Ladies, Your Dream Men Are Here

It's pretty much an established fact that women can get laid whenever they damn well please. As Jerry Seinfeld so eloquently put it, "Women are in charge of sex. If men were in charge of sex, women would never see the insides of restaurants."

Lately, though, I'm seeing a bit of a power-shift. Guys who look like they'd be uncomfortable fingering anything but a Texas Instruments calculator are walking around with fine-ass ladies. Women flood dating sites looking for "Seth Rogen and Zack Galifianakis types." Bill in accounting is banging a former stripper.

Apparently, this is an international phenomenon. Because a recent poll of 2,500 women in the UK revealed that their two biggest turn-ons were unkempt guys with facial hair and geeks. Also among the most desired were guys who cry at sappy films (holla!) and guys who are "soft and cuddly instead of toned and muscly."

I don't see "pale, tattooed, sardonic Irishmen" on that list, but I won't let it bring me down. I'm just gonna up my Hostess Fruit Pie intake, throw away the Gillette Sensor and wait for the pussy to find me.

I'll be right here. Just so you know.

Guest Post: Treasure Down Under

The parade of awesome female guest bloggers continues. This week, it's the scintillating and verbally dextrous Zia, who turned down my every request that she use my face as her personal sofa, but did offer up the following post. After reading it, I want her even more.

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When you think about all the things we name, you start to wonder: why do we do it? We name pets, cars, GPS systems (mine is Betty), and tons of other inanimate objects. Why? It shows ownership, pride, and a connection. So naming your “family jewels” or “lady business” should not be any different. You own it, it’s definitely connected to you, and even though it is usually inanimate, it has moments of animation which you take pride in and, in turn, want to show off its talents.

In general, you may have a codename for how you address all people’s parts. For example, the grandmother of a girl I knew in high school addressed the female southern region as a twidgette. I personally use hoo-ha. A college friend of mine refers to the male southern region as accessories. But when it comes to naming your own, there are a few different approaches.

Some people like to go with a one-name approach. My dear friend, Mama J, addresses hers by Flower—a name that’s simple, clean, and implies that it smells nice. Her husband, Hubby J, on the other hand, prefers the two-name tactic and calls his member Papa Rocks. Papa gives a, how shall we say, “grandness” or “commanding” presence, while Rocks, in the vernacular, implies that it is a good time.

In my naming research, I found that some people like to use the word “ the” to help clarify their name. Normally, we use the word “ the” for specification. So in translation, when Sarcastic Bride calls her area The Zone, it makes it sound like it’s the one and only place to be.

A few people choose to add the honorific Mr., Ms., or Miss, giving a more professional attitude to their bits. However, I found many of my female friends prefer the possessive “honorific” - My. I have heard My Valentine, My Christmas, and My Princess.

The most unappealing use of “my” was my former college roommate – My Stuff. Really? Stuff is defined as an unspecified material substance. Unspecified? What’s the use of using an honorific if you are showing no honor to your hoo-ha?

Living with her got me to thinking and that is when I came up with my name. Well, names actually. I use a multi-name method. How could I choose just one name when this area has many different moods, emotions, and situations? Think about it: if your significant others’ name is William, you may call him William (professional), Bill (casual), Billy (youthful), or scrap them all and call him Sweetheart or Honey (endearing).

So, with this in mind, I came up with My Happy, in general or after a good roll in the hay. If the roll in the hay was exceptional, My Dopey pays a visit. When I find myself in a position where the guy has no clue what he’ s doing down there and I need to give directions (a.k.a. a prescription to make things better), My Doc is in the house. My Bashful walks into the gynecologist and My Grumpy walks out. My Sleepy appears when I’m in between “ action” (current status), but if it ever becomes My Sneezy, I’m seeing a specialist.

I Still Don't Understand Women

So the other night I meet a female pal of mine for dinner. As we sift through the appetizers, she tells me how her lovelife's been pretty lame of late, and with each successive glass of booze, she gets a bit more descriptive as to what it is that's got her bummed. Apparently, the last few guys she's dated haven't gone down on her, and she's absolutely "dying" -- her words -- for a bit of tongue-lashing.

This being a long-time pal of mine, and quite a hot little number to boot, I assure her that those guys must be crazy or perhaps even a bit queer to not want to work her over, and that everything will likely change with the next boyfriend.

And she starts to explain how she just needs to be sucked on so badly that she's just looking for someone -- anyone -- who'll go down on her with no strings attached. Just so she can remind herself of what it feels like.

And I tell her again that the next man who comes into her life will probably be the guy for the job. I also add that if all she really wants is a little downtown action, I'm sure any guy in any bar in any part of the country -- provided, y'know, he swung that way -- would be more than up to the task.

And she says, no, she doesn't have the time to filter out the psychos and sissy-boys and Dave Matthews fans. She needs someone she can trust. Someone who'll just do the job like it needs to be done. As she puts it, she literally just wants to lay down, get eaten like there's no goddam tomorrow, and put this cursed drought behind her.

So I, fueled purely by alcohol and a prolonged look at her derriere when she got up to use the ladies room, lamely offer my services, seeing as how she almost seems to be steering the conversation in that direction. Hell, I'm always down to go down, as the Cub Scout Mantra dictates.

And that's when she quickly changes direction. "Oh god, no," she says. "We couldn't do that."

But at least I offered. And perhaps that all she wanted to hear.

Me? Emotional? Irrational?

My friends at MetAnotherFrog have asked me to contribute another guest post. This one on the subject of irrational, reactionary, emotional women. Here's a taste:

There may be one or two exceptions in my chequered past. But for the most part, they’re all the same. If I’m a few minutes late coming home, I get a crazed call screaming, “Who is she?” If I can’t make her Dad’s birthday party because of a business trip, she insists I hate her parents and want them dead. If I fall asleep during the chick flick we’re watching, I’m not sensitive to her feelings.

I’ve had girlfriends break down in tears because I was too slow to notice a new haircut. One who threatened to punch out a female ticket-taker at the local movie house because she thought she was “making a play for my guy.” Another who stopped talking to her best friend for three years because she was convinced the girl wore the same dress as her to a wedding out of spite.

Again, I can only base this on the women I know. And with my predilections and obtuse desires, it could very well be that the women I know represent a small demographic. But in my experience, if there’s a conclusion to be jumped to, a handle to be flown off, or a boyfriend to be kicked in the balls based purely on suspicion and nothing resembling hardcore facts, women are gonna do it.

Check the rest, baby. Right here.

The Things I Wish They'd Taught Me

When I was a kid, Americans had not completely lost their grip on rational thought, and I learned about the magic of puberty in sex-ed. There were booklets handed out, covered in pink, script fonts, and pictures of girls doing wholesome activities despite growing hair in funny places and the sudden need to invest in a sports bra. Feminine hygiene companies gave us samples of pads and tampons. And I thought my butch gym teacher had armed me with all the information I needed to Become A Woman.

But nobody warned me about the shits that accompany my period.

I knew that sore breasts, mood swings, and cramps were possibilities. But the most debilitating aspect of my monthly curse is the stomach upset. As soon as food or drink passes through my lips, I am in the restroom. I'll be walking through the mall, minding my own business, when my uterus contracts and my entire intestinal tract is twisting more violently than a Russian gymnast and I'm on the dead run to the ladies' room. As an added bonus, I've got more gas than a Shell station on delivery day.

There's certainly some hormonal reason for this. Why aren't we telling America's young women about this? Why hasn't some sitcom writer adopted a guy's wife having the shits during her period as a plot? Do not be afraid, girls: You are not alone. Many women get the runs during their period. You will fart like crazy. Just eat your snack foods and wait for it to end.

Know Your Bits

I am constantly amazed at how little men know about the intricacies of the female reproductive system and all the things associated with it. I recall sex education (back when kids got that kind of education) -- the girl bits and boy bits were discussed to a co-ed classroom. But while I was furiously labeling the vas deferens and fallopian tubes on my quizzes, they boys were clearly not paying attention after the condom and banana demonstration.

The guys I know don't understand scented versus unscented tampons. Most men don't understand why we have cramps, or the crazy variations in hormone levels women endure every month. They don't know the difference between a UTI and a yeast infection. And while that doesn't necessarily keep them from being good in bed, shouldn't men be a little curious about what goes on in our bodies, both when they're in there and when they're not?

My ex-boyfriend and I were on a road trip a few years back, and somehow I ended up jokingly reading him the packet of information that comes with every package of birth control pills. He turned down the radio as I informed him of the increased risk of blood clots I faced in my quest not to bear his children. I continued through the section about when to start the pills (if you take it on the first day of your period it's effective right off the bat; if you start on a random day, you need backup contraception for a month). When my voice started to give out, I put the book down and expected to listen to the radio again for a while.

"Why are you stopping?" He asked me. "This is fascinating. Keep reading."

Maybe we're just trying to educate the lads at the wrong age.

Love and Herpes

Sometimes, I wish love was more like herpes.

No. I really do. Because unlike love, one knows herpes when one has it. There's an easily-accessible checklist of symptoms. You go to your doctor, and she confirms your worst suspicions. Then you take your medicine and cope with the diagnosis.

Love is more like an episode of Mystery Diagnosis than herpes. The symptoms vary greatly, and typically don't fit a set pattern. You may misdiagnose as lust. Perhaps you've got a case of unrequited love that would fizzle out if you got whom you wanted. You could suffer symptoms (meeting his parents, moving in together, planning a wedding) before you realize you have a really good friend, not someone you want to wake up next to in the nursing home.

I've heard so many stories from people who I believe are genuinely in love. For some, it took them years to recognize the importance of the other person in their life. Other times it was an almost immediate knowledge. Several of my happily married friends say that when they met their now-spouse, everyone else they'd ever had the opportunity of boning seemed less desirable. That's never happened for me, but I think I've been in love at least twice in my life.

I suppose love is more like the old trope about pornography--I'll know it when I see it. Or feel it. Just like I would the herp.

This Dirty Girl Is All Clean

In the ranking of Things I Enjoy Doing In Life, going to the lady-doctor comes in just above listening to nails on the world's longest chalkboard. It's not that I mind spreading my legs for the doctor--it's the whole atmosphere. It's cold in the office, so I have to keep my socks on. I'm wearing one of those heinous hospital gowns, which does me no favors. Sure, the doctor grabs my boobs (to check for cancer) before diving between my legs, but she's got all the finesse of a 15-year-old boy on prom night. Shouldn't she at least buy me a drink first?

Especially when she's running the battery of tests on me. There were a couple of nights when I forgot or neglected to forage for a condom, so I figured it was high time for me to get tested for all the various bugs one can get when getting busy. My gynecologist ran down an entire medical guide of tests she'd order for me. I rolled up my sleeve, gave the ornery technician several vials of my blood, and went on my way.

I wasn't really worried I actually had anything, but it was a great relief when I came home last week and saw a letter from my doctor in the mailbox. No STDs found in my blood or on my cervix. And my cholesterol levels are excellent.

The best part of all this, aside from not having a venereal disease? I can now wave these papers in front of the next guy I'm with. "Here's proof I'm clean, pal. If anything comes up the next time I get one of these, I'll know I have you to thank for it."

No, I Did Not. So Stop Asking

I love sex. But a lot of times, I really hate men.

I think many straight women feel this way about the gender. The broad, muscular shoulders and arms? Yes, please. A strong jawline? I will now lick it. And, of course, the gift that keeps us dealing with the male brand of bullshit, the dick.

Men and women experience sex in vastly different ways because of that organ. In my experience, most men need only an eyeful of cleavage, mouth full of tongue, and vigorous stroking from a hand/mouth/vagina to achieve a pretty great orgasm. On the other hand, there's what it takes both myself and some of my female friends to make our toes curl. Our frame of mind has to be just right. The hand/tongue/penis also has to be rubbing just the right spot. And then there's the ultimate buzzkill, whispered in the heat of the moment.

"Did you come yet?"

How I hate that question. You know all the hard work you were doing just now? Thrusting quickly? Spending some time crouched between my legs? Grabbing my tits? I was enjoying that. You heard the nonsense syllables and grunts coming from my throat. I was just beginning to stop thinking about work, my bills, the call from my grandmother I need to return and get more into the moment, which would have led to me coming.

But no. Now you've got me worried that I'm some sort of frigid bitch incapable of feeling love. That I have no bruised your delicate ego because I didn't pull a When Harry Meets Sally in the allotted timeframe. I try to ease back into the pillows and enjoy, but I've already lost my hard-on. So to speak.

In Celebration of Being Off the Pill

I am horrible at remembering to schedule an appointment with my gynocologist before my prescription for birth control pills runs out. I know planning my yearly spin in the medical stirrups far in advance means my period will coencide with the visit, so I always think I’ll remember to set a date a few months before I run out of hormones. Yet without fail, every year I forget until a pissed off CVS pharmacist is reminding me I’m due at the doctor.

With the hustle and bustle of the holidays, I haven’t gotten around to making an appointment yet, so I’m currently living life off the pill. For those of you out there who haven’t made the switch to the pill or haven’t lived with a woman who has, it’s an interesting experience.

I first started on the pill because I was having horrible acne and heavy periods, but grew to love it when I was having sex on the regular. Yes, there are many things that can cause that method of birth control to backfire, but on the whole it’s effective at preventing a baby, and saves you from having to fumble with a condom once you’re in a committed relationship.

But there are downsides the chatty women on the Yaz commercials neglect to mention. Namely: The pill ruins my horny. Three days after my body realized no more hormones would be forthcoming, I was chatting with a guy I find attractive. With a smile, he invited me to a party. Like a junior high girl who just got asked to go steady, I’m wetter than Lake Superior.

My head was filled with visions of him kissing me in a dark corner, us leaving together, me fumbling, lust-drunk and stupid, with my keys as he walks me up the stairs to my bedroom. It was all I could do to control the flush in my face and refrain from asking him to take me home right then and there.

It’s been happening more often lately. Cute guy on the train? I’m envisioning throwing my legs over his lap and grinding him as people look on in horror. Sex scene on TV? I’m feigning exaustion and breaking out the vibrator. And while those thoughts occurred to me while on the pill, they’re much more vivid and get my juices flowing far faster than when I was chemically infertile.

So, boys: As long as you don’t mind putting on a rubber and can get past the acne and heavy periods, now is a great time to get with me.

And Now, More Than You Ever Needed to Know About Ginger

I am one of those women whose charms lie mainly in the details. While I like to think I'm a pretty good-looking lady, most of the men I've been with cite things I never even considered to be my strong suits as my best points. I have long fingers and toes. Adorable dimples.

And, apparently, a good smell. You know. Down there.

I haven't smelled a lot (any) women in my time, so I have no expertise here. But I like my smell. I never had any hang-ups about a guy putting his face in my lap. Unless my Mom/his wife was about to come into the room, I actually enjoy the funk that two people create.

But. Unless I've taken up one hell of a sleep-smoking habit, I've developed a nasty cough over the past couple of weeks. In the hopes of breaking up the mucus party in my lungs, I've been taking Mucinex regularly. You know. The stuff with the gruff talking booger in the ads. And while the medicine is helping, it has an unusual side effect.

My smell is all wrong. It's almost... plastic-like. And much, much stronger than usual. Like, to the point where I turned a guy down because of it.

As with all matters involving a strong odor emanating from my most sacred of cavities, I did some furtive Googling. Apparently, I am not the only one with this issue. Good to know.

But it was the ancillary knowledge I gleaned from this search that has me worried.

[S]ome women fail to produce adequate amounts of this protective cervical mucus making conception difficult. Luckily, there are ways you can increase cervical mucus production and possibly get pregnant more quickly and easily!... Take a cough medicine containing guaifenesin. Guaifenesin is an expectorant and can be used to increase cervical mucus by loosening and thinning it.

I'll take the gruff booger in my lungs over the human being taking up residence in my uterus any day, thanks.