Destroyer of lives, Ruiner of men

As we go careening through this little lifetime of ours, it’s easy to sit back and fixate on all the people who have jacked us up. Whether it be for a night, a weekend, a few months, or even years, our worlds have collided with those who are not so good for us—or to us.

Rarely, if ever, however, do we stop to reflect upon the masses who we have fucked over. I know this may sound hard to believe, gentle reader, but I’m no angel.

I practically threw a guy out one morning after the worst one-night stand of my life; I called this guy “inadequate” after a lackluster round of oral sex; and I even put a boyfriend on a Greyhound bus out of Vegas after I kicked him out of the apartment—I’m pretty sure I fucked up his life for a while.

A little something happened over Halloween, and while it is completely inconsequential to me,  it is very likely that I put some serious fuckwittery into someone for maybe the rest of their days.

Or, at the very least, I kinda messed up their night.

So, I’m dressed like Joan Jett. We are at some horrible bar in the Village after the parade—you know the kind of place that is wall-to-wall sexy nurses, vampires, etc., and finance and banker guys—and I’m thinking, “Ugh. One Drink. Tops. Then I gotta take my leather-clad ass back to Brooklyn.” Some dude approaches me who is dressed like the Love Guru, or that’s what he calls himself. He’s in this long, belted white robe.

“So, what are you supposed to be?” he asks me.

“Who do you think I am?” I say.

“Pat Benatar?”

I am annoyed with him already for that, but he persists. “I am Joan Jett,” I say.

“Come on Pat Benator/Joan Jett,” he says, stroking his fake mustache. “Let the Love Guru show you path to wisdom and love!”

“What makes you think your path the right one? Or that I even want to get on it?”

“I am the Love Guru! My path is the only true one. Once you have the sex with me, there is no going back to anyone else.”

“So, what do you do for a living anyway,” I ask, fairly bored.

“Finance,” he says.

“Um, no shit?”

So he keeps chatting with me, and finally, I say, “OK, Love Guru, let’s see what you got.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What’s under the robe? Because I’m telling you right now that if you aren’t packing sufficiently, then Pat/Joan isn’t going anywhere with you.”

Now, I had no intention of going anywhere with the Love Guru anyway. But, if you are pissing me off, and I’m feeling a little nasty, then well, there’s no telling what I will do—and there is nothing more I love than fucking with these Wall St. types.

“Well, why don’t you check it out?” he green-lighted me, so I put my hand up and under his robe and started feeling around for his package. It took a while, but I found it and must’ve made a face. “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t think that’s gonna do it for me.”

“Well, why don’t you take another look?” I go back in and really try to give him a good feel around this time, thinking, shit, he should start getting somewhat hard by now, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt–maybe he’s a grower? You know that guy who doesn’t look like much, but then gets hard and you’re like, “Damn! Where’d that come from?” But, sadly, no, I felt just a mushy bunch of boy parts—and I’m not really a fan of the flaccid penis to begin with.

“Sorry,” I say, shrugging. “Doesn’t do anything for me.”

“It’s not even a little big?” he asks. I’m shaking my head “no” at this point, watching his face deflate. “Well, Ok, I gotta go!” I say and bolt.

Then I left and went to Brooklyn, where I drank more beers, ate two Dunkin Donuts and about 20 pizza rolls. I woke up the next morning, with vague thoughts of the entire night’s events rolling around in my head. Then I remembered the Love Guru. Was I too hard on the Love Guru? What if I have given this guy a complex for the rest of his days? And while I don’t remember his real name—or what he really looked like—he will probably remember the bitchy girl who felt his package on Halloween every time he hears Joan Jett and/or Pat Benatar for the rest of his life.

Hunting for a Buck

I work at a place where we get a lot of free shit. So the other day, I plucked this gem out of the slush pile: “Hunting Season: A Field Guide for Targeting and Capturing the Perfect Man” by some 40-something hedge-funder who simply goes by “Elle.”

Hunting Season: A Book for Idiot Women

Now, the book’s premise is this: If women adapt to the “rules of deer hunting,” they can land the perfect “buck.” Being from the Midwest, surrounded by crazy men who carry credit cards to Cabela’s, I’ve actually seen deer-hunting in action, so I know a thing or two. Anything that requires swarthing myself down in camo, climbing up into a hidden treehouse at 4 a.m. with a case of Miller and a loaded 12-gauge shotgun, I’m down for.

This is nothing like that.

Let’s walk through Elle’s steps for catching that buck. First, just like deer hunting, there is a hunting season here. Elle calls this Open Season, and it stretches from April 1 to September 30, a time when men’s hormones makes them “perfect for the plucking or fucking.” So ladies, if you want to get some dicking during the cold, harsh winter months, you better line that shit up ahead of time, because Elle says absolutely no scamming on guys is allowed in the Off Season, which is a shame, because October is one of the nicest months for fucking.

Elle’s logic behind this is that the Tension Days of Thanksgiving, Christmas and so on will sabotage any happy relationship due to the pressures of Having a Good Time at All Holiday Functions. She asks, “How many fights have you had with past lovers regarding the Super Bowl or Valentine’s Day?” Um, none. Moving on…

OK! So it’s now April 1 and ladies, dust off your vaginas and start doing your kegels because it’s Open Season. Elle has two plans of attack for hunting the bucks: the Bag ‘n’ Tag (Dating. Companionship. But no One Night Stands—more on that later) and the Trophy Hunting (i.e. looking for a husband, or someone who will let you pin his balls to the wall).

But before you Bag ‘n’ Tag or bang your Trophy buck, you gotta learn some stuff. Here’s the stuff:

  • Never hunt with a Posse—he’ll wanna fuck your friends instead of you.
  • Set up your Kill Zones—places that you can hang alone that are target-rich environments (Sporting events! Cigar clubs! Ski lodges!) where you can easily start conversations. I personally like trolling methadone clinics, skate parks and Planned Parenthoods, where boys are anxiously smoking cigarettes and pacing outside, but that’s me.
  • Make a list of your priorities, i.e., what you’re hunting for: first, second, third tier and so on, like “big dick” or “good kisser” or “likes the Crue.”
  • Throw out your “corn,” or nuggets of tasty info, about stuff you really don’t care about but you make it your business to know about just because men like it, i.e. sports, Pam Anderson or hot-wing recipes. Better yet, just smear yourself in some hot-wing sauce.

Elle particularly enjoys military guys and “European men,” but she breaks down the types of guys you can meet into four categories: Sports guys, Outdoorsy guys, Philanthropist/Business guys and Rich guys. Sorry, there are no other kinds of men. And there are so many wonderful ways to meet these four guys: volunteering, cooking classes, charity events. There will be all of two guys there—and one of them will be gay. The other one will be Christian.

You need to dress nicely and smile to meet your buck, but also Elle suggests spinning a few little white fibs at this early stage of the game. No, no, settle down, nothing along the lines of “I just got tested” or “I’m on the pill” or “those bumps are nothing.” Here’s what to lie about: number of sex partners; money; weight; real hair color; what you look like in morning; spit or swallow; you own three cats, Itsy, Bitsy and Mitzy; and so on.

Now’s the important part: You got the buck, when can you fuck?

Hold on, there, you randy little tramp! If you want that buck as a Trophy on your wall, you can’t bed down with him for two months. “This includes all oral sex, anal sex and anything that resembles genital rubbing. I am a Republican. I do not play fast and loose with the definition of sex.” Well, I am a Democrat, and I do not consider oral sex, sex. And I know for reals that Mormons don’t consider anal sex, sex. So, I guess you can bend the rules as you see fit. Or just be a Republican? But then I guess you’d wanna have sex with underage pages on Capitol Hill, so maybe that’s not such a good idea…

But don’t worry, Elle’s father always said, “A lady in the kitchen, a whore in the bedroom,” so she tells us that men like oral sex. And when you do get to do the deed she’s got another stellar piece of advice. After sex, go into your bathroom all seductive like. Take a “nice, fluffy white face towel” (you should’ve purchased a stack of these by now, she says), soak it in hot water and “use the face cloth to clean his genitals, all around. …it makes your buck feel taken care of and it protects your 300-count Egyptian cotton sheets.” There’s nothing like taking out a little post-coital wash cloth to say, “I am a filthy whore, and I need to wipe my filthy whore juice off your balls” to keep your buck satisfied.

What about for you carefree ladies, who just want to bag ‘n’ tag? Well they should never confuse their hunt with “damning” one-night stands, which only means that you are a drunk slut. You don’t want to be a drunk slut, right?

Elle also lets us know that she doesn’t like wearing panties. And you should never be a slutty nurse or a slutty witch for Halloween. She prefers going as the “elaborate vampiress” and always has at least two costumes on hand to attend multiple parties. But Halloween falls during the Off Season, so don’t even think about hunting for a buck. Just look cute and smile with your girlfriends (it’s Ok to hang out with them now) and start cruising bucks and game plans for next Spring.

Because if you follow this book’s advice you are gonna be obscenely fucking horny by then.


Threesomes I would like to be a part of…

The other night, I was watching “Stripes” on the AMC. I have seen this movie several times, and as I was watching Bill Murray and Harold Ramis get ready to jump into action with the hot MPs, I was thinking, “Wow, those two together are like the perfect man—Ramis is all nerdy and smart but still cute, and Murray is the impish little scamp who will pick your pocket, then buy you flowers.”

It got me thinking about threesomes. Here are a few combinations that I would like to participate in:

  • Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem are together for reals, but they are both crazy hot, especially in that Woody Allen jerkoff film, “Vicky Cristina Barcelona.” I would like to jump into that action per Scarlett Johansson’s place—she was just really a cum-rag in that movie anyway.
  • Gina Gershon and anybody else.
  • Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt—I think this would actually be pretty mediocre, but selling the hidden camera footage and the pics alone would buy me enough whiskey, baked Cheetos and real estate for the rest of my days.
  • Drew Barrymore and her next boyfriend. I’m not fucking that Apple dude. He sucks, so Ms. Barrymore? Pony up and get a better boyfriend.
  • Bjork and Beck…Things would get soooo freak-ay!
  • Barack and Michelle. Come on, like you never thought of it. I think it’s really awesome that, maybe for the first time in history, we actually have a First Couple we’d want to bang!
  • George Clooney and a mirror. I bet he makes really great poses to himself when he’s doing the deeds.
  • Robert Pattinson and Zac Effron. I like cradle-robbing—and I think Pattinson is just hot enough to convince Effron to do a chick.
  • Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams because they are so adorable!
  • I’m a Cubs fan, and I have to say, that during their entire dismal season, I imagined myself in a Mike Fontenot/Ryan Theriot sandwich. Not only can I not pronounce their last names–which is key to any good threeway–but it’s not like they’re busy or anything right now. Call me!

10 Things I Hate About Porn

A week or two ago I went to the Vivid 25th anniversary party and DVD giveaway sponsored by some kind of crappy gin. Now, I love Vivid, even if they are kinda the Wal-Mart of porn—very bottom-shelf Middle America, but hey, you can always find something you want in there if you look hard enough.

Plus, Vivid has just been really, really nice to me. Their PR woman is this adorable little grandma who just hands out free bags of porn, and she never forgets a name.

So, the day after the party, Roommate Jim and I both received this special 25th anniversary DVD that featured a lot of their famous scenes from pornos spanning the last three decades. Hoo-rah! I was running short on material. This was just what I needed—and I didn’t even have to pay for it!

“What’d you think of the porn?” I asked Roommate Jim the next day.

“Oh, my God,” he said. “It sucked! I kept just skipping scenes to the next one, trying to find a decent one.”

“Me too!” I said, then paused. “I like that both of us have had this porn less than 24 hours, and we’ve both screened it.”

That said, we’re a class bunch over here on Douglass St., and back in the day, I used to be a critic of sorts. There’s stuff about porn that has always bothered me, so I decided to put my little asshole critic hat back on and do some fucking criticizing.

Here, I present, 10 Things I Hate About Porn:

  1. The men. I have come to peace with the over-gelled hair, the disgusting Golds Gym muscled-up bodies and the bad tattoos. But, as I watching “Debbie Does Dallas Again,” I noticed in a three-couple scene, which was supposedly shot in hell, that while some meathead was jizzing all over some chick’s back—he had on white tennis shoes and white athletic socks. Really? In hell? Take your fucking shoes and socks off.
  2. Shaved balls.
  3. Titty slapping. I was watching a girl-on-girl scene and one chick just kept slapping the other girls’ titties. Now, suck ‘em, lick ‘em, massage ‘em around, but I swear to God if anyone slapped my titties? They’d have an ass-kicking coming.
  4. Spitting. I know that this is lube in a pinch—and a damn good one at that. But there’s a way to do it without sounding like you’re in the fourth quarter of the NBA finals. Tone it down, square on your target and just let that spit slide—quietly—you don’t need to act like you’re taking someone’s eye out with it.
  5. Bad boob jobs. Dimples, ripples, rumples. Yep, gross.
  6. Angry fuckers! I mean not excited, like, “Yeah! I’m getting pummeled by some big dick!” No, like screaming, yelling, angry like you’re gonna rip someone’s head off. I once listened to a roommate fuck her boyfriend, screaming, “Come on! Come on! Come on!” like they were, once again, in some sort of NFL playoff situation—she was literally berating him into an orgasm. Hey, you’re supposed to be happy! You’re getting fucked! Act like it!
  7. And watch it with that BJ face. A little goes a looonnngg way.
  8. Girls who pretend that sucking off dildos is like the real thing. Honey, it isn’t. And it never will be.
  9. Here’s some nitpicking. I watched a threesome on a teeny-tiny thin pathetic little blanket in an outside park with three women who looked uncomfortable as hell the whole time. Hey, Vivid, I know you had a better budget than this in the ’90s.
  10. Half hard-ons. Guys, I know it’s difficult and tiring, and the women are the Real Stars and it’s been a long, long day. But half-mast is still half-mast—and it’s a real buzz kill.

Got anything you hate about porn? Please leave in comments.

Smoking Vagina

When you were a little kid, did your school ever take a field trip to one of those science-type museums? And was there a room devoted to things, unusual and terrible and surprising, that medical science had pulled out of people? Like nails out of their brains, screws out of their stomachs, or pieces of glass out of their intestines? Amazing, wasn’t it?

I am forever fascinated with people shoving objects where they don’t belong. So, when I get any sort of ER docs or nurses round about the table, I love asking, “What’s the worst thing you’ve seen someone shove up themselves?”

I believe most have seen everything. I’ve heard tools, bottles, sticks. The worst? “A lightbulb,” someone once told me. “A lightbulb? How the hell did they get that in there without breaking?” I marveled. Now that shows some super-careful attention to lubing and working-it-in detail, and for that I salute, even if it is an incredibly dumb choice to begin with.

I, myself, am no stranger to putting things where they don’t belong. This is one such story:

I was living with this crazy redhead who waited tables. Now, he was hyper-active, played videogames constantly, chain-smoked and dubbed me “Mrs. Tits” because my boobs got really big around PMS time. Anyway, not the most stable of guys, but he would come home with a vibrator for me from time to time, which got me thinking.

One Sunday night, I was just kicking it around the apartment, waiting for him to get off work. I think I was well into a bottle of red wine or a few G&Ts and watching “The Sopranos,” you know, typical Sunday night stuff. And I was smoking and smoking because when I lived with the chain-smoker that’s what we did. After a while, I got bored with the typical cig-to-mouth activity and put it in my nose. I smoked like this for a while. Then I thought, “Where else can I put this?”

Well, pants came off and I’m sitting in front of the TV, attempting to smoke with my vagina. This is much harder than it looks, and if you’ve ever seen a stripper and/or porn star do it, tip heartily, because that is a display of some powerful muscle action. Alas, I wasn’t getting very far with my project when the boyfriend walked in.

“What in the fuck are you doing, Mrs. Tits?” he asked, then started laughing.

“I’m trying to smoke with my vagina,” I said and kept right at it.

Anyway, a few more minutes of trying I got tired of that game and said fuck it. We either had sex that night or I passed out, I can’t remember, but I do know it’s a trick I haven’t tried since, though I’m always open to trying new stuff—except for lightbulbs. That shit could hurt.

The night I almost banged Jewel’s boyfriend

I really despise Jewel. In the canon of chick singers who plagued the ’90s, she’s right up there with other forgettables like Meredith Brooks, Alannah Myles and that bitch with the piano on Ally McBeal.

And I never bought that whole starving artist, “living outta my van” story she was hawking either.

So I wasn’t that excited when my ex suggested we check out Jewel’s ex—Steve Poltz, or that skinny guy who dances around in her video for “You Were Meant for Me.” Poltz pulls this song out a lot at his gigs since he wrote it and makes cracks about Jewel—i.e. “writing her album (the pile of shit that is Pieces of You, btw) and being cast aside” but somehow the Jewel songs sound good when Poltz sings ’em, and he’s a capable, entertaining little guy. Surprisingly, I enjoyed the show. But I also decided that I wanted to sleep with him—i.e. get my rocks off with the double satisfaction of nailing an artist the ex admired. It seemed to be a win-win for everyone. Except the ex.

For some reason, I am really good at getting places where I have no business being—i.e. backstage, hotel suites, tour buses—so, if I’ve designated you a target for the evening, it’s probably on.

I sidled up to the bar after the show, placing myself just a barstool down from his buddy I saw him talking to earlier. I was wearing a Replacements T-shirt—and Poltz had covered a Mats tune earlier, so I knew he was a fan. Sure enough, Poltzy comes by, orders a Jameson and downs it.

“Hey, awesome shirt,” he says.

“Hey, awesome show,” I say.

He turns to bartender. “Can I get another Jameson’s?”

“I’ll buy that,” I say, slapping down a $20.

For the rest of the night, I sit and joke with him and his friends, drinking whiskey and beer. The bar shuts down, kicks us out and there’s talk of food. “Hey, you come with us,” Poltz says to me. “You’re cool.”

I’m sitting in a cab, between him and his friend and have one thought in my mind: It is so on.

We go to this diner. I’m sitting there with his buddy, drinking coffee, meanwhile, Poltz keeps getting calls on his cell phone, jumping up and pacing, and then going outside to talk. Then he comes back inside, then the phone rings, and it starts all over again. His friend is starting to act a little strangely. But still, no one says anything, and we go back to his apartment.

Once we get inside, it becomes apparent that Poltz is hammered. He heads right to the bathroom, pisses and walks out. I have to use it right after him, and I go in, “You can’t even flush?” I ask him. He gives me a “fuck it” look. I sigh, thinking, typical narcissistic singer/songwriter behavior.

I come back out, eyeballing the huge wine rack stacked floor to ceiling. “Hey, can we open some wine,” I ask his friend, starting to pull out bottles and looking at them.

“Oh, shit,” his friend says, running over. “Those are the good ones. This is my roommate’s stack, and if we open an expensive bottle he’s gonna flip. Here, this row, we can drink these.” So he pulls out a cheap white and opens it.

So, I’m sitting on some leather couch, drinking cheap white wine, and Poltz has disappeared. “Where’s Poltz?” I ask his friend. He shrugs. I find him in a bedroom, passed out on the bed. And I’m drunk, across town, and there’s no way I’m going home empty-handed, so I get on top of him and start jumping  up and down, trying to wake him up.

No go. He’s passed out or pretending to be. So I go back to the living room.

It’s about 4 a.m. and suddenly three girls come flying into the apartment with the missing roommate. The first one throws the door open and yells, “Where is he?”

Poltz’s buddy just points to the bedroom where Steve-O is passed out and the girl goes huffing and puffing toward it, slamming the door. Within a minute of that, the other two guys disappear with the other two girls in the other bedrooms. Doors slam, blam, blam.

I’m sitting on this leather couch in some leopard throw, drinking cheap white wine in a complete stranger’s house. At first I think, I should just go to sleep. And then I think about waking up, the strange girl, in this house the next morning.

Fuck that.

I get up and gather my stuff. I’m thinking there’s no way I’m going home empty-handed. I go over the wine rack and just start pulling bottles of wine—the expensive bottles I was told not to touch. I pull as many as I can carry in my arms and bolt.

Now, it’s January and the snow is like three-feet deep. I’m staggering through drifts of snow, balancing bottles of wine in my arms. I finally, finally get to a street that has cabs, hail one and climb into the backseat, rolling around and giggling with bottles of very expensive wine all the way home.

To this day, I still can’t listen to Steve Poltz. But damn was that some good wine.


I smoked up topless last night. And it felt awesome.

It wasn’t premeditated, planned or anything like that. Just caught in-between a shower and halfway getting dressed. Reminds me that sometimes getting lost in the flow of life–instead of plotting and planning every move–is so randomly great.

Now, I am a plotter/planner control freak. This is why I will always have a clean towel for you when you come over. But  I’m thinking about what else I can do topless. Suggestions are welcome.

I would like to meet one real motherfucking man in this town

Dating in New York is hard. Just this morning, in fact, while walking to work, I saw an attractive-ish, late-40-something guy complaining in his cell phone outside a gallery about “how hard it is to meet women” in this town.

Buddy, I know how you feel.

I have to say, hands down, that this is the hardest town to get a decent fuck in. Now, notice that I used the word “decent” there, little cowboys and cowgirls. Because while anyone can stagger into a bar and get Tom from Fort Wayne, N.J., to go down on you (guys and girls apply), it’s much more difficult to find some quality ass.

And it’s not just the quality. It’s the time crunch. In other cities you probably have at least an hour or two to work someone over before deciding if you’re bringing them home or not. Not here. Getting laid is like closing your eyes and jumping into hyperspace in Star Wars. You hope for the best, but you really don’t know where you’re going, or what you could possibly bump into. But one thing’s certain—you’re not going to have anyone nearly as hot as Han Solo next to you when you open your eyes as the cruel light of morning comes poking through the bars of your garden apartment window. “Oh, yeah, hey….it’s you. Hey, you…Why don’t you get the hell out of my apartment now?”

In my life, this is the only town where I have been shot down for completely no-strings-attached sex. The first time I propositioned a young lad, he took off running down the street away from me. Seriously, there was motoring going on. A month or two later I ran into him at a party with his new girlfriend, a rotund woman with pumpkin-colored hair. And then I saw him with another one. “Ah, so that’s it,” I said to a friend. “He only dates girls who look like pumpkins.”

So that kinda made sense.

Mmm, what’s my point here besides a scorned-woman rant? Oh, yeah, it’s this. In my experience, unless you are a psycho or have a tumor the size of an orange growing out of your neck or haven’t bathed since last week, then odds are most guys will sleep with you. Hell, even if you haven’t taken a shower in a while, they’ll find a way to work around it. So, what is up, New York? What does a girl have to do to get a little action?

Here’s the other problem, and admittedly, it’s my own—I don’t find the guys who live here that attractive. They are, shall we say, on the small, fey, precious side. And while they’ll lecture you all night on the merits of Grizzly Bear, while pushing up their retro glasses and asking if you have any more cash to buy drinks because they are, uhum, poor and working for the man is for suckers and no, I don’t want to listen to Regina Spektor while you fingerbang me on your futon (again) because you are too drunk to get it up.

In short, New York men are not real men. They do not know how to change a tire. They do not know how to light a pilot light. They do not know when to shut the fuck up and take charge. They have no, as we women like to say, throw down.

Now, excuse me. I have to go find that guy with the cell phone.