Cruel Summer

So I decided to take a break from writing, figuring I should try and actually live a life instead of just writing about one. So how'd that go? Well, I'm back to writing, aren't I?  My sabbatical was a lot of effort for few results. I feel like Tom Cruise's eHarmony profile.

An open letter to the (single) men of Halifax:

Snap the fuck out of it! What the hell is wrong with you?

I know so many women, anywhere from mid-20s to early 40s, who are attractive, smart, sexy and funny, with interesting jobs and active social lives who are, quite simply, fantastic. And not one of them has been on a date in eons. Why? My money is on apathy. It's like all the single men in this town decided to sit in their living rooms, in their underwear, expecting a woman to show up and offer them a blow job while they're watching TSN. Never going to happen, gentlemen. Okay, that was one time, and it was his birthday, and do you know how long it takes to bake and frost a damn cake? Forever; you have to let it cool first, and then there's the frosting, plus who can ever find enough candles? Geez. One time.

So what happened? Not so long ago, men were still making an effort. But the effort has gone AWOL. I know there are more single women than men in this town, so the numbers are on your side, but you still gotta try.  How do you do that? Be engaged in your life, for starters. You don't have a girlfriend? Boo hoo. Are you still getting out, and doing things, and generally having a life that someone else might want to be a part of? I don't think you are. Because I had a pretty social summer, going to restaurants and out for drinks and to festivals and sporting events and plenty of things where people gather, and I didn't see you there. I saw men, sure, mostly younger, prowling loudly, and hornily, in groups, like One Direction will when they're old enough to drink. But genuine, just out enjoying life with a few friends and hoping that maybe an awesome woman would cross their paths guys? Those were in very short supply. It's like single men have two settings: gropey or mopey. Hot? Not. And when you emerge, bleary-eyed and jonesing for chicken wings, from wherever you are, be it your drawn-curtained living room or your Smirnoff sponsored bro-tastic circle jerk, you'd better be prepared, because we're going to expect you to step up.

I know what you're thinking, guys. That's a generalization! Not all single men are like that. And that's true; of course there are single guys in this town who are making a real effort and are worthy of a terrific woman. Sure there are. And if you're one of them, I sincerely apologize and you should stop reading.

Still here? If you're lucky enough to find yourself in what the kids call a "friends with benefits" situation (and make no mistake, you are INCREDIBLY lucky if you've found a woman who will sleep with you without asking you to be her date for a family wedding) you need to come when called. We're all busy, we all have days where we just want pizza and our DVR. But ask yourself this: WWTYOYD - What Would 20 Year Old You  Do? When you were 20, if an attractive girl texted you and said "I've had two glasses of wine. Where are you?", would you have EVER considered not going? Hells no! Of course not! So chug a Red Bull, put some damn pants on, and get the hell over there! Don't waste time shaving (ed. note - Seriously. Don't shave. Stubble good).

One final note, and I'd have thought this lesson would've been learned way back when, say at one of those Sadie Hawkins dances in junior high, but it's perfectly fine for a woman to ask a man out. I've heard more than a few men say it would be fantastic if a woman did just that.  It's also perfectly fine for a man to say no. But if you're asked, and you say do yes, you damn well better go. That's just good manners. If you were drafted by the NHL, and a pretty good team picked you, would you say no, even if you weren't sure how it would all work out? Of course you wouldn't. Because it's the NH fucking L. Do you want to be the Eric Lindros of dating? Didn't think so. Besides, I've seen your slapshot - you'd have a way better chance of scoring on the date. So put the damn jersey on. Plus, if you don't go, you're kind of a jerk.

Okay, boys. I hope this letter finds you well. I really do want you to succeed. But summer is over. Time to get back in the game. We're all expecting big things from you this season. Don't make us regret waiting.

Boys 2 Men

I read something recently that got me thinking. Wish I could say I've been boning up on Carl Sagan,  but I haven't and, besides, that sounds kind of pervy. It was an excerpted piece from the book by the very funny Mindy Kaling, and in it she talked about how many grown women end up dating perpetual high schoolers. Mindy has her own ideas about what separates the men from the boys (besides chest hair),  but her main philosophy is this: men aren't scared of committment. Not committment to a woman, necessarily, but a committment to their own lives. A committment, as Mindy says, to not floating around anymore. A boy floats from job to job, apartment to apartment, spontaneous road trip to spontaneous road trip, never accumulating anything that can't be sold, abandoned, or stored in his parents' basement because he just isn't the type to be tied down by material things, baby.

This is something I know a little about. It's safe to say my friends and I have known enough man child types to stock a VERY well-attended Peter Pan convention. So put down the Xbox controllers and listen up.

Grown men do what they say they're going to do. It's that simple. I'm not talking about an ill-advised, tequila driven, "Yes! We should absolutely go shark diving" plan. That's just testosterone, and you did agree it sounds like fun... No, I'm talking about the much smaller scale stuff. You're going to come help me put up that shelf?  Great. How's Saturday? You'll drive me to the airport? Awesome - my flight's at 8. You've got the first round next time? Bottoms up. Don't be the sometime guy. "We should hang out sometime." "I'll make you dinner sometime." " Let's play pool sometime." Boys sometime you. Grown men do what they said they would. If you can't commit to the smallest things, I'm not likely to trust you with the bigger things. Like my housekeys. Or my heart. And I've spent way too much of my adult life wondering just when the hell "sometime" really is. Is it Central Time? Greenwich Mean Time? Daylight savings? Fuck. 

Men own things. Grown-up things. I don't mean houses, necessarily, or really nice cars, because those things aren't important to everybody. But a grown man owns more than two plates. And sheets that match. Men have actual bookshelves. And a teakettle. You don't need to have lots of throw pillows or anything. If  you do, we probably have a lot in common. Like a dirty crush on Anderson Cooper. Men can't pack everything they own into their car "just in case". In case what, exactly? You witness a gangland killing? Little tip for you: if you do happen to witness a gangland killing, I'm pretty sure the fact that your bootleg Marillion albums are in a milk crate and ready to go won't be your biggest concern. Buying furniture tells me you aren't going anywhere, and it tells me you're happy to just hang out, somewhere warm and cozy. Which bodes well for my cleavage. "I'm only there to sleep" was a fine rationale for that skeevy hostel in Portugal in 1999, but not so great for your home. And you can only use "but your place is just so much more comfortable" for so long.  Because that doesn't make me think you have a lumpy sofa; it makes me think you have a live-in girlfriend.

Grown men expect you to call them on their bullshit, at least some of the time. It's awkward for me to bring this up. Not because I have a problem giving my opinion, but because turnabout is fair play, I can be a moody caustic bitch,  and having it pointed out is up there with dental surgery on my list of unfavourite things. But a grown man will respect you for telling him when he's being a jerk. Seriously. At least the good ones will. Because a grown man doesn't want you to be a pushover.  Many guys will tell you they hate confrontation. Who doesn't? But what they really mean is they hate being called on their assholery. Do not let this deter you. But think it through. Is a man who'd prefer to watch a hockey game instead of going to a Katherine Heigl movie really an asshole? I'd argue he might just be the only rational person in the room.  And really - you'd make him do that? Who's really the asshole here?

I know it's different for everybody. My immature, unthoughtful jerk may be your boyishly distracted dream guy. Actually, he probably is, given how quickly the men I've dated have moved on. And god knows there are plenty of women who are still floating around, too, because life does seem easier before you own occasional chairs and four types of wine glasses. But being a grown up can be pretty great too (no roommates! sex on the occasional chairs!). So really, gentlemen, isn't it time to commit to being a grown up? It's not that hard:  do what you say you will, buy a real coffee table and, whatever you do, don't let me go to the new Katherine Heigl movie. Unless that's your way of telling me I'm being a bitch,  in which case I deserve it.  Don't you feel more grown up already?

Five guys

No, pervs, not like that. One at a time, thank you very much. I'm talking about the five guys many women have dated, or will date. And Colin Farrell regrettably isn't one of them. You'll likely recognize a former paramour or three. And if you don't, just give it time. Because he's coming. You might want to put on your good underwear.

1) The rebounder: you'll probably meet him in a bar, with his buddies, trying to douse the fires of heartbreak with beer. He probably has a vague look of despair, he could be checking his phone incessantly, and he might  be doing shots with a group of college girls. He's forlorn, he's susceptible, and he's got disaster written all over him like an ill-fitting Ed Hardy shirt.  Naturally, you give him your number.

Here's the thing with the rebounder: it doesn't matter how great a girl you are. It doesn't matter if he swears he's over the break up. He is not. It will not last with him. But if you truly want a casual thing with someone who might burst into tears during sex, have at it. But DO NOT FALL FOR HIM. Soothe his wounds. Make him believe in girls again. And leave him better than when you found him, like a campsite, only with a nice ass. If you don't, you'll need a rebound guy to get over the rebounder, and do you remember from gym class how hard it is to get off a trampoline? Well, it'll be like that, only emotionally, and with penises.

2) The impossibly good looking one. Sigh. He often shows up in our 20s. He may be slightly younger. It's hard to catch a breath around him because every time you open your mouth, you're overcome by a desire to lick him. The first time he takes his shirt off, you'll probably praise Jesus.

If you manage to end up with one of the ones who "just doesn't know how good looking he is", let me stop you right there. Yes, he does. But it's still awesome, mostly. You do, however, need a couple things: a healthy sense of self-esteem, and an ability not to cut a bitch when she literally eye-fucks him in front of you.
There are times you'll be out, and you'll notice other women noticing him, and you'll think you're the cat's ass, because you're with him. There are other times you'll be out, and you'll notice other women noticing him, only you're having a fat/bad hair/PMS day, and you'll be convinced he's involved in some sort of community outreach program where he gives back by making out with the less genetically fortunate. He'll likely break your heart, and he may give you a complex, but he'll look awesome on your couch.

3) The Perfect, but... guy:  on paper, and according to your friends, he's perfect for you.  Perfect! But...something is missing. It's usually heat. Or excitement. Or any sense whatsoever that he'll surprise you. Ever. I don't believe in one perfect match for someone. I believe in timing, and luck, and chemistry, and taking a chance. Granted, I also used to believe in the Tooth Fairy and George Michael's heterosexuality, so I may not be the best judge on this one. 

4) The bad boy: I almost didn't include him because it's such a cliche, and because many of us have checked the bad boy off our dance card by the time we're old enough to buy beer. But bad is sort of a sliding scale. What I consider bad you might consider quirky. And what I considered bad at 23 versus what I consider bad now is pretty different. For some, bad is a motorcycle jacket and tattoos. For others, it's no discernible means of income and a reluctance to give you his phone number. Or his last name. My younger self liked the long of hair, short on integrity type. You might define bad as him not pressing his khakis. Who the fuck are you and why are you reading this?  Anyway, these days, I like my bad to largely be confined to not always eating enough leafy greens and occasionally paying the phone bill late. The tattoos can stay, though.

5) The Committment-phobe: I know, I know. We've all been there. But I'm not talking about your garden variety phobe, your not sure if he wants to get married and have kids just yet guy. That's normal. I’m talking about can’t make plans for Friday before Thursday night, and even then they’re tentative "just in case". Just in case what, jackass? You meet someone else? This guy can’t commit to anything beyond a blow job, and  even then he doesn’t have to decide right now, does he?  And don’t ask him if he likes it, because talking about his feelings makes him uneasy.

I know what you're thinking - there's way more than five! Some honourable mentions?

The Mama's boy: Everyone has their own personal limit. Mine is somewhere south of cutting up my date's meat for him.

The Basement slacker: Granted, he's pretty laid back, usually has a cool collection of ironically hip t-shirts, and always has good weed. So if Doritos and Call of Duty 4 get you hot, yay you!

 I Might be Gay guy: He will tell you if your ass looks fat in those pants, but he'll also have really good eye cream at his house if you end up staying over. Just to cuddle.

The Fixer-upper:  He's great, if only... I've heard about this guy a bunch, but I don't get it. I know some women like a good boyfriend-improvement project, but shouldn't you be attracted to someone because of who they are, not who you think they maybe could be, if only they changed a few little things? Not for me. Deal with who he is, or don't date him.  Besides, I've owned my house for three years and still haven't managed to paint the 50 square feet of my spare room, so renovating a guy seems unlikely. And really - would you want someone to think of you as a fixer-upper? Didn't think so.

And gentlemen, I know this isn't just limited to guys. I'm sure there's an ample list of girl-types out there,  and I'm betting Daddy's girls and Hot but Crazy make the cut. Just do me a favour - if Witty and Bitchy with Decent Boobs makes the top five, can someone let me know?

Date? Great!

Should I ever find myself in Wonderland, my first order of business will surprisingly NOT be to check out the dessert selection at the tea party. It won't even be to tell Alice she should really think twice about wearing a skirt that length with flat shoes. No, my first order of business will be to grab the White Rabbit by his fuzzy-wuzzy bunny ears and say "Dude, I know you're late, you're late,  for a very important date, but I need you to focus. What the hell is a date, exactly?"

My Oxford Paperback dictionary is of little help:

date (noun) - an appointment to meet socially; a person of the opposite sex with whom one has a social engagement.

Not very rainbow pride of them. And, depending on your definition of social, I may have dated my dentist, a handful of gay men, and possibly a guy from Monterey named Steve I met in line at the train station in Venice. We'll always have the Grand Canal, Steve.

Several years ago, a group of friends and I had a revolving, usually booze-fueled discussion about the definition of a date. There were as many theories as there are pick-up lines, but we did manage to establish a few loose guidelines:

1) A date requires some element of pre-planning. Oddly, at least to me, guys were more adamant about this than girls. Aside: I think girls who care about this too much own a hardcover, dog-eared copy of "The Rules". It might not be on the coffee table, but oh, trust me, it's there. But both sexes generally agreed that day of, last minute, "hey, got plans this evening?" mentions don't count. That might just be boredom. Or horniness. I'm still not sure how far in advance constitutes "preplanning", though. Two days? A week? When hockey season is over?

2) A date is two people. A group date is for pre-teens, The Bachelorette, and anyone who's spent way too much time co-ordinating date night schedules with her sister wives.

3) Intention. Now, intentions can be a  little undefined early on. Do you want a casual thing?  A serious thing? A platonic stand-by emergency wedding date thing? Enter the dating dilemma:  sometimes, you don't fully know anyone's intentions, even your own, until you actually go on a date.  But if intentions are considered a tipping point, then we have a conundrum. Sort of a He's a Catch-22 situation. Unless your intentions are limited to getting all liquored up and making out with someone, in which case you can probably stop reading.

Based on these criteria, I don't actually know if I've had a date in my life. Let's delve a little further, shall we, and examine these seemingly simple guidelines.

Point # 1 - advance planning. Sure, common sense will tell you most dates are pre-booked. Something to look forward to, you can make reservations, put on the good underwear just in case. But what about the following: you run into someone. Someone you like. You're both free, you decide to grab lunch, or a coffee, or a beer on a patio. You have a great time. You don't want your lunch/coffee/beer to end. Coffee becomes dinner becomes more drinks becomes that story with the great punch line becomes a drunken walk to your door at 3am after the best day ever. But under our rules, this isn't a date. Sorry - it became a date at the second location. The exception? If you're being kidnapped. Then, according to security experts, you NEVER LET THEM TAKE YOU TO THE SECOND LOCATION.

Point # 2 - More than two people aren't a date. I agree, mostly. But I have also spent many an evening in the company of friends and a crush. Sure, there were other people around, but we spent many of those nights sitting close, talking, while our oblivious friends wondered why I never wanted to share a cab with any of them. Because he was walking me home, you morons. Not dates? Not exactly, but when it was finally just the two of us for the first time, preplanned and all official,  it certainly didn't feel like a first date.

Point # 3 - Intention. Possibly the slipperiest word in the dating lexicon. Having to state your intentions up front to make sure they're the same as your maybe date's, in addition to seeming very Jane Austen, is also a total boner killer. But if intent is everything, as some of my friends contend, how do you figure it out without just asking? You might think you're on a date and he might just be happy to talk to a girl and not spend another evening eating three day old pizza in his underwear. Or, he might think asking you to a poetry reading series is a sure sign of his dating intentions, since a guy'd only sit through that if he digs you and wants to impress you with his sensitivity, right?  You, on the other hand, might assume he's gay. Or cries after sex. Neither of which is likely what he intended. 

I know what you're thinking:  really, does it matter so much what you call it? Many people, usually men, hate to define things, resisting labels at all costs. Can't it just be "hanging out", they'll ask? Well, it can be, except for one simple reason: women often have a number in their heads. This number equals the number of dates before they'll sleep with someone. I explained this dating math to an old flame, a label resister of epic proportions. If we can't decide what is or isn't a date, I said, then how am I supposed to know when we reach the magic date number? Suddenly, he realized he liked it and he should've put a label on it. Beers and pizza? A date. A movie and dessert afterwards?  A date. That time I made dinner and he stood me up because his ex-girlfriend was in town and her flight home got cancelled?  Probably not. Actually, subtract two dates, jackass

More confusing than trying to follow a cricket match. So I think I have a few new rules.

If we're both single, it's a date. If one of us isn't single, why the hell are we having drinks?

If I've spent any time wondering if the person sitting across from me is a good kisser, it's a date.

If I'm at a poetry reading series, it's not a date. Seriously, dude, stop your damn crying.

O My Goodness!

Elusive. Mysterious. Shy. Tempermental.

Barbra Streisand? No. The female orgasm. At least that's what tv shows, books, and countless magazines keep telling me. You know what? No, it's not. If you're not getting there pretty much every time you have sex, you're getting ripped off. Some women are having orgasms all the damn time. And if you can't say the same, it might be your fault.

Now, calm down, ladies, and hear me out. I've said this to boyfriends, and I'll say it to you: it's not his sole responsibility to make sure I get off; in fact, it's largely mine. Where did this idea come from that it's a man's j-o-b to make sure we have an orgasm? I blame the historical fiction genre. I'm looking at you, Philippa Gregory. Look, I'm assuming you know what works for you, so why shouldn't you be in charge? Sometimes you're fortunate enough to have a partner who just knows, but not every guy is intuitive. Even the guys who are aren't, not every single time. So if you don't speak up, or shift a bit to the left, or put his hand just over there, how can you blame a guy for not getting you there when you know the way? You can't. And you know he's not likely to ask for directions. Unless he's Kreskin, a guy cannot "just know". And if he is Kreskin, um, good for you. You wouldn't expect a guy to know how to put a barbeque together without some sort of instructions, would you?

This is where I point out that some identifying details may have been changed to protect, well, me, probably.

My girlfriends tell me I'm lucky. One of them once said  "A guy touches your boob and you get off". A definite exaggeration, but I'll cop to being lucky - it's never been an issue. I've been very grateful for it, I've paid attention, and before you waste any more time on those magazine articles - here's what I've learned:

I don't get all this position switching. Different strokes for different folks, but one thing is pretty universal: the vast majority (I'm going to say a non-scientific 98%) of women need a steady rhythm to get there (the others are likely faking it), and it's hard to be consistent when you're doing a Cirque du Soleil routine. Popular culture will tell you that you need to be a gymnast, and it seems like a lot of women think they have to switch it up multiple times to keep a guy happy. You don't.  I've seen rom coms where they change positions more times in a 90 second scene than I have in 15 years. Sure, being bendy is great, but unnecessary. If I want to assume that many positions in twenty minutes, I'll go to yoga. Pick a couple of positions. If you're an overachiever, maybe three. Stick with them. And by the way - missionary gets a bad rap. Missionary rules. More on that later.

Instead of being with a bunch of people once or twice, try being with one or two people a bunch of times. For me, a serial monogamist of some renown, there is nothing boring about the familiar. You know his body, he knows what works for you, and you're probably both more relaxed, and that's invaluable when it comes to coming. New people can be awesome too, but let's face it: that's probably more because of the thrill of it, the newness of it, or the cocktails of it. I also still believe in making out at least a few times before I sleep with someone. You can learn a lot from dry humping. Like don't wear brand new, never washed, dark denim on an ivory couch, among other things.

Oral oral oral. I'm always shocked when I read about women being uncomfortable with this. I almost can't comprehend that. Seriously. I covet shoes as much as the next girl, but ladies, show of hands - if someone told you that you could be orally pleasured 3 times a week but never buy shoes again, I bet most of you wouldn't even hesitate. You'd just arrange shoe swaps with your equally satisfied friends. Oh sure, you might try and swing some sort of deal where you'd get to buy one rockin' pair of booties if you gave it up for a while, but they'd have to be really awesome booties. I know all the arguments, the reasons behind why some women can't truly enjoy it, and no smart-ass comment from me can change someone's body image or make them more comfortable. But if you have a hard time reaching heaven during sex, oral sex can take you there AND make you find religion. Except for Scientology; I don't know how you find that, but I'm pretty sure the answer isn't in your pants. Plus, there isn't as much friction as with some other NC-17 stuff, and we all know what that means: the little guy in the boat is much less likely to pull his Sou'wester over his head and refuse to take your calls.

I know someone who used to be reluctant to let herself take it to the limit with oral, preferring to save the big finish for the main event. That's like competing in the regionals on "Glee" and not giving Rachel a solo because she's saving her voice for Nationals just in case. Plus, my friend (you don't know her) didn't want a man to feel like the Big O arrived too quickly. Why, I have no idea. Making a guy stop is a bit like going to Disneyworld, getting to the entrance to the Magic Kingdom, and then leaving because you've decided you don't want to have too much fun on Space Mountain. What if Space Mountain is closed for refurbishment next time? And why on earth would a man mind if you came too quickly? It makes him feel like a goddamn rock star. Plus, you know rock stars - there's usually the option for an encore.

If you're not getting what you need to get there (and you probably aren't, every time, not exactly), then ask for it. You don't have to bark orders like Lou Gossett, Jr., but if you like slower, or faster, or Barry White,  tell him. He won't mind. The vast majority of men (an unscientific 99%) find this a huge turn on; the others are either lying or have had a bad experience with Lou Gossett, Jr. I'm kind of bossy even standing up, but asking for what you want, for what you know is pretty much a sure thing, is a win win for everyone.

And finally, and most importantly - you have to learn what gets you off. You can't ask for "it" if you don't know what "it" is, exactly. Have a meet and greet with your clit. Get better acquainted, do a little scrapbooking, maybe buy it a margarita.  It only has one job; helping you climax. Make it earn its year-end bonus. You'll figure out what works, what doesn't, what tickles. And please, ladies - don't feel like touching yourself stops if another person is in the room. You understand I mean a partner, not your accountant, right? A "hands off" policy is for museums, not your own body. Unless you're in a museum. If you ask me (and I know you were going to), missionary + a little She-Bop (yeah, that song wasn't really about dancing) pretty much guarantees a good time will be had by all.  A guy will not mind one bit that you're taking matters into your own hands: it takes the pressure off him, he can set his own pace AND he gets a pretty great visual. Plus, unless you're a total asshole, he still gets all the credit for rocking your world. The next morning, over breakfast, you'll be remembering the great time you had, you won't be thinking "well, I helped things along". And I'm pretty sure he won't be thinking that, either. What he is thinking: "Man, I'm so glad she's not a Scientologist..."

I know it's easy for me, the come early come often girl, to spout half-assed theories about owning your orgasm. I actually hate that I just typed "owning your orgasm". And I know there are women for whom it just isn't physically possible, and that must be awful and frustrating. But I really believe an orgasm is one of life's basic pleasures (along with good coffee and warm oatmeal cookies) and having one with a partner is a fantastic experience. But you need to know what works for you, that you can let yourself go, that you can put your own pleasure above everything else. And I think that's hard for some women. But you know what - any man worth your time will get off on you getting off. Even Kreskin.

Candid Camera

I don't talk on the phone that often these days. I email, I Facebook, I text. I get videos, recipes, jokes, pictures of kitties, "How're things?" enquiries, invitations and 50% off coupons all the time. You know what I don't get? What I've never received, not once? A cock shot. And I'm fine with living a cock-shot free life.

I don't think I'm alone in this. An informal survey of women I know would support this - not a 2D penis  recipient in the bunch, and they don't feel they're missing anything. I'd ask my guys friends if they've ever sent one, but at least half of them would likely misinterpret my query and crash my inbox.

So what's up with Anthony Weiner and his numerous Kodak moments? Were these women requesting the snaps, or was he just uploading them to his entire address book, phishing with his very own pole?

Men may have the reputation of being the more "visual" of the sexes, but we gals are no slouches when it comes to  filling up on eye candy. And what we like to look at pretty much falls into two categories - David Beckham and everybody else. Some of us like chests and abs, some of us forearms or biceps, some a nice ass. But I have yet to meet the woman who heads to the latest romantic comedy thinking "I don't care if they get together at the end, but I really hope I see some cock!" Full disclosure: I have, a time or two, asked a guy to send me some pictures. But the requests were firmly along the lines of "I miss your face - send me a picture". And I was always obliged with smiling, occasionally goofy shots that made my day. Not once did I receive a picture I couldn't show my mom. And she was a nurse for 40 years, so not much phases her.

 But never in my life have I requested a below the belt snapshot. And if I had, the men I've dated would have refused. Well, except maybe one; they've likely had to stop him from unzipping his fly at the DMV. In retrospect, though, I'm pretty sure he meets the legal definition of a pervert, so it's likely I was spared only by virtue of the fact we were involved long before the unholy union of Facebook and camera phones.

So if the vast majority of women don't have the slightest interest in a naughty snapshot, not even from their beloved, where the hell did guys ever get the idea that women they don't even know might like a little crotch candid? Was there some article in Maxim's April Fool's issue that you idiots took to heart? Some sort of "Sexy Secret Revealed! She LOVES Dick Pics!" article that they meant as a joke you didn't quite get? What motivates a guy to take these pictures and send them unsolicited?  Mr. Favre? Anyone? There's such a prevalence of cock shots these days that Gawker had their "genital experts" (a term that made me laugh for five minutes) critique at least half a dozen famous phallus photos. Sadly, they reserved the highest praise for Kanye West's composition and use of props. Somewhere, Taylor Swift just threw up in her mouth. 

Look, all you would-be Mapplethorpes, I don't mean to unleash a downpour on your pantsless parade. If you're lucky enough to have a woman actually request a snap, there is a chance it's because she really does get turned on by that sort of thing. These women do exist. Somewhere.  But there's a much bigger chance she's planning on hiring Gloria Allred and scheduling a press conference. This is particularly true if you're a married, elected public official, a professional athlete, or Prince Harry.

This snap happiness can't be a new phenomenon. It's not like men just discovered their junk right around the time digital cameras were invented. So I have to assume the 70s and 80s were lousy with furtive trips to the one hour photo mart on the other side of town, hoping like hell some teenage boy was working the late shift and would give you a knowing "'Who's the lucky lady?" head nod while developing your 4 x 6 (okay 51/2, but I'm rounding up) efforts. Or perhaps Sears Portrait Studios did a booming bootleg boner business on the side?  Maybe that photo booth at the mall saw way more action than I did my senior year of high school. I spent a lot of time in that booth. Ew.

I think I speak for most women when I say we're not adverse to looking at it. Far from it; most of us are very fond of the goods, when attached to someone we find attractive. In person, I'll play paparazzi all you want; I'll even ask it who it's wearing. But if you just can't help yourself, if you won't rest until your junk has its 15 minutes of fame, at least pick your moment and your medium.  You're away for a few days, it's late at night, you know I check my email right before bed? Fine. But if I'm at the store after work to pick up a few things, my phone had better not buzz with a text from you suggesting I add your nuts to my grocery list.

I'd like to think that men, both elected and otherwise, would learn a lesson from Mr. Weiner's transgressions. But something tells me they won't. And you know what that something is? Gawker posted a helpful how-to called "How to take a dong shot" a few weeks ago (the angle is key, apparently). And as of a few minutes ago, it had 78,461 views. So ladies, the next time you get an email with an attachment, you might want to brace yourselves.

Nice guys and bad boys

If this isn't your first time (and I can tell when it isn't), you might have noticed how my mildly interesting romantic history is largely seasoned with men who might best be referred to as "bad boys". Not thugs and creeps, exactly, but the type of guys you might think twice about leaving alone in the room with your best friend. Or your credit card. It's so completely unoriginal, and lord knows I've been right there along with the sisterhood lamenting how we can't meet nice guys. And who doesn't have at least one male friend who's asked "Why don't girls like nice guys?  You always seem to go for the bad boys."  Yes, we often do. And you want to know why? It's not the swagger (well, not entirely), or the direct gaze, or the tattoos. It's much simpler than that: because the bad boys go for us.

Hear me out. Sure, your average bad boy has a cocksureness that can be pretty appealing, compelling even. But that's not to say nice guys aren't confident, too; it's just a bit less of an in your face (or your pants) confidence. And it's not that we don't like nice guys; quite the opposite. But nice guys are often too shy or too cautious to take that chance and lay it on the line. And nice girls (and I include myself in that category)  aren't exactly keen to stick their necks out, either. So where does that leave you? With two nice people, home alone on a Friday night. I sometimes feel like nice and nice simply cancel each other out.

Bad boys, on the other hand, are only too happy to meet you more than halfway. They'll actually meet you all the way. Like on your doorstep ("we don't need to go out, baby") if you let them. There's something comforting (and, let's be honest, flattering)  about not wondering if a guy is into you. Bad boys just so clearly WANT you, and that can be intoxicating, even when you know it's temporary. And unless you're an idiot (or me in my 20s) you'll figure out pretty quickly that you're just the latest date on an Around the Girls World tour. But while he's focused on you, you'll have a lot of fun.  As evidenced by Monday night booty calls, Wednesday morning hangovers, and the occasional episode of public indecency.

The nice guy, on the other hand, often wants to be friends first. Which is great, but often confusing. Because we usually can't tell if this is a stopover on the way to Sexytown or if we've arrived at our final destination, Platonicville. Population: me.

Here's my theory: nice guys might not like to admit it, but they tend to go for the slightly bad girls for the same reasons nice girls tend to go for the naughty boys. They don't have to make the first move and risk rejection. That no guesswork thing works both ways. However, the downside to this is that they lose the ability to read female subtlety when conditioned to blatant sluttery. So the nice girls are thinking "What is his problem? Is he blind? This is my A game" and he's thinking "She seems to like me, but it's hard for me to be sure what with this other girl on my lap."

Bridget Jones, the patron saint of conflicted women everywhere, gave us perhaps the quintessential Bad Boy vs. Nice Guy grudge match with her suitors, Daniel Cleaver and Mark Darcy. Sure, they were archetypes, and it isn't always as easy to distinguish one from the other; you can't always spot the nice ones simply by their reindeer sweaters. Especially in the summer. I find this to be a more reliable field guide tip, honed by years of careful study: a bad boy has his hand on your ass; a nice guy has his hand on the door, holding it open for you.

But our Bridget was onto something when she headed out into the snow in her panties, literally putting her ass on the line for a decent guy.  I think we all remember what happened next. One of the best movie lines of all time, that's what. And something those of us with a bad boy penchant would do well to remember: 

"Wait a minute - nice boys don't kiss like that."
"Oh yes they fucking do."

So what's the answer? How do you get off the bad boy merry-go-round?  I don't know. I do know that I'm no longer the least bit interested in taking a spin with the Daniel Cleavers of the world. Here's the problem: in the past, I've thought I've shown Def Con four levels of obvious interest, and my male pals  have said "Really? I'm not so sure. I'd read what you're doing, at best, as something between indifference and mild distaste." Which likely means I'm hopeless, since it's getting a little late in the game to whore it up. Not that women my age don't do it all the time; it's called a mid-life crisis. I think, for better or worse, the nice girl is here to stay. I'll remember the bad boys (mostly) fondly, but I'd very much like to see if Mark Darcy was right and if, indeed, yes they fucking do. I just hope I don't have to end up on a busy street in my underwear to find out.

A little romance

I've said it before, but I'm not really one for the grand romantic gesture. This may be because I've dated more than one man whose idea of a romantic gesture is returning my phone call, and also because I'm naturally suspicious. If I came home to find rose petals strewn about on the way to the bedroom, I'd assume the cat got bored and was now somewhere in the house yacking up bits of greenery. And if some guy tried to draw me a nice bubble bath, there's a better than average chance I'd assume he was trying to drown me. I may watch "Criminal Minds" a bit too much. Anyway...those things sort of leave me lukewarm. Romance to me isn't candles and chocolate so much as it's a bag of Kettlecorn and The West Wing on DVD. I think for many women I know, romance really is the little things. But it seems like guys are getting bombarded with the message that a truly romantic gesture needs to be one that sets you back a week's pay and might be visible from space. Wrong. Let's look at some of the most common gestures, and why you might want to rethink them.

1) Roses and chocolate. Sure, they're both lovely, and chicks dig 'em. Nothing wrong with that at all. But it seems a bit impersonal and, let's be honest, way over-priced.  You know what would knock my knee socks off? Tulips and/or my favourite lemon tart. Or tulips and gourmet sea salt. What? I cook, I love salt, and I can't justify that pink Himalayan salt I keep eyeing. And fyi - sending flowers to her workplace? Tread lightly. You may make her office mates (at least one of whom will read the card before she does) hate / mock  her a little. And is it really about how much she means to you, or is it because you want her co-workers to assume you're going to rock her world later? Or that she rocked yours last night? Thought so.

2) In recent years, we've somehow been led to believe that grand gestures of affection made in public are always better, more special. Romantic comedies starring Kate Hudson might be to blame. See: Jumbotron proposals aplenty. Have you seen the youtube video where the guy proposes at centre court during a basketball game? Let me save you the time -  these sorts of things don't always end so well. Unless you define "well" as tears and fleeing.  And some people just aren't built for LED professions of love. You know what, for me, is romantic? An arm on the back of my chair or a hand on the back of my neck. In public. Does this mean I'm easy to please? Maybe. But public displays of affection are great even when they're not 12 feet wide. For many of us, smaller might even be better.

3) Buying us lingerie. I think the idea of slutty undies as high romance reached critical mass when Victoria's Secret started airing commercials. So did inappropriate erections, probably.  I know this seems sexy, and it certainly seems to work wonders in movies. But there are a couple potential problems, even if you do manage to get our size right (good for you, by the way!). Odds are, you're heading home with a gift-wrapped no-win situation. Get us something too naughty, and we may think you're bored with our sex life. Something too tame, and we may assume we're either too slutty, you don't think we're hot anymore, or you're gay. Bet you never knew those skimpy little cups could hold boobs AND so much subtext, did you? A silky little chemise or something similar is usually a safe choice, but a handful of lace, a tiny clasp and a couple of underwires, in the wrong hands, can be Macgyvered into an IED (instant emotional drama) faster than you can say 36C. And for the love of Heidi Klum, make sure it's a PMS free zone. Because ass-tastic lacy boy shorts + raging hormones are not a cocktail you want to mess with. Why would you get her those? You know she hates her cellulite. You must have her confused with your crazy ex-girlfriend. Do you even know her at all?  Bastard.

4) Whisking us away for the weekend. Granted, I know perhaps two people who've ever had this happen, so I don't know how common it is, but it seems like it would be an awesome idea. You meet her at work on a Friday, have her bag packed, she has no clue where you're going on your dirty weekend getaway. Except...the surprise just might be on you. Take me for instance: I'm usually exhausted on Friday after work. And I know the cat food bowl is empty. And if you packed my bag, I guarantee you didn't realize the hair stuff I really need is in the downstairs bathroom, and god, why did you pack this top - I keep meaning to throw it out because it makes my boobs look weird. And did I actually even give you a key? See where I'm going? Not exactly the foreplay you were hoping for, is it? Better to tell a woman you'll be leaving at 10am on Saturday, returning around dinnertime on Sunday, she'll need one nice outfit, and yes, you can stop for coffee first thing. Happy? It's not that we don't love spontaneity; we just usually like to be prepared for it.

I think there's way too much pressure on guys to come up with these big romantic gestures. And these days, who has the time, the money or the imagination? Worse, do it too often and they might become expected, and that's never good.  Sadly, gentlemen, there will always be some women who want to be swept off their feet. But then they reach their 23rd birthdays. Sure, we all want to be dazzled every so often, but it's not really necessary all the time. You know what counts as romantic for most women? Do you think she's awesome? Have you told her lately? That's romantic. So bring me a lemon tart and return my phone call. I'm swooning already.

Missed connections

A friend was at a dinner party recently, and found herself seated next to a man she'd never met. He was engaging, witty, attentive -  all the things you'd want in a dinner companion. She felt a very strong connection between them. And then, towards the end of the meal, he stood up. He was much shorter than she'd expected. She immediately questioned whether the connection she felt was as strong as she'd first thought.

Hey, we all have things we think are non-negotiable. For some, it's height. For others, it's age, or  whether someone has been married before, or even their taste in music or tv or movies. You know who you are. But feeling a connection to someone is so wondrous when it happens, shouldn't it be worth negotiating? Even if that means wearing the occasional pair of  flat shoes? Or going to a movie with both "fast" and "furious" in the title? FYI - one of those is a trick question.

In my 20s, I felt that bond more than once. And back then, I didn't hesitate when I felt it; I took a flying leap towards it as only an invincible 20-something can. Turns out it wasn't always a connection; sometimes, it was horniness. But at the time, I justified my occasionally questionable choices by saying things like "but we have such an amazing connection..." You know what? We usually didn't.

Half a lifetime later, I now realize what real connection is, and how rare it can be. So when we're lucky enough to feel it, why do we, more often than not, run from it, or talk ourselves out of it, instead of leaping towards it? It's not because someone is too short, or has an ex-wife, or thinks Anderson Cooper is overrated (as if). It's not about our non-negotiables. Not really. It's because we've learned it's easier to be huge fucking chickens. And really, telling someone you "feel a connection" to them all seems a bit too Stephenie Meyer for those of us well past our Twilight years. But I think we often end up selling ourselves short (no pun intended). What if that feeling is the universe (or, more likely, our gut) pushing us to take a chance?

Except...sometimes my gut is a damn liar. I know the few times as an honest to goodness adult I've felt "it", thrown my hard-earned caution to the wind and climbed out there on the ledge, it has not gone so well. There's a reason this blog isn't called "You say completely fulfilled like it's a bad thing". Those few times, I've regretted it. But you know what? I'd regret not climbing out on that ledge more. So once in a great while, I trust my gut, pathological little bitch that it is, and I put myself out there, teetering somewhere between humiliation and hopefulness. And if, like the times before,  it turns out to be less a connection and more a rejection, it'll make a good story at your next dinner party. Just don't put me next to someone who thinks Anderson is overrated.

It's the little things

I read a hilarious column recently by an engaged guy who revealed some of the moments when he knew a girl was not  "The One". On one occasion, the belief the Ewoks were the best thing about "Star Wars"  was the straw that broke the Wookie's back. It seems that it's often the little things (or, in his case, the little furry things), and not the bigger picture, that make us see the light. And sometimes, the little things become a bigger picture. Sort of a mosaic of assholery. And occasionally, knowing he's not the one can be as obvious as writing on the wall. Or on the piece of paper on his coffee table. The one with the other girl's phone number.   

Not the ones:

1) The guy who calls on a Friday evening to see if you want to come over, but gets your voice mail and leaves a message. You call back less than 20 minutes later. No answer. No return call. You see him bright and early the next morning at your favourite brunch spot. With another girl. Having the Eggs Benedict Arnold, presumably.

2) The guy you've just capped off a great evening with back at his place. While you blow out the candles and clear away the wine glasses, he excuses himself for a moment. You notice the phone cord snaking under the bathroom door. Oddly, the pizza delivery guy doesn't show.

3) The guy who asks someone else to dance during "Stairway to Heaven". Granted, it was grade 9, but even then, I knew.

4) The guy who comes to visit for the first time in ages. You go for drinks, chat, happy to be in each other's company. Then he leans across the table and says "have you ever had someone who just gets under your skin and you can't get them out?" You think "Wow, this is so unexpected. Is he finally going to say it? Remain calm." You say "Yes, I have, actually..." He says "Yeah, this girl I just broke up with, she is..."

5) The guy who invites you to visit for the weekend, then asks you on Sunday morning if you think you can change to an earlier flight, since he has plans to hang out with his ex-girlfriend.

6) The ex-boyfriend who agrees to be your date at an old friend's wedding. Promising, right? Wedding, fancy clothes, romance. Only he didn't tell you he can't stay for the reception, since he has plans back in the city. With the girl he just started seeing. And he's your drive.

7) The guy you've been dating for a month or so who asks out someone else. In front of you.

8) The guy you've been seeing non-exclusively but frequently for a few months. Some mutual friends are getting together, but he can't join you because he has a date. Then he ends up making an appearance. With the date. He asks you if you want to go see a band with them. Him and his date. You decline. He looks perplexed; don't you love that band?

9) The guy who stops a conversation mid-sentence to literally turn away from you and watch another woman walk down the street.

10) The guy who says "you don't tell people about us, do you?" Followed a few hours later by asking you to deliver a wedding gift to mutual friends. If people aren't supposed to know you've seen each other recently, let alone in your underpants, how did you get the wedding gift in the first place?

Sometimes, it's the thing you never saw coming. Sometimes, it's the thing you absolutely expected. And sometimes, it's Ewoks. Oh - and just in case you're thinking I've known a lot of jerks, I haven't. You didn't think these were ten different guys, did you? Nope, just a few.  And I don't think any of them are bad guys; they just weren't the ones for me. Sometimes, it takes a few tries before you can clearly see that writing on the wall.

The great first date debate

Okay, it's not really much of a debate, but "discussion" didn't rhyme. Recently, some girlfriends and I got to talking about great first date ideas in Halifax. This is supremely easy in the summer, but a little tougher in the dead of winter. And let me stop any regular readers right there: I realize me talking about dating is like me talking about abdominal surgery; it's theoretical more than practical. I don't really do it, I'm pretty sure I'm underqualified for it, and the person on the receiving end might end up suing me.

Okay, I know many loving, committed relationships have started off over dinner and a movie. Except, it's just...uninspired. I don't think movies should be allowed on first dates. And you know I love movies. But why would you spend two hours NOT talking to the person you're hoping to get to know better? As for dinner, you won't find a more enthusiastic foodie than me, but you should tread carefully. Never go too fancy out of the gate. I think relaxed food means relaxed first date. Pizza and beer? Awesome. Burgers and fries? Awesome. Something with a reduction and way too much cutlery? Awesome in theory, but not first date awesome. First date awkward.

Go do something. I don't mean see a band or a play (see: not talking), but something a bit interactive, maybe a bit goofy. I think glow in the dark mini-golf is a fantastic choice. Like the name suggests, it's dark, which is always fun, since my inhibitions tend to lower right along with the wattage. You're doing something silly, so it takes the pressure off. It's hard to be nervous about the date when your teeth are glowing and you're aiming a tiny ball at a tiny hole while 80s hair band music plays. And you can get a little touchy-feely in the name of psyching out your opponent. Playing pool is great for this, too. I sort of suck at pool, but do have a tendency to make the occasional accidentally awesome shot despite a complete lack of planning and/or technical know-how. This is also an excellent opportunity to wear a slightly low-cut top. Are you stripes or solids? Who cares? Your boobs look great. Take the time to really line up your shots, ladies.

A T. rex named Sue. A bold choice for the post-adolescence set? Sure, for some. But it's a goddamn T. rex! Named Sue! She's world famous. She's the largest example of the baddest of the bad ass ever found. Have you seen "Jurassic Park"? That poor goat. And following Sue up with a trip to Maxwell's Plum to see if a beery connection to her can be made (she's from South Dakota - do they make beer in South Dakota?) is the sort of nonsense I'm all over. I know it would never happen, because I live in Halifax, not a romantic comedy, but if a guy ever suggested this as a first, or really any, date, I would likely be the first person ever kicked out of the Museum of Natural History for making out up against a 65 million year old dinosaur.

My final mid-winter suggestion is not for everyone. But those who like it will like it a lot! Go on the Keith's brewery tour. I admit this is fraught with pitfalls, but it's also chock-a-block with social lubricants. Sure, it's a bit hokey, what with the period costumes. Sidebar: I always want to talk to people in period costumes in a fake English accent, regardless of the period; I can't imagine this compulsion would be lessened in any way by the addition of beer. Anyway, you learn a little something about the love affair between ale and our fair city, the old brewery market is a terrific building, and there's a tavern at the end. There are also, however, serving wenches, so it might be a good time to redeploy that low-cut top I mentioned.

I know many women would prefer to be wined and dined on a first date, and that's great for some people. It's a perfectly acceptable first date. But it's not me. Give me a fossil and a Sam Adams over a wine list and linen napkins any day. And now that I think about it, there might be something to this whole dating / abdominal surgery analogy. I actually feel similarly towards both: you'll hopefully feel great afterwards, every one should scrub up beforehand, and it's always a good idea to drape the tummy before you start. Just don't sue me.

This time it's personal

There it is again. An ad for e-harmony. E-horror is more like it. While I could never do it, I'm in awe of people who put themselves out there. I prefer to meet guys the organic way. You know: friends introduce you, or maybe you meet at a house party, you hit it off right away. You've been talking all evening, he's attentive, he leans in close and says "Hey, this might be a little forward, but can I ask you something? Your friend, the one with the long hair - is she single? "  Good times.  Anyway, not my thing, but I googled some tips for writing an online personal ad, just for research.

1) I'm supposed to choose a catchy user name that says something positive about me as an individual dater, while avoiding a handle that may be seen as overly aggressive or too timid or too generic.

Okay, so "Idon'tlikespooning" is out. So is "LiveswithKitties" or "Likesitontop". Actually, that last one has potential, at least in the short-term.

2) I'm supposed to paint myself  in the best possible light. Seems obvious.They suggest being truthful and humorous, yet modest, perhaps starting with a question to draw people in or by sharing some things I like about myself or that others frequently remark on. Then I'm to write a sentence or two about what I'm looking for in a date or partner.

I think I'm sort of cool, and by my age, honesty is pretty much my best quality, so I think we're good here. What do my friends remark on most? That I'm funny, I know lots of big words, and my boobs. I'll probably  leave at least one of those out.

As for what I'm looking for in a partner, hmmm. I really enjoy guys'  forearms. This is weird, I know. Some girls like a nice bum; me, I'm a forearm aficionado. But most men have two of those, at least so long as we're not counting Def Leppard drummers, so it hardly narrows the list of candidates.
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3) Add a flattering picture of myself. Look for a recent picture where I'm the central focus, with a nice smile. Avoid pictures where I'm drinking.

Okay, so no prom photo. Too bad. Pale blue tulle is a good colour on me. The last photo I willingly posed for was when I renewed my driver's license, and even then I didn't want to. I typically avoid cameras like someone in the witness protection program.  Except when I'm drinking, ironically.

4) Avoid bland cliches like "looking for someone to share my life with" or "I like dining out." State my interests specifically.  Be descriptive about things that are important to me.

So no walks in the rain or being a people person, then? Just as well; my hair does not look good wet. And while proper punctuation is quite important to me, I fear that might send the wrong...wait..what...did you just fall asleep while you were reading that?

Okay - keeping these tips in mind, here goes.  I will never actually use it, but here's what my fake ad might actually say:

"Wordsandwinefan" - Have you always wanted to have wings and beer - in Morocco?  Me too! Also me: very early 40s, never married, green eyes, curvy. My friends rely on me to crack them up, but I'm looking for a guy who simply makes me smile. I've found that interesting conversation is one of life's most enjoyable pleasures. Well, that, and cheese. My perfect weekend usually involves good coffee, a great bookstore, and pasta, but I won't say no to mini-golf.  I love modern design but live in a 107 year old house. I love independent movies, but have seen "The Hunt for Red October" at least a dozen times. I'd like to meet someone between 38-45 who's easygoing and curious. About the world, food, books, and me. You don't have to agree with me on everything, but you need to be passionate when you're telling me why you don't. Tall is great, kindness is essential, and a touch of wanderlust is fantastic. If you can have a great time whether playing Wii with friends or drinking cheap wine at 2am on a rooftop in Rome, let me know.

I suspect my ad, were it ever posted, would receive responses pretty much like the following:

From: "Likestheladies2579"

Hey there. I noticed your ad, and I think we'd hit it off.  I'm not really into books or movies, but I do really like driving my Lexus. That's an expensive car. I mostly spend my weekends working out or going to whatever bar is hot. Gotta stay current, you know. Being "kind" seems sort of girly, but I wouldn't hit a woman or anything. I don't really "get" travelling to weird places, but I just got back from a sweet trip to Vegas with my boys. What happens in Vegas, am I right? Anyway, if you could, send a full body shot so I can see if curvy just means boobs and ass or all over. You can't be too careful with these things. I'm not overly tall, but no one has ever complained when they're lying down, know what I'm saying? Oh - it says very early 40s. Don't suppose that's a typo, is it? Not a deal breaker, since you look much younger. And hey - the girl in the background in your profile picture - is she single?

Friend speak

I'm a pretty honest person. My friends know if they want a sugar-coated opinion, I'm very likely fresh out of sugar. But sometimes, we're not honest with our friends. We're saying one thing, but secretly hoping they get what we really mean. Kind of makes you wish friends came with a decoder ring, huh? 

What your friend says: "You have a big personality / you're so much fun / you're the sparkliest person in the room".  What she means: "You're a loudmouth. No wonder no one asks you out - they can't get a word in edgewise. Shut the fuck up".

What your friend says: "He just wasn't the right person for you". What she means: "You'll die alone".

What your friend says: "I'm sure you didn't do or say anything to turn him off". What she means: "You totally said or did something to turn him off. Shut the fuck up or you'll die alone".

"It's not my favourite look on you." This one can actually have a few meanings. It can mean: " I really like those shoes/ those jeans/ that top, and they look good on you, but if you buy it/them, then I can't". The second possiblity? " I'm bloated, I feel a zit coming, I don't think I'm ever going to have sex again, and the fact that your boobs look so good right now is pissing me off".  Third option? "Moo". This one is a crap shoot. Decode wrong at your own peril.

"We'd love to come; let me just check with insert-husband's-name-here and find out if we can get a sitter." What she means: "I have a man who loves me, regular sex,  brilliant, happy child/ren, and you don't. I don't love those jeans on you. You'll die alone." Or, she could just mean she'd love to come, but her husband might have to work late and the teenager next-door is booked three weeks in advance. I might be overthinking this one.

"My opinion of him really isn't important. If you like him, and he makes you happy, that's all that matters." What she means: "He's a complete jackass, you could do so much better, I'm pretty sure he has a drug problem, and he has repeatedly tried to feel my ass. You'd be better off dying alone."

Your straight male friend says: " You think he's hot? Really?  He seems like a bit of a tool..." What he means: "He seems like a nice guy. And you clearly like him alot. Why don't you think I'm hot? You did in college. Man, we totally should have slept together".

Your gay male friend says "You think he's hot? Really? He seems like a bit of a tool..." What he means: "For the love of Neil Patrick Harris, are you blind? I'm 97% certain that he's gay, with a plus or minus error margin of 3 percent. The gays are bad at math, but that could mean he's 103% gay".

Naturally, I'm simply providing this as a public service; my friends have nothing to worry about. I love those jeans on all of you, I think he's fabulous, and you have never said or done anything to make a man change his mind. And I'll die alone.

Dating by the numbers

Dating. It's been the number one topic for my friends and me lately. Other than what we were going to eat next. Haven't talked about dating this much in a while, mostly because I'm not sure I'm built for it. But I am sure of this: dating, or at least the way I view dating, is much different after 35.

For today's purposes, let's define dating as repeatedly spending time with someone you like and are hoping to get to know better,  romantically. Definitions are important. I once thought I was seeing someone casually. So did he. Except my definition of casual was we'd see each other once, occasionally twice a week. His definition was that we'd see each other once, occasionally twice a week. Because he was seeing 2 or 3 other people on the other nights.

In my 20s and even early 30s, I wanted to be wooed. Grand romantic gestures, extravagant plans - these were the things I wanted in a relationship.  Didn't get 'em, but wanted 'em. Now, who has the time for grand gestures? And I'm so tired at the end of the week, I kind of don't want to commit to something too far in advance. Some of the best evenings are spur of the moment. It doesn't mean a guy likes you less; it means there's nothing he'd rather do tonight. Fine by me. That being said, it is awfully nice to have something to look forward to, but don't make plans you aren't going to keep. I used to brush it off as "no big deal" if I got cancelled on, not wanting to be that girl, even though I was seething inside. It was always a big deal, jackasses. 

Forget what I just said. I do still want to be wooed. But the manner of woo has changed. There was a time when it meant fancy dinners and gifts (the eye-watering "Obsession" by Calvin Klein comes to mind). Now, it means getting extra green olives on the pizza because I like them, or remembering how I take my coffee. Because anyone can pull out their Visa; thoughtful gestures that show a guy's been paying attention are much harder to come by.

I think we all go through it, but I wanted to date "that" guy. The hot one, the coolest one, the emotionally cruel one. I usually didn't, because everyone else wanted to date him, too. But the thing is, I've realized that cute and kind is the new hot. And the new coolest. Emotionally cruel isn't the new anything. Boy, would the romantic landscape of my 30s have been different if I'd figured that out a little sooner.

I always wanted to "do something" on a date. I mean go out, have dinner, cocktails, see a band. And sure, those things are great. But I sometimes wonder if part of the excitement was knowing that other people were seeing me on a date. You know what? Staying in is a date. I have an awesome house, a great tv, and a fully stocked bar. And my couch is the best seat in the house. Plus, you can totally make out with the girl who brings you your drink. Try that at the Fireside. I'm worried, though, that buying my house has sent me even further into dating Siberia, making me seem "too settled" for most men. Several guys I know assured me that "a chick with her own place" is a bonus. Hasn't proven to be the case. Not even with all the HD sports channels. Fuck. I pay too much for cable and I'm still not getting a kiss goodnight.

I don't want you to sleep over. Not all the time. When I was younger, it was sort of a badge of honour if a guy spent the entire night. Don't get me wrong; I'd really like a little chat, maybe a snack, before a guy has one foot in his pants and the other on his gas pedal. But let's get this out of the way right now:  I sleep hard. I wake up looking like an extra from "28 Days Later". Why would I do that to someone I really like? But if you stay over on the weekend, I can promise Belgian waffles and piping hot coffee. Just do both of us a favour: unless you have a Gorgon fantasy (no judgement)  you might want to sleep with a pillow over your face. Or invest in a sleep mask. It's for your own good.

I don't want to talk numbers with you. Not that mine are in any way horrifying, unless you're my Mom,  but I don't want to know if yours are a bit Sheen-ish. Why are we so eager to share sex math when we're younger? Here's all you need to know:  enough to feel like I have a firm handle on things, not so many I have a standing prescription for the morning-after pill. However, dating horror stories are another matter. Bring 'em on. If you can't laugh about your romantic mishaps, you can always laugh about mine.

There is one thing that hasn't changed, unfortunately. I still want a guy to do the asking. It's not that I'm old-fashioned; it's that I'm a grade A chicken. I realize this goes completely against how I want people to perceive me:  independent, strong, forthright. And most of the time, I am. But I'm also the girl who took a friend to prom because the first guy I ever asked out turned me down. Thank God; it'll make for a much better chapter in my inevitably best-selling autobiography.

And by the way, I did consider asking a guy my age for his take on the differences in dating women over 35, but then I realized pretty much every guy my age who's looking to date would say "there are women over 27?" Never mind.

I'm not crushed

It's finally happened. For one of the few times in my adult life, I don't have one. A crush. An object d'affection. I'm crushless. And I don't like it one little bit.

Why? Do I miss the drama that can accompany a crush? The petty, pointless and slightly perverse sense of betrayal when you realize your crush is a) talking to another girl, b) completely unaware you cut your hair, c) gay?  Nope. But here's what I do miss - the spring in my step, the extra 30 seconds picking out a pretty top, the flirty conversation that makes having to take off volumizing mascara before bed all worth it. I miss having a good reason to reapply my lipgloss after my morning coffee.

There was the guy at the gym. It was over when I finally heard him speak; David Beckham without the accent. The bartender at my favourite bar; I eventually realized he asked everyone if he could get them anything else, not just me.  The guy I worked with; I made out with him. I've had crushes that turned into relationships, relationships that cooled into crushes and, once or twice, crushes that became relationships that became this depressing kind of horny loathing. I also had, once, a crush that turned into Erasure's "A Little Respect" within three songs of me walking into a club (hey, Al the DJ from Scoundrels! How've you been?). But right now, I got nothing. I don't even like George Clooney like I used to.

My last crush ended ugly. Bad day when I realized he wasn't worth the lipgloss. It was like he gave my expectations herpes. And yet, I miss it. Because no matter how old you are, crushes are fun. Sure, they're shallow and quite often on inappropriate people. My male colleagues are trying to figure out if I mean them. For a few of you, yes, I do.  But they make your day a little brighter, your mood a little better, your boobs a little perkier (crushes get the good bras). So step up, gentlemen. Do something to make me crush on you. My good bras are waiting.

Bring sexy back

I love the word "sexy". So many people use "hot" these days, and I miss sexy. Hot seems temporary, like it'll eventually get cold. Sexy is forever; it's a state of mind. And over the years, my state of mind on what's sexy has changed. Some things have gone by the wayside (we had a good run, leather pants), others are in it for the long haul (always lovely to see you, chest hair). I once compared sexy lists with a guy. We had actual, committed-to-paper lists. Admittedly, it was foreplay, and at the time we both hit a lot of the bullet points on each other's. I've tried my damnedest to find that list; I want to compare my late 20s turn-ons to what floats my boat these days. Alas, no dice. Regardless, here's what makes the grade right now.

Facial hair. It's one of the first things I notice. Not moustaches, or stylized chin straps (really?), or a full-on playoff beard, but a little scruff. Maybe because it makes me think about what a guy looks like in the morning, but a little two day stubble is tremendously attractive. Even more so when I've only known the man to be clean-shaven. Clean-shaven is work-appropriate, and neat, and proper, but a little stubble is...not. A few years back, I had a huge hard-on for goatees. I know, I know - they're love 'em or hate 'em. I loved 'em more than I can say. And yes, probably for the reasons you're thinking.

A guy who can cook, at least a little. He doesn't have to be all Iron Chef and make a béarnaise sauce or anything, but a little self-sufficiency beyond a can opener is good. Otherwise, I'll assume he's just used to his momma doing it, and Momma's boys will NEVER be sexy to me. See also: ironing, doing dishes, knowing that whites and colours are done separately. Put a man in a kitchen, give him a knife, a sauté pan and a couple cloves of garlic, and I guarantee you I'll want to make out with him. Which I realize can be dangerous near a hot stove.

A guy who can drive well. I think this is pretty self-explanatory, but for those of you just hitting puberty, here's the deal: he has a powerful machine under him. He controls it with a few deft moves of his hands. Sometimes there's shifting. There's this whole stance a confident man assumes when he's in the driver's seat that kind of makes me giddy. Bonus points if he keeps his hand on my leg between shifting.

A guy who can wear the shit out of a pair of jeans. A well-cut suit and a tie with a dash of pizzazz is always nice, but I've always been more of a casual girl (boy, is that last part a loaded statement). I appreciate jeans, maybe a sweater or a long sleeved t-shirt, and a bit of jewellery (leather cuff, nice watch - something that draws attention to his hands) far more than fine tailoring. The exception? End of day, tie off, cuffs rolled, a couple buttons undone. My equivalent of sexy librarian. And a guy who wears an actual coat, not a windbreaker or a parka, with a cool scarf? Consider yourself eye-fucked. What's up, guy at Chapters last weekend?

I can't talk about what's sexy without the obvious physical stuff. Sure, there are the easily noticed things I like - at least 6 inches taller than me (not hard), nice hands, broad shoulders, an easy laugh. But let's face it: a lot of the really good stuff is hidden until at least the second date (used to be the third, but I'm trying to be more efficient). That vein in the forearm that just doesn't show up on girls (except maybe Madonna). The aforementioned chest hair. I know some women dislike it, but to me chest hair equals grown-up. Masculine. And it feels awesome. A smooth back (more rare than you might think). A scar or two. Not "Music of the Night" territory, but a little flaw that hints at a life lived, a story to tell. Soft lips. Ideally, soft medium to full lips, or at least the lower lip. Really thin lips are like kissing my hand for practice. Not that I've done that. Much.

A guy who doesn't always ask before he kisses you. Calm down; I'm not talking about a guy you don't want kissing you. I'm talking about my living room, second bottle of wine, it's getting late. Hint: if I've opened the second bottle, or if I've said yes when you offered to, you don't need to ask if you can kiss me. If my feet are on the couch pointing towards you, you don't need to ask if you can kiss me. If I've touched my throat or neck several times, see above. Reading my body language, and doing something about it, is sexy. More men need to trust their instincts in these situations. If you're on my couch, and I've either a) lit some candles or b) put on a movie with a racy sex scene, consider yourself cleared for takeoff.

I know there are all these theories about how a man dances and his prowess in bed. I don't believe it's always a good indicator; I saw a lot of dancing in the mid to late 80s, and yet I still chose to become sexually active. Besides, how many people actually dance anymore? You know what, for me, is a much better indicator? His curiousity. Curiousity might be the sexiest thing of all. My brain is a huge fan of foreplay, and I've found that a man who's curious about the world, and about his role in it, will be curious about other things. Second or possibly third date things.

There are many levels of sexy, and sometimes someone who starts off sexy can quickly become not, or vice versa. A guy I immediately disliked upon first impression turned out to be one of the sexiest men I've ever known. And the guy whose sexiness hit me like a ton of bricks turned out to be kind of a tool. Of course, there are some incredibly sexy things you can only discover about a man after you've taken him to bed. I'll save those for another time, since leaving you wanting more is always sexy.

My kind of town

Hey H.,

So I know things have been a bit rough for you lately. People have been saying you're not very progressive, and too meek, and desperately in need of a face lift. I've even lamented your lack of ambition lately, your complacency, your inability to get out of your own way.

But then... I spent a few days getting reaquainted with you, and I am more in love with you now than ever. Don't let them get you down. I've realized size does matter, and baby, you're perfect for me. We've been together for more than 20 years, and Halifax, I'm not going anywhere.

I love how laid back you are. There's virtually no place in town I can't go in boots and a pair of jeans. Who wants to have pizza and beer in a tight skirt and something dry-clean only? Besides, the Fireside is below ground. You try navigating those steps in heels. Before martinis it's awkward. After martinis it's medically unsound.

I love how there are, and always have been, groups of goths around, bless their angsty hearts. For a brief time, long ago, I was one of them. Or at least had the dress-up kit. Favourite gothic moment this week? A very polite and heavily eye-linered couple patiently standing in line for a smoothie at Pete's. I wonder what goes better with all those piercings: the Honeydew Bliss or the Jackie's Love Potion?

I love Robbie Burns. We've got a bunch of statues of men long dead in this town, but Robbie is my favourite. Standing watch in Victoria Park, he's firmly rooted at the intersection of "just one more drink" and "if I leave right now, and walk fast, I can get four hours of sleep". I spent many years living a few blocks south of him, and I loved being able to give directions to my place: "turn right at Robbie Burns". I also spent more than a few early mornings tiptoeing home past Robbie, shoes metaphorically in hand, and really, who better to witness my martini-fueled peccadilloes than a Scotsman with a bit of a reputation?

I love coffee. And lattes. And café au lait. And you have the best coffee shops. They're everywhere. And I don't mean Mr. Horton's. Funky or cozy, subterranean industrial chic or a sunlight warren of room after room in an old Victorian, I can get my fix any number of places. As a girl who needs her coffee, I really dig this. So much.

I love that a new wine bar is opening in our downtown, right next door to a fine purveyor of naughty literature and devices of a more prurient nature. I don't know a thing about zoning laws, but this is the kind of one-stop shopping I can get on board with.

I love how you love music. Maybe it's because you're a college town, but Ani Difranco, Wintersleep, and Basia Bulat all in the space of a couple weeks? Awesome. They no longer know my name at the doors of all the music clubs, but should I get a second wind, it's nice to know I could still get my band on. Figuratively, I mean.

I love that I can see the lights of the harbour from my front porch. And I love that the nearest lake is less than 10 minutes from my house. Some of the most memorable summer days I've spent here have been on a boat, sailing up the Arm and down the harbour, drinking wine, watching whales, and trying to remember which island is haunted, Georges or McNabs?

So you see, it's not just one thing, it's all the little things. It's your tree-lined streets, and all the great restaurants, and the film festival, and all the students every September, and your sense of history, and even, once every 18 months or so, your donairs. But mostly, it's being reminded, every once in a while, that there is no other place I'd rather be.

The One

There's only one man I haven't slept with. Okay, before you go asking your boyfriends and husbands (and that waitress from the Flamingo) if they know me, there's technically lots of men I haven't slept with. But there's only one I really regret not sleeping with. And in case you're wondering, no, it's not you.

I really have no idea why it never happened. I can tell you, in great detail, the circumstances, even the cocktails, that led to me sleeping with every other person I've gone to bed with, the evenings or events that took us from flirtation to consummation. But I can't really tell you why this particular relationship remained chaste, except for a goodnight kiss or two. It certainly seemed like it would head in that direction. I mean, it's not like I play that hard to get.

We met in our early 20s, and very quickly took to each other like Joanie to Chachi. It may have been our mutual love of music (listening for me, playing for him). Or maybe leather (jacket for me, pants for him). We spent a ridiculous amount of time together, often with alcohol involved. We talked on the phone all the time, drove around the city (he always opened the car door for me). He was a great driver, which earned him major hot points. He was also very tall, great hands, darkly handsome, quick to laugh, with a sexy / dirty voice and great hair. He always insisted on paying. And he adored me. Still does. So what the hell? There were so many times friends ran into us at a bar and wondered what the hell was going on. Not nearly enough, much to my continuing dismay.

There was one night I thought the planets might be aligned. We were at a party in honour of the G-7. And no, he wasn't Bill Clinton, by the way. The venue was beautiful, the vibe was exciting, the beer and the booze were both free and free flowing. I remember us sidling up to the bar and asking for tequila shot after tequila shot. I do enjoy a man who'll do tequila with me. After a somewhat liquified evening, we hatched upon a brilliant plan, a plan so simple yet so perfect it seemed foretold by the gods. The plan? "Let's go back to the media centre and see if we can find Wolf Blitzer." So away we went, just the three of us; me, him and our wing man Jose Cuervo. A quick bag search, a flash of a pass, and we were in. The media centre was surprisingly busy for nearly midnight. We skulked, we slunk, we stumbled, we ran into Irving R. Levine. Not good enough. Bow-tie be damned, we were on a Wolf hunt. Just when we thought our search would be fruitless, we rounded a cubicle-maze corner, and there he was. The man himself. Wolf. We were doubly Blitzed that night. Did we introduce ourselves? Nope. We gazed upon the object of our journalistic affections from several feet away, then we practically skipped off to a quiet corner, giddy in our accomplishment. There, we slowly came down from our CNN contact high and called his Mom to tell her of our conquest. She was both impressed and, I think, a wee bit concerned for both our blood alcohol levels and Mr. Blitzer's safety. However, she'd heard a lot about me, and I'm pretty sure she knew her boy was in good hands. Or could be, if he'd just make a damn move. C'mon - could there have been a better time to finally act on it, drunk as we were on both our success and the bittersweet nectar of the blue agave plant? You'd think so, but no. Alas, our mutual satisfaction that night was limited to watching our unsuspecting hero type.

I know if I were to email him right now and ask why we never got carnal, he'd say something silly like "because, baby, I knew I couldn't handle you", or "you would have ruined me for everyone else" or something equally flattering but non-serious. Part of his undeniable charm, but not exactly illuminating.

Maybe it's that we were so young, and lord knows I wasn't a make the first move kind of girl back then. I'm still not. Unless I pretty much have an engraved invitation, I'm not going to be the first one coming up (or going down) to get the party started. And it may sound silly, but he was a gentleman. I believe without a very clear signal from me, he was not about to risk our friendship. Maybe he didn't want to use me for sex. Seriously, dude, I wouldn't have minded. Had you seen your ass? I sometimes wondered if the attraction wasn't mutual. I suppose there's always that chance, but I really don't think that was it. Being frustrated and being an idiot are two separate things.

After he moved away, we'd always get together when we were in the same city. I'd get nervous, wondering if a different setting would make the difference. Or if a fast drive on a summer night along the lakeshore would make the difference. Or if microbrewed beer and a smoky club would make the difference. Or if me having way more disposable income and an incredibly sexy hotel room would make the difference. No, no, sadly no, and fuck no.

I'll always think of him so fondly, and I'll always wonder what it would have been like (fantastic is my guess), but maybe it's better this way. I never needed to ask myself "Was that a mistake" or "I wonder if he still thinks about me that way?" or "Do these hotel sheets make my boobs look awesome or what?" Here's the thing: with maybe one exception, no one I've ever slept with has made me feel as fascinating with my clothes off as he did sitting across the table from me on many an evening, clothes well and firmly on. And that, perhaps, is enough, the reason that being The One who got away is better than being one of the ones who didn't.

And by the way, Mr. Blitzer? As a matchmaker, you suck.

Party of one

Editor's note: (I've always wanted to say that, even though I don't have an editor. Unless you count Tallulah, who likes to sit on the desk batting pens onto the floor and demanding I scratch her head. I wonder if Anna Wintour is this demanding?) I originally wrote parts of this a few years ago for another project. A few things have changed (the latitude and longitude of my ass, my unconditional love for George Clooney), but much of it still holds true.

"Why are you single?"

I’ve been asked that question more than a few times over the years. It used to make me bristle, seeming so judgy about my worthiness as a girlfriend. Now, I don’t mind it so much. Why the hell am I single?

My answer has always been that I’m better off alone. I know a few men who'd agree, and it's always seemed an easier answer than “guys don’t ask me out”. Which is true, but sounds a little pathetic. I’ve never been the girl guys approach, unless it’s to find out if my friend is single. Or to see if I'd like to switch cell phone plans. But I no longer know if I am better off as a solo act. I've cultivated this “I’m a single girl, you coupled-up suckers” image, when really I’d like to be in love. Not in a creepy, "I already have a wedding dress in my closet" way, but in a "reason to shave my legs every single day" way. I’d like to have a side of the bed instead of the middle. And I'd like to take advantage of the large pizza offers I get in my mailbox without having to justify the leftovers. Or eating an entire large pizza in one sitting.

The thing is, I think I make an excellent girlfriend. I’m not too clingy; I like having time to myself. It sometimes borders on the anti-social, truthfully, which kind of makes me wonder if the Unabomber and I would hit it off. I’m not a princess; I don’t expect a man to provide for me. I expect a man to get the lids off jars. I’m thoughtful, I give great gifts, I'm pretty open minded around the bedroom. I’m cute, possibly even attractive, when well-rested, moisturized and properly hydrated. I worry that baby's got a little too much back, but I've honestly never come close to hearing the words "you know what I really like? A bony ass". Besides, I've spent a fair bit of time at Home Depot lately (decorating as a subsitute for sex), and dimmers are surprisingly easy to install.

So what’s the problem? For starters, I'm gun shy. The reasons for this are maudlin and tragic and worthy of their own post. For now, suffice it to say that commitment phobes, cheaters, players and the emotionally comatose are kinda my thing. When it comes to accumulating tools, I'm second only to Bob Vila. Really, when I think about it, I'm sure only geography and divine intervention have kept me from waking up next to John Mayer by now. Mostly though, I don’t meet anyone. Admittedly, I don't give off "single and looking" vibes, likely because I just can't stomach all the first date nonsense where I'm supposed to dumb it down and make inane small talk and act like he's the funniest person ever and just So Damn Fascinating. No one is that fascinating when they're nervous and wondering if their deodorant has betrayed them and if that big word they just used to try and impress was actually the word they meant to use. Certainly not me. Besides, you try twirling your hair coyly when it's two inches long.

Friends ask “Wouldn’t you like to be in a relationship?” That’s like asking “Wouldn’t you like to win the Best Original Screenplay Oscar?” Sure, except I’ve never even read a screenplay, let alone written one. I'm pretty sure you have to at least make the attempt. Which reminds me - I’d love to think the screenplay of my romantic future would be akin to "Amelie"; peppered with cute outfits and well-travelled gnomes. Seems optimistic, given the screenplay of my romantic past can best be described as "He's Just Not That Into You" meets "Amityville Horror", only without the dead flies.

Sometimes, I wish I could date just for the sake of dating, but I’m not cut out for it. I think I'm too sensitive. I admire women who blithely say there are always more fish in the sea. I’m more like Santiago when it comes to dating. I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve and that, thus far, has been my downfall. Sometimes, I wish I’d spent more time going sleeveless. But then I remember I hate my upper arms.

I’ve had my heart broken a few times (does it count as once or twice if it's by the same guy?), maimed a time or two, manhandled occasionally. And when I was younger, that made me incredibly skittish. Now, I think it makes me a charter member of a not-very exclusive club. But I’m older, hopefully wiser, and don’t have the wide-eyed expectations that plague the 20 something crowd. I’m not likely to jump in with both feet, but life’s too short to not at least stick your toes in. Besides, I have incredibly cute toes. I just feel like I’m wasting a great time in my life.

I don't want the impossible. I want someone with humour and integrity, style and substance. Unless style for you means Ed Hardy. An artistic side (though if your band is just waiting for their one big break, perhaps not). And really broad shoulders. Someone who's curious about the world. I’d like to be having more regular sex. Or slightly irregular, if that’s your thing. And I’d like to not have only two choices when opening wine - down the hatch or down the drain. But mostly, I’d like someone to lean on. Metaphorically; I'm somewhat renowned for my anti-spooning stance.

Don’t get me wrong - I really like my life. I have a job I really enjoy most days, a not too overbearing family, a great house, and cooking skills that extend beyond finding a take-out menu. I have fantastic, funny, brilliant friends who would slay a dragon for me, should we find ourselves in an Arthurian legend. And they think I’m the cat’s pajamas. So if quality people think I’m quality people, why am I single, while many completely vapid women need to fend ‘em off with a stick? Is vapid the new sexy? Actually, never mind. I think Jersey Shore just answered that question. I've had a few guys tell me, years later, they didn’t realize what a catch I was. Is it too much to ask for someone to figure that out in the present tense?

By the way, for the broad-shouldered, single men between 36-45 who got the Hemingway reference, marry me.

Show of Hands

I'm surrounded by men masturbating. Everywhere I look, there they are. At the movies, on tv, in the book store, on public transit. Though he may have just been digging for change. I think masturbation may be the new black.

Okay - I'm not literally surrounded. Because that would be weird. And unhygienic. But it seems that lately, men and their masturbatory habits have been popping up like so much morning wood. A recent magazine article by a guy confessing to the (sometimes) shameful images he uses to get there. The new movie "The Switch", which really owes Diane Sawyer an apology. A novel I just read featuring a male character who pleasures himself while watching the comely host of a fictional children's show. Not that farfetched; I once attended a party where the fairly well-known star of a popular program for pre-schoolers got her freak on in ways that were decidely NC-17.

All this self-servicing got me thinking. Guys are visual creatures. Women get this, at least by the time we're in our mid 30s, and most of us can deal with the fact that there'll always be something about Alyssa Milano. Or Princess Leia. Or Angela Lansbury. No judgement. But what about women? Sure, we like to look at attractive men but, for most of us, the mere visual isn't enough. It takes a bit more than a glossy photo or a promo for a " Who's the Boss?" marathon to bring the quiver. Think about it - know many women who've asked guys to send them naughty pictures? Okay, in my defence, I was half joking, and shirtless doesn't count. But I can't swing a digital camera without hitting a woman who's heard something along the lines of "Oh baby, come on, no one else will see it." And I think guys are missing out on the best part: the fantasy part of fantasizing. Hugh Jackman is hot, no doubt, but a pic of him isn't enough to push my button. There has to be context, and story, and imagined dialogue, at least for me.

Don't kid yourselves, guys; those long, descriptive passages in the "historical fiction" that your mom likes to read aren't just there to accurately set the scene in 1700s England. Men might need a simple screen capture to get off; women usually need a screenplay. And more often than not, the starring role is played by someone we already know intimately. I'm not saying men don't do this; they probably do, occasionally. I'd like to think they do . But they don't seem to need to. Women, however, are a bit more detail oriented. We replay previous encounters in our heads, sometimes exactly as they happened, sometimes embellishing dialogue, sometimes rewriting the ending. Sort of like Masturbation: the Director's Cut. At the risk of making someone blush, there's one real-life encounter I've actually developed sequels for; I think the blocking may need a bit of finessing, but the dialogue is pretty much perfect (not that it needed much work). And what was it about this particular assignation that made it worthy of its own franchise? I'm getting to that.

So why the difference? When it comes right down to it, why do women want even their fantasy partners to be familiar? Because women long to be seduced (even if we're by ourselves) and, at least for this woman, nothing is hotter, and thus more seductive, than knowing someone. I'm sure some men would agree, but I have a suspicion that, in most cases, the barista who handed them their latte this morning at Starbucks has an equal shot at a featured role in their next solo production. I, on the other hand, have actually felt bad if someone else hops on board my train of thought at a critical moment, like I'm two-timing someone who isn't even in the room with someone who's only in my head. Such a slut.

It makes sense. A random sampling of my friends (conducted by Absolut) would seem to indicate that, compared to men, not many women would tell you their first time with anyone was fantastic. Well, I might, but there were special circumstances. Jet lag being one of them. But it's never the best, not with someone you don't know in that way. That takes time, and learning, and paying attention. So why would it be any different in your fantasy life? Why would you want some new guy rattling around in your brain, trying to figure out how your bra works and wondering if you like having your ears kissed?

And that, at the end of the day (or on a Sunday afternoon), is why my little mini-series is on Me-TV more often than the Sham Wow guy is on late night cable. No image of some random guy, hot as he might be, can compare to the home movies in my head. Unlike some men I know. You guys know Princess Leia didn't really like wearing the slave girl costume, right? Weirdos.