seem so busy proving their independence that they miss out on the whole tango of love that’s about how men and women fundamentally need each other.”

“You just said ‘tango,’ didn’t you?”

“Why would I be interested in a woman who doesn’t need me?”

“I thought men liked the unattainable. That they like to chase things.”

“True. But once he’s got you, he doesn’t want to hear about other guys and how ‘independent’ of a superwoman you are.”

“So basically I gotta get vulnerable, when my life mission since puberty has been to never appear vulnerable.”

“Yeah. And get feminine.”

I gesture to my outfit, “I am feminine!”

“You look feminine. But you don’t act it. You’re so guarded.”

“Because men are assholes!”

“You came in here and just made yourself your own tea. You never even asked me if I wanted some.”

“You were in the other room. And since when do non-British guys like tea?”

“Being feminine means focusing on the five senses. Scent, smell, touch. Slow down! Enjoy life. Be caring like a mother, innocent and playful like a little girl.”

“Gross." I stop to think, "I have no idea how to do that.”

“Americans get divorced cause they got it all wrong. Women are meant to be feminine. Embrace it. Use it in your work life too. You’ll get ahead and manipulate men even better. Doesn’t mean you aren’t smart.”

“Does this femininity project mean I can’t talk and make jokes? I mean, that’s a big part of my personality. I verbally run a mile a second.”

“Of course, be yourself. Although at least at the beginning, with women, less is more.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“You act the way you do right now and go to where you’re going on Brasil, not one guy is going to talk to you.”

“That would be tragic.”

“Cater. Ask him to do things for you. Play along. If he loves you, he’ll feel great accomplishing your tasks. He doesn’t pull through, means he’s not into you. Men will slay lions for the woman they love. They won’t make dinner reservations, but they’ll slay lions.”

“Okay. Let’s try: Rio, will you drive me to JFK when I leave next Monday?”

Rio: “Absolutely fucking not.”

Off my twisted face –

“The asking to do stuff doesn’t include airport transfers.”

Me: “Huh. Good to know.”

Yet another theory to stuff in my carry on.

Those who want to learn more should be directed to the simultaniously ingenious and ridiculous concept of wikiHow which actually has an article about how to be feminine. I'd be lying if I said I didn't skim it.

Girl Power – Renewed, Revitalized and Going Digital

What a pleasant surprise when I attended a typical ‘pre clubbing’ promotional dinner last night and found myself surrounded by six foot tall, glamorous, successful women. And no, this wasn’t a cut scene from Lipstick Jungle (which my TiVo’s stored and I plan to watch and mock, tomorrow [series review here]). I had actually landed at an all girls dinner party. No men allowed.

What happened to the idea of ‘girls only?’

In my life, it died somewhere after single sex summer camp. And as a hormonal teenager, ‘only girls’ is deemed brutal, bitchy and boring. In NYC, it seems women are constantly pitted against one another. We’re competing for jobs, men, attention and that last pair of size seven shoes. I’ve had fellow women in a huff try to take me out with their handbag or casually toss my jacket on the floor. When was the last time a girl was friendly to a fellow New York female at a bar? Or even engaged one another in conversation?

One of the more perverted aspects of the Manhattan clubbing circuit (and yes, there are many) is how women inevitably end up looking like accessories to men power-tripping on bottles of Grey Goose. And this isn’t just about who’s forking over the cash. Even if women were buying the liquor, if a man’s present, we automatically see it in the paradigm of ‘his table’ and ‘his harem.’

This women as ‘going-out ornaments’ mentality isn’t only degrading (yes, most of have jobs, pay our rent, and have to wake up in the morning) but fuels competition among women to be the shiniest piece of tinsel in the bunch.

Hence my overwhelming joy and approval when the woman who organized our dinner informed me that she was scheming to get successful New York women playing on the same team. Not only is she entrepreneurially launching her own nightclub in Nolita, she’s creating a social networking site for girls only. In her words:

Femme Fatale is New York’s premiere networking club exclusively for women. A femme fatal exemplifies the New York sophisticate. Our members are hand chosen because they’re the most striking, intelligent, adventurous, fun-loving spirits the city has to offer. Our goal is to indulge the ultimate lifestyle and expose cultured and accomplished women to a network of equally savvy women, while spoiling them with the extravagances provided by our luxury brand sponsors. Our mission is to inspire women to continually seek success, be independent, and provide each other with support and opportunities. There are many exclusive men’s clubs out there, and it’s about time women enjoyed the same distinct opportunity to expand their professional and social horizons.

The day women start organizing their own social activities paid for by brand spronsors will be a tragic one for the sleazy New York club promoter who feeds off women and clueless baby models to pay his rent. Watch out! Cause it looks like the system’s going to change.

The launch party takes place at Lollipop this Saturday. And make sure to bookmark the website which is coming soon, femmefatalny.com

Men, don’t bother ;)

The Best Sex of His Life

Yes, I realize this sounds like one of those douchey Cosmopolitan headlines. FYI, I hate those girl magazines. Who needs the folks at Redbook to teach us how to NOT have an orgasm again? Instead, I’m writing to commemorate an especially interesting conversation that took place over a recent night of sushi and way too much sake, a night in which our dinner party girls ganged up our dinner party guys and started asking some I’ve-drunk-way-too-much-to-censor-myself questions. Since we were all ‘just friends,’ no one felt the need to hold back. Here I’ve documented our evening’s ramblings, what I hope is an unbiased analysis of the two sexes and how they interact.

Somewhere around dessert, as I unabashedly bemoaned my romantic situation with comments like, “It’s just such a pity because if Mr. Grey just did X, Y, J and Double Z Squared, I think we’d both be so much happier,” when a male dinner party companion interrupted me with a solution:

“Why don’t you write all the things you wish he’d do on a piece of paper, give him the list, and tell him if he complies he’ll be rewarded with random, bonus blowjobs.”

Me: “That’s the kind of logic I’d use when interacting with a small child or pet.”

Him: “Exactly.”

Now I’m staring like a nitwit into my sake glass hoping I didn’t hear him correctly.

My friend continued: “Guys aren’t stupid. They just don’t think about all the things you girls think about. Guys forget stuff, easily! So keep it simple, write it down, and create a reward system. I think you’ll find he’ll be more than happy to comply.”

I smiled, realizing while this strategy may function for obedient American boys, my friend clearly had no idea what it was like to date the highly complex, spoiled, Lucifer-like love animal that is an Italian man. No way were lists going to work.

Next, the ladies at the table wanted to know how sex well…felt different with different women.

“How can a man claim Miss so-and-so is the best sex of his life? Aren’t all women just…well…holes?”

Gross, I know. And this statement received a strong negative reaction. The table erupted in chaos at which point I, a writer who’ll use any interesting social situation for my professional gain, instructed the boys to tell us the tangible specifics aside from chemistry that make a woman great in bed. Chemistry, pheromones, and the psychologically adrenaline inducing games couples play with one another can’t be properly explained. The inexplicable, enigmatic nature of these things is what constitutes lust. Setting these mysteries aside, the male half of our table came up with four tangible qualities that ‘the best sex of their lives’ invariably possessed.

1. Going at it HARD. Consensus from the men made it clear that the best sex was hard sex. They preferred girls who liked to pound and play rough rather than the romantic, soft, immobile, ‘dead starfish’ types.

2. Getting on all fours. According to those who possessed a penis around our West Village dinner table, men get off on doing it doggie-style. They claimed this has been man’s favorite position since the Stone Age and that any man who denied their intense fetish-like desire for women on all fours were point-blank liars. Translation: the girls who qualified as ‘the best sex’ liked to time travel to the Stone Age as well.

3. Doing it in public places. This one went a little over my head, but I think the underlying point was that men crave an adventurous partner. The guys claimed that while women may initially have inhibitions and be resistant to the idea of getting spread eagle in an H&M changing stall or bar bathroom, they grow to love it. One friend recounted a story of an ex-girlfriend who was initially terrified of the public fuck and after giving in became addicted to the insane adrenaline rush. What I took away from these comments: Be active, get creative, suggest raunchy things – it definitely won’t hurt.

4. Having an orgasm. Easier said than done. For all the boys at the table, ‘the best sex of their lives’ included a partner they could make come vaginally. “If the girl can only come clitorally, it gets complicated,” one man said. “Guys get off on knowing they made their woman come. Having her come vaginally is a massive ego boost.”

So there you have it, straight from some dudes’ sake filled mouths. Men: please feel free to correct or add onto to your drunk peers’ insights. Women: I’d take all of this with a grain of salt.

Aghast at Abercrombie & Fitch

Friday I found myself in the unusual position of being above 14th street in the heart of enemy corporate territory – the 50s and Madison. I’d had to attend a meeting at 30 Rock, naturally scheduled at an ungodly early morning hour. The good news is that I was liberated by 11 a.m., and as I bee lined for the nearest express subway stop to take me back to the haven of downtown, I started to see an disproportional amount of yuppies carrying black and white Abercrombie shopping bags. I sniffed the foggy air (which smelled like burning dollar bills), looked to the sky, and realized I was on 5th Avenue and 50th street, just blocks away from Abercrombie’s ginormous New York six-floor headquarters which had taken every unemployed model in the city and half the student population of NYU to staff.

While usually I would’ve blocked all uptown stores out of my line of sight, sporting an imaginary human version of those equine visors they strap onto the abused carriage horses in central park, on this particular morning I did not. Just a week before, I, a girl who hasn’t set foot in an Abercrombie store since age fourteen (and even then thought it was pretty lame) was actually searching for an Abercrombie establishment near Washington Square a mere week prior. I only succeeded in finding a Rugby (sort of the same thing), and called a girlfriend to ask where the hell Abercrombie was downtown and why I was too stupid to find it.

“There is no Abercrombie downtown,” she replied. “There’s only the mega store on 5th and 55th.”

“Really?!” I was dumbstruck. “How could the corporate Nazi’s at Abercrombie forgo putting a store near NYU…easily a third a their clientele in Manhattan?”

This made no sense. And I was peeved. While I generally dislike Abercrombie and don’t own any of their clothes, I recently abducted one of my roommate’s tank tops that fit me notably well. It was just the right length, the right amount of elasticity around my chest, the right amount of support so that I didn’t have to wear a bra and the proper transparency so that forgoing lingerie would not be inappropriate, just slightly sexy. I quickly turned the tank inside out, and my mouth gaped open in astonishment when I saw the oversize Abercrombie & Fitch label on the back, followed by the delightfully sick ‘Made in Vietnam’ tag.

Hence my quest for an Abercrombie store. It was my intention to sprint in, and sprint out with the same style tank top in two basic colors.

As I approached 52nd street, I began mentally preparing myself for what treacheries might await me at this fabled Abercrombie Disneyland. I’d never been, only heard it was massive, and that Abercrombie’s corporate office were stacked about the five-floor store. That’s a lot of Ambercrombie energy for a sixty-meter radius. I’d also recently read guestofaguest’s blurb about the Abercrombie male sales reps who were ridiculed last week for working sans-shirt.

“This shopping experience is probably going to be horrific,” I cooed to myself while forcing down deep breathes. “But I can do it.”

* * *

No amount of mental training could have prepared me for the shit show I witnessed the moment I entered this store. There were two models at the entrance; the girl in a bikini top and yes, the guy was actually TOPLESS, but not nearly attractive enough for me to be okay with it. I think they offering perfume samples or something. I honestly have no idea since I ran away from them as fast as possible.

I then entered the first room of the first floor: a miniature model zoo. The model workers stood behind registers and booths like animals in pre-assigned cages. Most were folding clothes; some were just staring wistfully into space, perhaps fantasizing about freedom.

Two things jumped out at me immediately as odd. One was that the store was darker than a basement. How were you supposed to shop when you needed a flashlight to see the clothes? The second was that the music was at a decibel level I’d be comfortable with if at a club like Marquee, but absurd for a store in the daytime. It was remarkably loud. And peppy. I almost left right then because it was taking my ears an unusual amount of time to adjust to the abuse. Then a saw a male model worker at a jeans display who I swear I know from Tenjune, so I rushed to the next floor before we could properly make eye contact.

If the store had any kind of organizational structure, I was too inept to figure it out. I kept looking for those signs that most department stores put near stairs and elevators that inform you that ‘the first floor is Women’s, second floor Men’s, the third floor Accessories etc.’ At Abercrombie, every floor looked exactly the same…the displays were similar and sported the same clothes. Men’s and women’s were mixed together throughout every floor. As I rushed up and down staircases and circled stacks of clothing, I couldn’t help but feel I was seeing the same outfits over and over and over again. I was beginning to feel mildly insane so contemplated asking someone for help. Then I realized that doing so would force me to scream at the top of my lungs over the techno remix of Beyonce they were blasting, so I didn’t bother.

I later caught a glimpse at the changing room line, which looked twice as large as the usual morning stack up at the Starbucks on Astor Place. The registers were clogged as well. And it was eleven a.m. on a Friday.

What was this jungle like on a Saturday at noon?

That thought, coupled with the Justin Timberlake spunked-up glitter music that was now pulsating through the stereo confirmed that I had to leave this store immediately for my own well-being – despite the fact that I had miraculously located the tank tops I wanted. I ditched them at a men’s display and fought my way out of the store like trauma victim.

On my way out, the topless male model tried to approach me with some sort of flyer and I almost screamed in panic, in part because his chest was hairless and clearly waxed (men without chest hair frighten me) and in part because I recognized him from karaoke night at Cipriani’s Upstairs.

To the Abercrombie store: never, ever, ever again.

Grey. Grey. Grey.

It’s a rainy Thursday and as I sit here with a steaming hot chocolate, complete with mini marshmallows (yes I’m still five), it seems the perfect opportunity to reflect on the other immature aspects of my life. Yep, you all guessed right. I’m ranting about grey relationships yet again. Cut me some slack. Today the sky’s grey, the rain’s grey, my sheets are grey (they used to be white, I need to wash them, I realize that’s gross). Grey is inevitably on my mind. So using my Milanese ex-fantasy man Grin as an example, I’m going to go over some of the common symptoms that stem from dysfunctional big city relationships, all of which I suffered through with him, some of which still plague me now:

1. The Silent Treatment: Remember that game you used to play at age eight when after losing a fight with your brother or sister (usually over some glossy toy or gross piece of play dough) you’d give them the ‘silent treatment’ until your bruised ego felt like it had ‘punished’ them for an adequate amount of time? While we’re no longer playing with Barbie’s (hopefully), we still treat our grey relationship partners in the same irrationally emotional way we did our siblings. By not calling them, not texting them, not emailing them you’re both protecting yourself from being hurt when they potentially don’t respond and winning in the infantile ‘silent treatment game’ sense of victory. This transitions beautifully into our next symptom.

2. Playing to Win: Often when I post about grey / faux relationships, I’m surprised to receive reader comments encouraging me to confess my true feelings for my partner, talk it out with him, take it to the next level – all reasonable suggestions if one’s goal was to live happily ever after or fall in love. I feel in all my writing about this topic, I’ve evidently failed to properly illustrate on what a high level of immaturity the grey dynamic operates. Stability, normalcy and happiness aren’t the goals here. People in grey relationships are too afraid to fall in love. They’re terrified of living happily ever after. Happily ever after, despite its charming connotations, is frighteningly final, and grey relationship participants tend to be commitment phobic. The implicit goal may be to get closer to another human being, but the explicit goal is to win. The dysfunctional relationship rule book clearly states that whichever entity appears to care less about the relationship is considered the winner. Let’s look at an example:

After five days of giving one another the silent treatment, Grin texts me for an aperitivo. Grin initiated contact (+10 points for me) with a detailed plan for getting together as opposed to a vague ‘how are you’ (an additional +15 points for me). He’s putting himself on the line.

I happen to be busy that night (+12 points for me – I’m seemingly not prioritizing him), but phone to thank him for the invite (phoning means reaching out / caring so minus 15 points for me, + 12 points for him.)

The ultimate goal is to keep both our scores equal. If one person seems to care more than the other, things get unbalanced and someone tends to freak out and disappear. The grey relationship is destroyed. Ideally, both your scores rise at a matching rate (I mean if your scores didn’t rise you’d never see one another at all.)

So while this game may seem cruel, it’s actually a process of you both nurturing for your faux relationship so it can continue to exist at a level of intimacy you’re both comfortable with. And while the whole score keeping thing may seem confusing, it’s actually not at all. Most 21st century Manhatteners are capable of making virtually all of these calculations subconsciously. Often I don’t even think we know we’re doing it, but in a grey relationship, someone’s always keeping score. There is self-imposed control. I mean, if you just let things just play out naturally you might find yourself actually being intimate with someone (God forbid!), which in the dating game of most major metropolises is a no-no.

3. Pacing Intimacy: Pacing intimacy has a lot to do with knowing how to properly keep score. It also requires obeying certain boundaries, some of which I explored in Please Don’t Be Nice. Even though you may be crazy about this person, you have to keep in mind that you’re not each other’s significant other. The grey relationship is about fun, excitement, adrenaline, and intensely high doses of middle school cattiness. It’s not about companionship. Your partner cannot become to ‘real’ to you. I mean if you start shoe shopping together you’re just a hop, skip and a jump away from him farting in your face and you no longer shaving your legs. Or as a friend of mine put it:

“If you spend more than fourteen consecutive hours together, you’re fucked.”

Fucked in what sense? You may thoroughly enjoy each other's company, but going out to dinner or brunch several days a week is just crossing a line. You might actually start to feel like boyfriend and girlfriend (again, God forbid).

4. Hide and Seek: And because there are so many questions you’d like to ask your grey relationship partner, but know you can’t (doing so would obliterate the cloudy grayness in which you both feel comfortable), you try to attain knowledge about them indirectly from other sources. Like:

My friend (casually): Hey, you know I ran in Grin the other night at Pacha.

Me (suddenly sweating bullets): Wait. When? Where? At what time exactly? Who was he with? A girl? Several girls? What was he wearing? Dressed down or dressed up? Did he ask about me? Was he wearing jeans or dress pants? What was your exact conversation word by word? Tell me Godammit!!!!

Since I’d often be paranoid Grin was out partying when he claimed to be at home, I’d go out when I’d normally stay in and go to as many Milanese clubs and bars as physically possible with our common friends, scouring each location to make sure he wasn’t there. He never would be and I’d come home, exhausted but victorious. Mature, right?



And at the end of the day, I think one of the reasons dysfunctional relationships are so common is that they allow us to recapture the joys of childhood immaturity. These adrenaline-based affairs may be absurd, but they help us feel like kids again. The relationship games we play are rarely stressful, they’re somehow as relaxing and familiar as a game of tag, a battle of hide-and-seek.

So far, that’s the only explanation I’ve come up with about why we keep coming back for more.

What Women Want

I’m not what you’d call a warm and fuzzy person. I’m not so into animals and only really cute babies make me smile. Yet I’m always inevitably touched when readers email me comments about this site that aren’t derogatory, abusive or spiteful. I even glow an extra mega-watt when it’s clear the reader has a sense of humor, gets my sense of humor, and knows damn well how to write. So naturally I was thrilled when I received this email:

Dear mb,

Being an avid reader of your blog, I was hoping you could shed some light on a question that I have had for quite some time. Though it may sound douchbager-esque, and surely superficial; since I was in college I had two goals in mind, one being to work on Wall St. and the other to marry, or at least date, a model. No, I am not trying to ask you out. I have read what you look for in a guy and I am not European, I am blonde, and not too tall....So

I accomplished the Wall St. thing, though still w/o the means to spend 10k at The Box on a Thursday evening. And I know, you having been around models and one yourself, that you have an idea of what generally your friends look for in a guy. Tell me if you think I am getting close...money, lots of it, and ummmm....charisma? I'm working on the money thing but the likelihood of me getting anywhere close to Giuseppe, by the time I am 40, is a somewhat far reach. I obviously can't make myself European, only coming close by attending the London School of Business. And I can't go out every night and still have a career...impossible w/o a trust fund. So, let me know your enlightening thoughts, if you would be so kind...

First off, making yourself more European by attending London School of Business is a fabulous idea! The sexiest option after Oxford or Cambridge is LES – London School of Economics. That place pops out moneymaking, briefcase-carrying, gold cufflink-wearing, heartless-men machines. And you don’t need a trust fund to go out every night and have a career, you just needs lots of cocaine! Scratch that, you need generous trust fund wielding friends who do cocaine and are willing to share. And as for models wanting “money, lots of it, and ummmm….charisma” you’re way off the mark. X out the charisma part, multiply the money factor by three, and you’ve much more successfully outlined what your average accent possessing, chain smoking, heartless model wants out of a relationship.

JUST KIDDING!

If only the answer to this email were that simple.

I think the first thing men need to understand about what women want, is that the majority of us vagina-possessing creatures have absolutely no idea what we want. Or we’re in denial about what we want. Or we have what we want, we’re just incapable of fully recognizing it or giving it credit.

We’re generally really confused. Does that make sense?

We’re an extremely capable gender so hell, if we knew what we wanted we’d go out, tackle, and mount it with success – there’d be no time for gossiping or shopping or beautifying or reality TV or any of the other ten thousand ways we find to distract ourselves from the fact that we ultimately have no idea if we want a man like or father, a best friend, an authority figure, a masochist, a sex object or a teddy bear. We just don’t freakin’ know. At least I don’t freakin’ know, and I think women who disagree are either in denial or have succeeded in establishing what they want in the short run (like, for the next three weeks while I’m up to my ears in tax returns I need a fun-loving playboy.) But in the long run? Geez. Next question, please.

So to get back on track and actually give some advice to the lovely chap that emailed in, I’d say if the goal is to date a model (or model poser) that’s an extremely easy feat in Manhattan. Just go to Beatrice Inn, dress well, pretend to be a big shot, mention that you summer in Como, sniffle in an I’m-on-drugs-way and surely some inexperienced female model victim will bite. If the goal is to have a successful relationship with a smart and beautiful woman, I’d say be extremely polite at all times (most mothers have engrained their female offspring to prize chivalry) and then take a serious interest in her. Really work to get to know this woman – what makes her tick, and if you genuinely like her, this shouldn’t be ‘work’ at all.

My theory is that women respond well to men who

1. Make them feel at ease (don’t be creepy, desperate, or sniffling)
2. They can identify with (from the same geographical area, common schools, common friends – no don’t lie) and
3. Want to get to know them (in a non-stalkerish way)

Ask her why she decided to wear pink instead of yellow, chose lasagna over sword fish, the story behind why she called her cat Oreo instead of Freckles, why she likes Giuliani over McCain, why she has an Alanis Morissette poster in her room, why her apartment smells like corndogs. Delve into her quirks. No, you shouldn’t sound like an annoying five-year-old or like a freak writing a book. Be genuine. The fact is that most women love to talk – it’s been medically diagnosed as therapeutic (why do you think we spend hours on the phone with our girlfriends every other night?) Remember that most women are just humans immersed in the continuing battle of figuring out who they are. Life is somewhat of a continuing identity crisis, or challenge, or game (choose your own noun). So anyone who takes a genuine interest in a loving, non-judgmental way allows us as women to show off the parts of our personality we like and gives us a trusting space to figure out the parts we’re still trying to piece together.

Maybe I got a bit too philosophical here, and emailer, please feel free to write in again with a more specific question. Like if you’re just looking for a top ten list of surefire seduction tricks, I could provide you with that as well (with the obligatory price of $199.99). I guess my point was that if men want to know what women want, they should know that women are just as confused the next guy. As for what I specifically want in men, that’s another delightful (and frightening) laundry list for another day.

Please Don’t Be Nice

So you have a relationship that’s all about fun and all about sex. You don’t share problems. You don’t share morning coffee. And you especially don’t share distressing life information. Weighty words like ‘girlfriend,’ ‘boyfriend,’ and ‘commitment’ don’t exist in the stratosphere of this non-relationship. It’s that fake grey relationship that I’m perpetually harping on about, primarily because I’ve so many times been a willing victim of it. The only requirement in this self-indulgent love affair is to revel in each other while partying like rock stars. It’s childlike. It’s sexy. It’s simple. And by not adhering to the rules of a real relationship, you still have tons of free ‘single’ time to be an ambitious workaholic, get your laundry done, and watch tons of bad TV while giving yourself at home facial treatments. Life is near perfect.

And then something terrible happens.

A teeny tiny section of your sternum (yes, I truly believe this particular sentiment originates in the sternum) begins to wonder: ‘What if?’

What if this person (who I don’t even really know), who I always have so much fun with (mainly because there’s a lot of alcohol involved) is actually boyfriend (What? Who said that?) material? What if this grey relationship was just a romantic detour and our lifelines are actually leisurely converging? The slow but steady blossoming of something wonderful. Wonderful in the sense that we massage each other’s feet while commiserating on our taxing work-party schedule, not so much wonderful in the sense of kids and a white picket fence (come on, I’m delusional not insane).

All the questions and comments above exist in a realm I like to call ‘Wow That Girl’s Totally Deluded’ or charmingly abbreviated, WTGTD. I can be aware of my mind creeping over into WTGTD territory, yet somehow still slip into this not-so-even-appealing fantasy until I feel like a woman possessed by the object of my affection. What spurs this dreadful sickness nastier than a full-on flue? What upset the ‘no strings attached’ equilibrium my grey relationship existed in so healthily before?

In my case, it happened over early morning / late night (think 4:30 am) breakfast with me, Mr. Grey, and two friends. Why we were even having breakfast together was inappropriate to the nature of our dysfunctional relationship in the first place. Thank God we had other people with us so we couldn’t be mistaken for an actual couple. I guess we let the intimacy of the situation slide since the sun wasn’t up and we still both had house music echo ringing through our ears. Club? Restaurant? What’s the difference.

The four of us were laughing and drinking. My emotions were intact and everything was going swimmingly until my pizza arrived, which had been mistakenly covered with anchovies. I hate anchovies. And I didn’t order them. But I guess waitresses who work at five in the morning think an error on an order here and there won’t come back to haunt them since the majority of patrons in the restaurant are too drunk to form sentences. Yet before I could politely bitch about the mix-up, our uniformed server had spun on her heel to attend to some gorilla-like men by the bar. Believe it or not, this wasn’t the problem. The problem is what happened next.

In a quick moment, Mr. Grey somehow understood my anchovy predicament, even though I hadn’t the time to fully voice my complaint to our waitress. He slid the pizza toward him, and painstakingly embarked on the mission of removing each anchovy from its bed of cheese. All this without a word. And when he finished, he sprinkled some Parmesan on the pie to kill the anchovy flavor. He proceeded to methodically cut the first few slices for me as if I were an incapable little girl. He then returned the pizza to me with a smile.

Now don’t get me wrong, time did not stand still and romantic music didn’t suddenly swell. During this surprisingly affectionate moment, conversation continued between us and our friends as usual. But as I started eating, I knew something had changed. It’s not just that Mr. Grey and I aren’t tender with one another; I don’t think he’s tender in general. I’d never seen him do something so simple and yet so caring with anyone. Ever. And it got to me. It got under my skin just like that whole pizza got into my stomach. And from then on I knew I was screwed.

Why did he have to be nice, and by consequence, three-dimensional and attractive? When our relationship functioned so splendidly on uncomplicated bouts of random fun? The whole thing got me thinking about him in sappy WTGTD language. And I really wish that acronym had vowels so I could effectively chant it to myself on a day-to-day basis as a reminder not to act like a total douche. Because it’s in those moments that you realize you’re not in a super part-time relationship that leaves you oodles of “you time.” You’re in a truly real grey relationship: despite how much your psyche may protest, emotions are involved.

For the ladies and gents who can keep this stuff super straight all the time, my hat’s off to you. But I have a hunch that for most of us, it’s never than simple. At the end of the day, if you’re lucky, you can console yourself with the fact that your partner’s probably just as confused as you are.

Why Colder Can be Cooler

Saturday night something magical happened. I walked to Via Della Pace for dinner (an Italian restaurant I highly recommend, the lobster ravioli’s sinful and affordable – just be prepared to pay in cash) and then (surprise surprise) danced the night away at a cheesy club. At the beginning of the night, I strolled to the east village along with a warm breeze. My body was comfortable sans jacket. Some people were enjoying pasta and red wine outside. This was around 10 pm.

A mere six hours later when I left the anonymous cheesy club at four in the morning, New York had been possessed by a different spirit. That formerly calming breeze had turned cold. The temperature had plummeted. Skimpily dressed partygoers were forced to cling to one another not just out of drunken horniness, but out of a genuine need for body warmth. I’ll admit I both hid in a phone booth and later hugged a pudgy man I didn’t even know while waiting for the arguing members of our group to disperse into cabs. The wind was that frigid. Those of us still standing at the end of the night proceeded to go have breakfast, but I didn’t really enjoy my meal. Summer was officially over. And we all know since global warming, fall and spring have practically disappeared as concepts. It’s either humid or freezing here in the city. So I don’t feel I can really console myself with the fact that a lovely autumn is in store and going to make this traumatic transition much easier. To cope with this revelation, I’ve compiled a list of why we should be excited, not suicidal, about the fact that winter is just around the corner.

1. Hot chocolate: Dark chocolate perks me up when I’m feeling depressed. It suppresses my hunger when my stomach’s growling. Melted and applied to the skin, it makes all my clubbing-incurred bruises fade in twenty-four hours. It wakes me up when I’m ready to crawl back into bed. Dark chocolate is my cure-all product. Did I also mention it’s yummy as Hell? I also compulsively consume tea like some people down Starbucks coffee. Now put the two elements of choclately goodness and steamy liquid together, and you’ve just created my own personal version of heroin. Winter means I can consume vats of hot chocolate without looking like a weirdo. And I’m totally fine with admitting that the hot cocoa with mini marshmallows is my personal favorite.


2. New wardrobe: I had so much fun getting dressed yesterday because I got to open my sweater drawer for the first time in months. At this point, I’ve recycled my warm weather closet more than twice. If I have to wear another tank top I might spit at my reflection in the bedroom mirror. The best part about getting to utilize all your stored away winter clothes (and rediscovering the discount Cavalli turtlenecks from Century 21 you forgot you had) is that you also get to incorporate your summer wardrobe as layering pieces. So the amount of clothing you have to work with doubles overnight!

3. Jackets: Every girl is a sucker for something. Some do the shoe obsession thing ala Carrie Bradshaw. Other stock up on cocktail dresses. Others have a compulsive buying problem with lingerie. For me, it’s always been jackets. I love jackets, mainly because I’m always cold. Also because when I lack the energy to get properly dressed (or decide to wear yesterday’s clothes) I just throw one of my many jackets on top of my messy self and no one can tell the difference. The fact that I’m wearing a sweater my cat chewed without a bra becomes my dirty secret. My jacket collection takes up half of my ridiculously tiny Manhattan closet. I have long, short, sport, peacoat, down, elegant, jean, suede, leather (oh my god the leather)…I’m getting too excited I better stop.

4. Cuddling: Who wants to cling to their partner post-coital when its ninety-five degrees outside and humid. Usually you just lie on opposite sides of the bed, both trying to convince your bodies to stop producing sweat. Showers are mandatory and your sheets are gross. Yet in the colder months, snuggling under feathered comforters together is actually a turn on. There are all sorts of new reasons to touch each other with the excuse of ‘warming up.’ Plus you don’t want kick your partner toward a soapy shower the minute they’ve crawled off you. Instead you can relax and pass out in each other’s arms.

5. No more air-conditioning: America over air-conditions as if it were a matter of life and death. Recycled freezing air makes you sick! Plus it’s damn expensive. In the winter my ConEd bill doesn’t only lower dramatically, I no longer have to organize where I sit in an indoor restaurant based on how far away I can get from the industrial strength air vent that’s blasting virtual snow on people. A friend told me about a colleague of hers at Bear Sterns who brought a space heater to work in the summer months to warm up her office. I understand companies wanting to keep employees alert, but think of the money they’d save if they just air-conditioned down to 75 instead of 60. In the winter we just have to bundle up, and heat is always welcome.

6. Fur: I love fur. I love the way it looks, I love the way it feels against my skin, I love the way it keeps me warm. Now don’t load your water guns with red paint and spray me just yet. I don’t wear real fur. Who can afford it? And who wants to have the guilt of having killed an innocent Bambi-like creature on their hat or earmuffs? Some synthetic fur looks great. An example: One of my favorite leather jackets has a tasteful browny-black fur collar. One afternoon at Astor Place, I actually had an executive women take her snarly lips away from her cell phone for two seconds to bark at me, “You should be ashamed!” before returning to her phone call. As we crossed the street, I racked my brain for what on earth she could be referring to. Had I stepped on her foot? Accidentally pushed her? Then it hit me, my fur looked that real. I watched the woman click away from me in her high-heel genuine leather boots (hypocrite) and smiled at the compliment.

See, even when in the midst of unjustified verbal abuse winter can be a fun season. Bring it on.

Spreading a Little Food Knowledge

Two years ago, when musing about various elective course options with a group of college friends, I was made aware of a class called ‘Nutrition and Health,’ which according to my sources made “everyone who took it anorexic.”

Paradoxical, right?

And since I spent too many formative years in the sicko fashion world, where anorexia is considered a necessary evil, like a fortuitous strand of the chicken pox, I was instinctively drawn to this idea. A class that made people loose weight? A class that didn’t involve annoyingly fit motivational teachers, weights, yoga mats or crunches? My friend assured me, “Yes. Once you learn what truly makes up the food we eat, you’ll never want to put anything in your mouth again.” I was simultaneously enamored and horrified by this concept.

Now, years later, I’m finally taking a nutrition class. And not in order to lose weight, but rather to make more informed choices about the food I put in my body on a daily basis. Eating right can save you from a lot of scary, deathly diseases down the line. And I’ve noticed that I truly feel better when adhering to a healthier diet. I posses more energy, I write more; I’m more inclined to workout. I’m also generally nicer to everyone I interact with, as I’m not experiencing the emotional pitfalls of ‘sugar high’ and ‘sugar low’ (a big plus as I’m a pretty emotional personal in general, without adding caffeine.) Besides, if we are what we eat, I definitely want to make sure I’m a sleek banana rather than a squishy Big Mac. And if eating right keeps me from snapping at my roommate or swearing at my alarm clock, all the better!

One of the first topics my professor addressed was the amount of mixed messages we receive about food over the course of our lifetime. Newspapers and magazines generate most of this food propaganda, and these sources usually don’t take into account ‘the big picture.’ One day Atkins and his diet are in, the next he’s out. One week Vitamin B supplements are the secret to clear skin; next week it’s fish oil capsules. Right now carbs are bad for us, in two years, they probably won’t be anymore. The media takes a subjective stance on food the same way it does on fashion. Only what we consume has serious long-term ramifications on our health (while the once-stylish orange halter top we wore can only really damage our egos). With the trends constantly changing, even conscious eaters with the best of intentions are being misled. How does the average Chipotle craving, Glamour reading, health conscious girl know who to trust? I really doubt health and beauty magazines are an authority. They’ve been publishing those failed ‘how to have an orgasm’ articles month after month for years.

Those of you interested in eating right read on. Here’s some of the fascinating stuff I learned. I was blown away on the first day!

1. Start thinking in terms of ‘nutrient density.’ Huh? What does that even mean? It means you’ve gotta start thinking proportionally. Choose foods that give you the most nutrients per calorie. Like skim milk instead of ice cream for calcium. An orange instead of orange juice for fiber. (Apparently, juices aren’t even that good for us. It’s way better just to eat the actual fruit and have a glass of water. Who knew?) A can of tuna instead of beef for protein. The goal is always to get more nutrients for the same amount of calories. For me, this way of thinking was revolutionary.


2. Get salad dressing on the side. I almost fell out of my chair when the professor announced that the number one source of fat in a woman’s diet was salad dressing. All the naïve women dieters think, ‘oh I’ll just have a salad,” without analyzing what actually goes into to that yummy mixture of mesculan greens.

3. Diet soda is baaaad. It can’t be rationalized. Diet soda drinkers had the same amount of diabetes as people who drank regular soda. The fake sweetness in diet soda messes with your palate, and your body reacts to it as if it were real sugar anyway. Diet sodas have also been proven to make you crave more sweets. They also limit you from getting good, healthy sugars. Like how many of us have ever downed a Diet Coke and then craved the nutritious sugary goodness of an apple? Yeah, it’s never happened. Instead, we crave salty chips or fries.

4. Fiber is fabulous, but not without water. I pop fiber pills and invest in whole-wheat products all the time. We all know fiber is invaluable to our digestive system. What I never knew though is that fiber can’t be digested by itself. You need to be super hydrated in order for it to work. So start downing water.


5. Dried fruit is not necessarily our friend. Grapes and raisins have the same amount of calories, but raisins contain no water, and therefore aren’t as filling. So you eat way more raisins than you would grapes, consuming perhaps twice the amount of calories, while grapes would have made you full ten minutes ago. Dried fruits also tend to be artificially sweetened (more bad news).

6. Occasionally indulge in the unhealthy things you like rather than eating the ‘low fat’ equivalent. I wanted to kiss my nutritionist professor on the mouth when she announced that if you’re obsessed with Ben and Jerry’s, it’s A-okay to enjoy a small portion every once in awhile. A large, low fat tub of frozen yogurt won’t be as satisfying, usually resulting in eating a lot more of it. And eating more of something that’s theoretically ‘low fat’ isn’t necessarily the best route. She pointed out many eaters view a ‘low fat’ label as an excuse to over-indulge. Most of these ‘low fat’ items aren’t that good for us either!

So I’m no health expert, but my professor is. And I think I’ll be a lot more informed by the time this course comes to a close. I now also understand how ‘Health and Nutrition’ got its anorexic reputation. It’s because as homework we’ll be calorie counting our own diet and writing a report on where we’re lacking nutrients. That means I’ll be literally dissecting all my favorite foods, nutrient-by-nutrient, calorie-by-calorie, and probably tissue-by-tissue as I imagine there will be a lot of farewell Snickers and Pepperidge Farm Cookies tears shed along the way. I’m quaking in my sneakers to dissect my guilty, hangover pl