The other night, my friend was telling me (via text message) about the new woman in his life. They’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks and things have gotten intense pretty quickly yet they haven’t had sex yet. When I asked why, he told me that he thought that if “you wait, the more likely it will last.”
He continued, “If I can get a girl into super fast, I have a hard time considering her for long term.”
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Here’s a song we’ve all wished we could sing from time to time. In “Hey Boy,” The Blow sings about a guy who never called her, perhaps after a first encounter or date. She lyrically and succinctly sums up all the reasons he never got in touch.
A. You’re gay.
B. You’ve got a girlfriend
C. You kind of thought I came on too strong
D. I just wasn’t your thing.
In ten seconds, The Blow does the work of thousands of relationship books and blogs (including this one). I guess I should retire and move to Portland where twentysomethings are sent out pasture.
Check out this catchy ditty below.
Photo by tfangel via CC
Last night was my second salsa dancing session (I missed last week’s class because I was on the West Coast) and though I was worried that I would have a lot of ground to make up, I learned the new moves pretty quickly. Not because I’m some sort of dance genius. The pace of the class is slow–it’s for absolute beginners–and though I’m new to partnering, after five years of breaking I am a quick study when it comes to picking up basic footwork.
The partnering part of the class, however, wasn’t quite as simple. Last night’s session featured a cross body turn that I missed last week and tonight’s special torture–a right hand turn. This turn, our instructor told us, was more of a concern for the women than for the men. We would have to do it whereas the males, while twirling us through it, simply had to continue do the basic step. Their job–directing the women to do the complex steps. They’re the CEOs of this dance. The women are middle management.
Yet despite the breakdown of roles, I didn’t particularly mind. It sounds so anti-feminist of me to admit this, but I really do enjoy being led in this dance when the man doing the leading is a sure, confident hand. In this situation, I feel like I can relax and enjoy the music and atmosphere. As I made the rounds–since there were more women than men this week, the ladies rotated while the men remained in place–I found myself looking forward to meeting up again with certain partners who had a sure hand such as the youngish man in his gym sweats or the gay guy who this week showed up without his boyfriend (who also happens to be a strong lead). I was calmer when I stood opposite them, knowing that for a minute or two I would have to think just a little less.
Is this, in micro, what being in a secure relationship feels like? Does it mean feeling less anxious, that if you drop the ball or miss a step, there is someone there to help smooth things over, to pick up my slack? If so–sign me up.
I keep lists everywhere–on my wall, on my computer, in my head. I am always worried that I’ll forget something. It would be nice to have someone else to rely on. On the other hand, when I do manage to get everything done, I feel a rush of accomplishment. Would I feel the same way had these things been achieved in a partnership?
In addition to encouraging the men to lead us women-folk with confidence, which he did several times during the class, he also offered another bit of advice–get out of the women’s way. He was referring to the turns. When leading the women through them, he cautioned, the purpose of the men’s footwork was to step aside and make space for us to pass and strut our stuff.
So lead strongly and then step away and let the women do the work? Perhaps a bit reactionary, but I’ll take it on the dance floor, at least. In real life, I might require some adjustments to this framework.
This mini-comic series was inspired by a Sabbath meal, the place where many a good sex joke originates. That’s why they call it “Mitzvah Night.”
Sort of like “Business Time” from Flight of the Conchords.
Photo from damaliayo.com
At dinner the other night, a friend of mine who was in town for Thanksgiving while spending the year studying in Germany, was telling the assembled about the present state of his love life. He explained that he just started seeing a German woman though it wasn’t serious since he had told her that he was leaving the country at the end of the year and that he could only end up with someone Jewish.
Someone at the table asked the inevitable question (at least for Jews)–are there any Nazis in her family?
“Yes,” my friend answered. “Her grandfather was a pretty serious Nazi.” He then went on to explain that she, like many young Germans, was particularly ashamed of her family’s participation in WWII.
“So you’re getting reparation sex,” I said (It actually took me a few minutes to come up with that. I wasn’t as quick on my feet as usual due to the cherry flavored wine and vodka). “Not that there is anything wrong with it. The state of Israel also accepts reparations,” I added, silently noting that the ones that Germany gives the Jewish state are more monetary than physical acts of coitus.
Now while I’m sure that the relationship between my friend and this woman has little to do with Holocaust guilt (my friend is a pretty terrific guy and I’m not just writing that since he is likely to read this post), it is an interesting and morbid notion to ponder–whether collective guilt for crimes your country or nation committed affects the sex you later have with the descendants of the victims.
Ah, guilt and sex. Sometimes one keeps you from having the other (in the case of those raised with some weird religious notions about it), but perhaps it can get you some, too.
Kathy Griffin lives on the D List, not the Z List (photo by gdcgraphics)
If you’re like me, you don’t like to even scroll past the names of guys you dated who treated you crappily or with whom things ended badly, which can happen while you’re searching absentmindedly through your cell phone’s directory. I tend to do this a lot–scrolling through the address book searching for numbers to delete while waiting for friends. I’m generally early and they are late so I often find myself with time on my thumbs. I should add that I don’t own a smart phone so my device has view ways to entertain me.
Though I sometimes delete these numbers while I’m waiting, it’s not necessarily the wisest move. If I don’t have their numbers anymore, I can’t screen should any of these dudes call. This was what happened with the guy who named me the Anti-Girlfriend. I deleted his number when he returned to Los Angeles during a cell phone purge, which is why I didn’t know who it was months later when he called.
My brilliant friend told me how she has solved this particular cell phone problem–the Z list.
She adds a “Z” in front of the names of all these guys–ones she doesn’t want to scroll past and be reminded of, or ones that she doesn’t want to scroll past and be tempted to call. The added “Z” sends the guy down to the bottom of my directory, which I rarely ever get to anyway.
This way, they’re out of sight and mostly out of mind, but still can be screened. That’s life on the Z List.
Or sex.
A few weeks ago, I wrote a response to an achingly lovely Modern Love column, which is a weekly feature in the New York Times’ Style section. I’ve decided to respond to this week’s Modern Love in what I hope becomes a recurring Anti-Girlfriend feature.
In this week’s Modern Love, Teresa DiFalco writes about the breakup of her marriage of 12 years due to her husband’s extramarital relationship which had begun after he posted an ad in the Casual Encounters section of Craigslist.
But DiFalco’s essay wasn’t about her husband’s experience on the hook-up and sex site. It was about her own. After she learned of her husband’s infidelity, she hastily created an ad for herself and uploaded it:
My decision was impulsive. I was sitting on our back patio, listening to the snores of our family dog and laughter from my children. Against this backdrop, my act felt sordid. Three mouse clicks put me into “w4m” (women for men). I hadn’t thought it through but managed a serviceable ad on my feet. It read: “Freshly divorced and want my confidence back! I’m 5’10”, long sandy blond hair. I’m new at this, a little nervous. I don’t know what to put down.”
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This week, the origin story for the “the Anti-Girlfriend” concluded in the comics section of the site. (Many thanks to FEMA Fatale for her sharp and fun visuals.) And now that the moniker’s back story has been fully explained, I am going to move forward into more fictional terrain.
Yet even if the “how” of “anti-girlfriend” has been explored–the plot points that led to me being branded with an insulting yet highly original name (gotta give credit where it’s due–the name is unique)–there is still a lot to understand about the term itself.
When I’ve told people the story, generally their first question to me is, “What does that even mean?” or “What did he mean by that?” And I usually say something that apparently he found me more fun than his girlfriend and insulted that (probably) very nice person in the process of complimenting me.
Not that I interpreted his words as pure compliment. It also seemed like a swipe at me. He seemed to be saying that something about me was inimical to girlfriend-hood. In addition, his amusing phrasing seemed to imply some abdication of responsibility for his role in deceiving me (and his girlfriend). By using “the” and “anti,” he reminded me of “the anti-Christ.” He was making me out to be some devilish creature onto whom he could shift blame as people have done for thousands of years. A temptress, a 21st Century Eve of sorts, yet instead of an apple, I enticed with my karaoke renditions of Summer Lovin’ and You Know I’m No Good. (Okay, I’ll admit–anytime you sing Amy Winehouse, you invite certain types of thoughts and comparisons.)
But even if this story was the inspiration for the name, in buying this domain name and starting the comic and blog, I’ve decided to reclaim the term and turn into something different, complex and dare I say, positive? (Just the way the LGBT community has done with “queer.” Except I haven’t had to agitate for my civil rights like those folks had to.)
But before we get onto all of that positivity, I want to know what was the most unusual, hurtful, insulting or even kind thing a guy/girl has ever called you in the course of dating? As always, gold stars for originality.
A here’s little Kanye West inspiration for the name-blame game.
And now we’re finally done with back story and back on the phone with the long distance caller.
If you spend most of your 20s perpetually single and occasionally complaining about it, you tend to hear the following from attached friends:
1. You’ll find someone. I do not buy this. I subscribe to the Dan Savage school of thought on this matter, which essentially states that there isn’t someone out there for everyone. We know this is true because we’ve all met people who have never found a long term relationship but of course, we don’t actually want to acknowledge this because it is hardly a comforting thought.
2. You need to be more positive. This is one I’ve gotten a whole lot from others because I’m particularly prickly and sarcastic. This attitude, I’ve been told, is the reason that guys aren’t interested in me, well beyond the reason most men are into women at least for a brief spell — sex. And it’s not as though I’m relentlessly negative. I’m quite fun in a group. I just happen to be something of a realist and believe that shit happens for no rhyme or reason and I’m pretty unwilling to lie to myself or others. So that means I am not the person to run to when you need to hear that everything will be just fine (but I am the kind of person you should speak to if you want help parsing a situation and figuring out the next step).
3. Maybe this means you need to work on yourself. This perspective is taken by those who view your singleness as the result of some deep seated character flaw or some lack in your being. To them, this means you should spend more time working on yourself — find a hobby, go out and have more fun, etc. Or it means that you don’t love yourself wholly and completely. Now, I like myself very much — I think I’m cute and intelligent — but it is impossible to like everything about oneself (even for Oprah). Besides, self-love is hardly a requisite for attracting a mate. In fact, I know some guys prefer the exact opposite. Also, I know many people in relationships who could hardly be called “together” or lead full lives, which makes this suggestion of lack easily disputed. Also, if your life gets too full, you get accused of not making a time for a relationship. You kind of can’t win.
In this week’s edition of Modern Love, Sara Eckel beautifully deconstructs all of these rationalizations (and several others) as she writes about her quest to find a lasting relationship.
And the take away from all of this — it doesn’t work until it does (or it doesn’t — remember, realist here) and all of the reasons you give yourself or your friends tell you are not answers, just a way to try to make sense out of a process that mostly defies logic and traditional narrative.
Eckel writes:
Did we find love because we grew up, got real and worked through our issues? No. We just found the right guys. We found men who love us even though we’re still cranky and neurotic, haven’t got our careers together, and sometimes talk too loudly, drink too much and swear at the television news. We have gray hairs and unfashionable clothes and bad attitudes. They love us, anyway.
What’s wrong with me? Plenty. But that was never the point.
A train -- stop acting like an alpha male.
Nearly every morning as I ride the C from Brooklyn to work in midtown, the train stops underground between stations and waits. “Sorry for the delay,” says the announcer since the C, in addition to taking so long to arrive that you despair of life, will also be one of the last lines in the MTA’s fleet to be fitted with new cars and an automated voice. “An express A train is passing ahead of us. Please be patient.”
It is at this juncture in my commute that the A (the express) and the C (local) become one with the same track. And the A always gets preference. The C always gives way.
Now stay with me but doesn’t this sound like some very fucked up relationship metaphor? Like the A is some alpha male and the C is some kind of Stepford Wife?
Always let him have the last word.
Always let him think he’s right.
Always wait for him to call you. (Or in the modern parlance — text you.)
Always let him pass in front of you on the tracks.
According to this logic, the C would never be able to call the A. Never. Not even if to prevent an accident because what greater accident can there be than to have him think you’re desperate? C train, you’re not desperate. Just a day late (give or take) and a couple of cars short.
Sounds like The Rules authors, Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider write the MTA’s manual. (Come to think of it, they probably wouldn’t approve of this site.)
If I was in charge of the C, I would never let the A pass. NEVER.
Perhaps this is why I am single.
A painting of the F by FEMA Fatale.
