Need a Trim?

BUSH VS. NO BUSH
___________________________________________________

Half Hookers

RACHEL UCHITEL IS NOT A MADAME
[EXCERPTS]
MEN like to hunt, and there is no need to hunt a prostitute. Men like to cheat without strings, and you can’t stop a civilian from falling in love. But Tiger Woods found a way to enjoy the best of both worlds in one type of woman, a Venn diagram of sexual satisfaction. Most of his mistresses lived in a nebulous in-between world. Not prostitutes, no, but just about halfway there. As surely as he has changed the game of golf, so too has Woods exposed the grazing ground of the halfway-hooker, and her natural habitat, the nightclub. [...]

THERE are still rich VIPs in the premium corners of clubs from New York to Miami to Las Vegas, being “introduced” to girls who are not Woods’s girls but who are exactly like most of Woods’s girls. In most cases, there is an exchange, gifts or help for sex—though with celebrities, what the girls receive is often just the privilege of being with a storied name. The Woods scandal has upset the rhythm of this world, upping the stakes and rattling the locals. But you can’t keep wealthy men and pretty girls apart for long. [...]

STEVE Lewis, the former director of Life and current club designer and keeper of the nightlife beat for BlackBook, says this is half-true. They are not exactly pimps and madams, but the VIP hosts know which girls are loose and will place their clients with them. They know which girls will keep quiet. Lewis and others say that VIP hosts will often fly girls they know to events like Sundance for their clients. “Sure, there are girls in Utah,” says Lewis, “but not girls they can trust.”

To be a girl who is trusted, you need a track record of having slept with famous men and not talked about it. [...]

THE floor people, they are just to fill the place up. The celebrities and the athletes and the tycoons are the ones for whom this world is zealously designed. [...]

INDEED, nearly every job at a club is about bringing people in. There are hipster promoters who only bring in hipsters and model promoters who only bring in models, and some promoters daylight as male models. “There are mosquitoes, rats, gnats, leeches, agents, and then you have promoters,” says Steve Lewis. “A promoter is a glorified pimp. But then, everyone’s a pimp.” Some promoters don’t even refer to models as models. Lewis will often get texts that say, “I’ll be rolling deep with about a dozen hookers.” [...]

BOTTLE girls, like VIP hosts, are expected to have client lists. Early in the evening, she will text her clients. I’m working tonight and my favorite D.J. is spinning. Come by! They come because she is pretty and she has flirted with them. Hey, baby. Hey, handsome. You lost weight. Sugar honey sexy baby handsome. They come because she’s someone whose backside they can palm, someone who will kiss them at 3 a.m. between tables. [...]

KIM was making between $1,000 and $3,000 a night in tips. “And that,” she says, “doesn’t include what’s going on behind the scenes.” She smiles, and it is not suggestive but matter-of-fact. “You’re making hooker money, right? So, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck...” [...]

“IF you say you’re a bottle waitress, it’s better than saying you’re a stripper. But it’s the same thing as being a stripper,” she says. What she means by stripper is someone who is a touchable commodity. There is never money exchanged, but there are gifts the following week. Pairs of Louboutins, Louis Vuitton bags, trips. It’s not unusual for a bottle waitress to take two days off and fly to Vegas with a client. She won’t get fired for that, so long as when they return, the client will spend large at the club. [...]

“AT one point,” Kim says, “every single girl I knew was sleeping with a celebrity. It’s the access. Some of the girls definitely think, ‘He’s going to fly me to California and make me his wife!’ But then most of them are just like, ‘Guess who I just did in the bathroom?’ ” [...]

FOR Kim, the job eventually lost its glow. One night, she was taken off her shift as punishment for not selling enough bottles. The girls are expected to be sociable on their nights off, so she came to the club anyway as a patron with a big client in tow. When his friends left, the client began to grope her. They were kissing and she hated every second and she was being mashed into the couch and when she looked up at one point she saw her manager, watching them. Smiling like he’d forgiven her, he said, “I’m going to leave you kids alone.”

“I felt pimped,” she says.

Another time, at another club, Kim slapped a whale who reached his hand up her skirt and she got fired. Now she works behind a bar. She makes a lot less money. But nobody is touching her. “There’s a whole bar between me and the men now,” she says, and she draws the width with her hands. [...]

GIRLS like her are either dating older men with money or young and good-looking ones without. There is a stupendous symmetry to this. The rich old men want to be young and good-looking and the young ones want to be rich, but both are sleeping with the same girl. [...]

GARCIA says everyone is aware of how it works. “American girls, I take them out to a nice restaurant,” he says, “to the cool clubs, and they’re satisfied with that. That’s what they get out of it. American girls are looking at the kind of wine you order. But Russian girls, they’re after the serious shit. They want the Mercedes. Out at dinner, they’re plotting ahead. They’re calculating. They’re professional.” [...]

THE difference between hookers and half-hookers is that the former will ask for money straight away, and the latter will ask for gifts. They follow the money as the money follows the seasons along the worldwide circuit of bottle service. St. Barts in December, Miami in March, Las Vegas in May. In New York, half-hookers hang out at steak places like Del Frisco’s. Or the Friday-night parties at Le Cirque.

These kinds of girls, this is how you spot them. Garcia says, “You have to look at the discrepancy between her income and her lifestyle. These girls are going to St. Barts in May, Gstaad in winter. Their rent is three grand a month, and they don’t have a roommate. Dresses cost them $1,000, $2,000.” VIP hosts and bottle girls are half-pimps to these half-hookers, using them to keep their clients satiated. While some bottle girls will sleep with patrons, for the most part their interactions are limited to the confines of the club. Party girls are more like freelancers, and sex is their currency. [...]

“THERE is no nightly prostitution” for the half-hookers, says Garcia. “It’s a weekly thing, or a monthly thing. And when both sides have gotten what they want, they move on.” Unlike with true escorts and some bottle girls, these party girls won’t admit what they’re doing. This is because most of them can’t admit it to themselves. Some girls are looking for husbands. Rich ones, but yes, they are looking to settle down. [...]

[COMMENTS]
HOW these ladies of the night are regarded by their benefactors was most accurately described by Tiger Woods, referring to Joslyn James: "You are my f**king whore". For them to think of themselves as something else however, is not surprising.

What amazes is that both the men and women to these goings on come away, the morning after, as having scored some great victory. Particularly the Wall Street guys brag how they scored with some "gorgeous model" while the women revel at having been the chosen one among all her friends. Neither wants to admit it was nothing more than a transaction. Celebs differ from the Wall Streeters in that they believe they are somehow "owed" the female attention and inevitable sex and that they are simply fulfilling the desires of these half-drunk, half ho's.

Guess its not who you are but who you think you are. Everyone already knows what you are.

-*-

THESE kinds of articles are primarily a diversion from the real issue. All of the men that get involved with them are MARRIED. Most, if not all of the women, are not. The MARRIED men have taken wedding vows and have made a promise of faithfulness to their wives til death do them part. It's supposed to be a mutual trust between a husband and a wife, a trust like no other. All of these MARRIED men have broken their promise and betrayed the trust of their wives.

But with articles like this one, too many of you are easily fooled into thinking it's the fault of "these kinds of women", be they half prostitutes, whole, interns or otherwise. It's just a diversion from the real issue; that these MARRIED men cheated on their wives because they WANTED to, of their own free will and choice. If MARRIED men didn't cheat on their wives, these kinds of women would be out of business.

-*-

CALL it what you will, if it walks, talks and functions like a madame then that is what she is. All the creative titles and slants will not change that fact. VIP Hostess can now be called ... Lifestyle Procurer, Entertainment Engineer. They know the truth and so do we, so let's not kid ourselves. And no amount of creative exchange of money for sexual pleasure - direct or indirect - can fool anyone.

Bad Breakup

SAVAGE LOVE
[03.25.10]
Q: The basics of my life: I'm male, straight, in my mid-20s; I have a twin sister and have been with my girlfriend for three years. I want to break up with my girlfriend for a variety of reasons. I have begun the "it's not working for me anymore" conversation four times. But each time I do, she brings up different sexual fantasies I have confided in her during our relationship. I believe the implication is that if I break up with her, she'll tell people about my fantasies—one in particular.

AND THAT CANNOT HAPPEN UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES!!!

The fantasy I am most worried about her revealing is incestuous in nature. When I was about 15, I—on occasion—used mental images of my sister to get off. I never had any romantic or sexual feelings toward her in real life—I was never attracted to her when she was physically present—and once I started sleeping with real girls, my fantasies about my sister ceased. One time, my girlfriend and I got stoned and discussed our most outrageous sexual fantasies; our relationship was different then, more trusting, and I told her about this stuff. I want out of the relationship, but I am terrified of what would happen if she told people, especially my sister. How can I exit this relationship, and how can I contain the damage if she decides to tell people my secret? And is it fucked up that I used to masturbate to thoughts about my twin?

Freaking Fucked Or Fucking Freak?

A: I wish my boyfriend were as easy to manipulate as you are—Jesus, the shit I could get away with.

Anyway, dumbfuck, unless you put your most outrageous sexual fantasies in writing—and you didn't—you're not the one in danger here. Here's what you do: Spend a week in front of a mirror perfecting a look of stunned incredulity, and then go break things off with your girlfriend. Make sure the actual split is big and messy and public. If she attempts to retaliate by telling people about your no-longer- operative sexual fantasies, FFOFF, you slap that look of stunned incredulity on your face and say, "I knew we had a bad breakup, but, my God, what kind of sick piece of shit makes up something like that?"

And yeah, FFOFF, masturbating to thoughts of a sibling is a little fucked-up. But it's not uncommon for teenagers to fantasize about—and, in some disturbing instances, to actualize all over—their siblings. Sex seems scary and new, siblings seem safe and familiar. For most people, early and inappropriate fantasies quickly subside, as they did for you, and most people have the good sense to stuff 'em down the memory hole.

TOP TEN BREAKUPS FROM HELL

Muffs Defined

MUFF
Contrary to popular believe, the word muff is not associated with hair at all. Instead, the word "muff" is an inoffensive, slang word for a vagina. Muffs can range from dainty and tight to floppy and roast beef colored. Some muffs smell fishy or sweaty, and others smell like skin or roses. Some muffs are hairy, others are bare, and some have razor burn or ingrown hairs. Females (and transexuals) of all ages have muffs. There are baby muffs and grandma muffs. Most muffs have a week of bleeding, unless the owner is on some sort of contraceptive (see: Depovera, Seasonal). It is also the root word for Muffdiver, Muffed, and Muffdoctor.

POON
1. Poonana is a little girls vagina, 0-13.
2. Poonani A teenagers vagina, 13-20.
3. Poontang a mature womans vagina (quite good), 20-35.
4. Poonono an old vagina often with large muff, 35-110.

POONTANG
The center of the universe. Part of a female's body located between her legs that is reason why all wars are ever fought. If you aren't getting it you want it, and if you are, it's never enough. Often times it used as the noun in sentence because, let's face it, often times us guys don't care what's all around the poontang as long as it is willing to provide us access to this magical land of wonder.
Let's go get us some poontang!

PUSSY
1. The prime motivating factor in any (straight) males life. Like oxygen, it's only important if you're not getting any. Lack thereof causing depression, anxiety, willingness to do any stupid stunt to get some, and a train of thought that focuses on little but the question of why you're the only one on the planet not getting any.

2. The box a dick comes in.

VAGINA
1. The vagina is a buggy, often catastrophically so, feature of the Female Edition of the Human Being version 1.0. After approximately 13 to 16 years of proper operation, the vagina becomes problematic and starts failing periodically (no pun intended) around once a month. This in turn leads to the corruption (often permanent) of the mental faculties of the host. Whenever this happens, the individual in question is commonly referred to as "a bitch."

2. Something I haven't gotten in a while.

3. My god damn favorite part of my body.
Whenever I get turned on a lot, it starts throbbing, possibly getting wet.
What feels best is to move your fingers quickly just inside of it, teasing her, then quickly shove your fingers in and move your fingers in a "petting" motion, making sure not to just sit there stabbing it, that doesn't feel too hot.

CUNT
For some reason this word really offends people, maybe because of the exceptionally crude sound of the word, or maybe because talking about the female genitalia is still considered unnaceptable. Either way, people cannot seem to comprehend that it is just a word, making it a great thing to say around tight ass pussies to piss them off.

[UrbanDictionary.com]

More Than Sex

Getting Crushed, Part 3

Porn Games

PORN AGAIN
[TheStranger.com - Sep.17/09]

MY BOYFRIEND and I have been living together for a year. He knows I am an insecure person when it comes to my body. I'm not overweight, I've been told my whole life how good-looking I am, and my boyfriend tells me he loves my body. We have an active sex life. Here is my problem: I get upset when he looks at porn. I never had a problem with porn until my previous boyfriend (he preferred porn to sex). I wish I could get over this. My boyfriend knows I would love to share pornography together, but he just does it in private.

I suppose I got upset initially because my boyfriend told me on several occasions that he didn't need to look at porn while he was in a relationship, and I believed him. I later saw on our computer that this wasn't true, and he kept denying it until we had an argument. It bothers me that he felt like he had to lie about it.

Any help or ideas would be greatly appreciated to help me get over this.

Feeling Fucking Frustrated

P.S. When I'm alone and I look at the porn my boyfriend watches on the computer, it does turn me on a little and I masturbate thinking about him getting off to it. But I feel bad after I'm done. WTF?


THE USUAL porn de la concorde—the only porn compromise that works—goes like this: He pretends not to look at porn, out of consideration for your feelings, and you pretend to believe him, out of consideration for his. And I would stick that advice on a pike and parade it under your window if it weren't for that amazing little postscript: You're turned on when you check out the porn your boyfriend's been watching, and—this is a very important detail—you masturbate not so much to the porn itself but to the idea that this porn is getting your boyfriend off when you're not around.

WTF? This the fuck: Your erotic imagination has been hard at work, FFF, breaking down your sexual fears and insecurities—about your looks, about porn, about your douchebag ex-boyfriend—and reconstructing them as a fetish. Congratulations, FFF, you've got a kink. It's not an uncommon response: Sometimes our subconscious mind takes the lemons of our sexual insecurities and turns them into delicious bonerade. So what do you do now? You should begin to explore and cultivate—slowly, carefully, thoughtfully—your subconscious mind's efforts to eroticize your boyfriend's porn habits and your own insecurities. Here's how:

He may never want to look at porn with you—he's obviously self-conscious about it, which is why he lied (maybe he had a bad experience with an ex who freaked out about his porn-viewing habits that left him feeling insecure?)—but you've already proven that you two don't have to watch porn together for both of you to get something out of it. He should continue to get off watching porn alone but then intentionally leave the clips for you, perhaps in a dedicated folder. You should look at those clips—alone—and get off watching the porn he watched and tormenting yourself—carefully—with mental images of him getting off to this stuff. Delete the clips you've looked at so that he knows you're getting off, too, and knows to refill your clips folder.

You can turn this problem that you're having with your boyfriend—he's looking at porn, you're masturbating about it—into a game you're playing with your boyfriend. That will give your insecurities an erotic payoff—and that payoff could alleviate or eliminate those bad feelings.

The Sweet Spot

Demi Moore


Striptease__1996

Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle__2003


44 years old in 2006

THE SWEET SPOT
by Adam Sachs
[GQ - Aug.09]

Somewhere between puberty and Cialis is that perfect moment in a single man’s life when he can date the broadest age group, when he can sleep with 23-year-olds—and their mothers—without being called a creep. He just has to know the rules

“ARE YOU DYIN' ON ME, old man?” the girl says with a sweet, cruel smile.

I am not dyin’. I am coughing.

Trying to muffle another, I spit out a hacking hee-hawish sound:
KARGHHA-HAAA! The laugh-cough is an unconvincing piece of theater, like someone trying to brightly yodel their way through a bout of diarrhea. “Don’t die, old man,” she purrs soothingly, “not right now.…”

Yes, please, not now. Not while she is, unaccountably, here in my bed, making jokes at my expense. She’s lovely. Naked. Twenty-two. She could read to me from Mein Kampf or throw pebbles at my head and I would still consider this an excellent morning to be alive. It occurs to me that I have lived a full 1.5 decades’ more mornings than she has. When she was born, I already had a driver’s license and beginner’s beard. Now I’m a 38-year-old, newly unmarried, formerly baby-tracked bachelor whose friends have summer homes and pictures of pink-cheeked toddlers posted in their Facebook profiles.

How did our paths cross here? The answer is a hitherto uncharted territory in the life of a man, the Sweet Spot, when suddenly you find yourself free to date anyone from recent college graduates to near re-tirees. It begins sometime after your thirty-fifth birthday, though the precise moment is impossible to identify. Suddenly, the pool of available women you can feasibly sleep with expands to include everyone—and her mother. If you are a female born sometime between the launch of Sputnik 1 and the release of Evil Dead II, we could conceivably be getting a drink later.

The Sweet Spot isn’t about love or even happiness. It’s just an observation of fact: For a presumably brief but glorious spell, the man in his late thirties can date more women of more fascinating types and circumstances than at any other time in his life. The discovery is like waking one day to read in the science section of the Times about the existence of a new planet made of salted caramel with rivers of flowing bourbon. For once, good news about getting older! In fact, it’s a fucking miracle.

Young women write their names on napkins in bars, talk earnestly to you about Proust until 6 a.m., and demonstrate Cirque du Soleil–ish tricks with their legs. (At 22 everyone’s a contortionist.) Older women look at you like you’re a warm appetizing pretzel that they probably shouldn’t indulge in but what the hell. Then there are the women your own age. They’re the most suitable and almost always the most fraught. They kill you with their eyes, tell you flat out they’ve smelled your type before, even when they’re sliding next to you into the homeward-bound taxi.

A while ago, two women visited my apartment on successive nights. They sat in the same chair. They ate the same ragù I’d made and frozen for these impromptu dinners. The redhead stayed over. The blond did not. The redhead was talkative, never slept. The blond was skeptical but amused. The blond had a kid about the same age as the redhead. The fact that these two would find their way into my life at all still seems to me slightly surreal, part of the dizzying luck of the Sweet Spot.

A friend of mine is 42, a long-term bachelor who loves the company of women but who flees at the first hint of domesticity. (He’s been at this longer than I have.) I asked him where he saw the age range of the Sweet Spot. “I’ve been with women in their fifties, and as long as I find them attractive, age absolutely doesn’t matter,” he says. “Bodywise, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I appreciated them younger, but not too young. Below 23 or so seems dangerous. I mean, ‘Dude, I just fucked a teenager!’—that is not a high five I want to be on either side of. And I’ve found that if you’re just looking for a fuck buddy, the older-wiser gals are so much better in bed.”

The paradox of the Sweet Spot is that so much of your success depends on your being manifestly Mr. Wrong. Take the 22-year-old who heard the death rattle in my cough. She’s smart, new to the city, on her way up in the world. I am peculiar and old, seasoned with my own special blend of baggage, bruises, and bloat. Not, obviously, boyfriend material. She doesn’t have to think very hard before she jumps in bed with me, because she doesn’t take me that seriously. There’s no need for the standards she’d apply to more suitable mates: Is this person reliable? (I’m not.) Can I picture a future with this guy? (You can’t.) What will my friends think? (They’ll laugh.)
For the 22-to-28 set, I am the Novelty Fuck. What someone like me brings to the deal is an apartment without roommates, and what passes for experience—the kind of little life things (wine-list familiarity, better shoes, less-awkward oral sex) that accrue to someone during those extra 1.5 decades the way sea barnacles attach themselves to a rusty old pier. Maybe most important, the man in the Sweet Spot comes with the unspoken promise that he will not linger. When she’s ready for less novelty, he’s gone, no hard feelings.

For the older woman, he’s another kind of escape, a harmless indulgence, and wrong in a whole different way. For husband material or even a steady date, she’ll look to someone older and more stable—someone with a track record of an orderly life. There’s a woman who comes to see me now and then. She is divorced and lives in the suburbs with her young son. With girls in their twenties, there are endless nights out and 4 a.m. booty calls. By contrast, the divorcée calls the week before. In her large Goyard overnight bag she brings rib-eye steaks marinating in Ziploc bags, a bottle of red, something expensive to wear to bed. After dinner we sit around and talk about travel and divorce. Never once do we mention seeing each other in circumstances other than these infrequent house calls. “I remember this,” she says, looking around my small apartment. “I remember your life.” For her I am the Vacation Fuck, a reminder of a time without so many adult responsibilities and a little fun with someone who isn’t offering or expecting anything more.

A newish friend of mine—let’s call him the Very Smart Man—I met in Buenos Aires. The VSM had sold some businesses and moved to Argentina to start some new ones and figure out what life is supposed to be about. Along the way, he learned how much more interesting he’d become with age. “When I was 25, I had no clue what I wanted,” he says. “So the girls who knew they wanted a family and kids weren’t interested in me. And the girls who wanted something nontraditional were fucking drummers and getting lower-back tattoos. But at 39, I am fucking fascinating.”

In the interest of research, I called another young lady I’d had some fleeting involvement with last year. Nothing much happened, but I’d always liked her and respected the way that she looked at me like I was a total idiot. She wasn’t shy about addressing our fourteen-year age gap. “First of all, I never thought you were stupid,” she says kindly. “But you were surely full of shit.” She agreed that “with an older guy, you forgo the normal screening you might apply to a prospect for a long relationship. Dating someone older is like dating a flight attendant—not someone you’d commit to, but they’re fun to be around.”
The scary, alluring thing about women my age is that we’re not necessarily wrong for each other. And so the suitability calculus is always applied: Am I a good bet? Am I fixable? The honest answer: Who knows?

What we all realize, though, is that the baby clock is real, and so these relationships tend to get intense fast. The road forks two ways: marriage or tears. If you were committed to living out the Sweet Spot for as long as it lasted, the kindest, most honest thing to do would be to avoid any marriage-minded woman in this middle demographic. But compatibility is hard to ignore. I asked a 37-year-old I dated how it looked from her end. “I think I like people or I don’t,” she said. “The unfair part is I now have to make quicker decisions about whether someone is capable of being serious with me. The stakes have changed even though I don’t feel like I have.”

My own fear is that, spoiled by choice, I’ll just keep chasing the fun until it isn’t fun anymore, until I’ve become so adept at charming my way into and out of emotional entanglements that where I end up is nowhere. The Sweet Spot is sweet precisely because it can’t last forever. There is a line between Happy-Go-Lucky and Oily Perma-Bachelor, our own ticking countdown to cheesiness and desperation. Maybe the line isn’t a particular age but a vestigial hope that there’s someone out there we can truly connect with. “The fear,” says a friend of mine who is eternally unsatisfied but tirelessly optimistic, “is that while we’re busy pursuing this porn life, the real thing is love and making a family, and that’s all passing us by.” Writes the VSM from Buenos Aires: “I do sometimes worry that I’m not going to have a chair when the music stops. But part of me thinks: Keep it up for as long as possible and hope to die young.” I’m pretty sure he’s not joking.

ADAM SACHS wrote about how to survive a long night of drinking in the April issue.

On Your Knees

FACE TIME
[Savage Love - Jne.09]

I am a fairly successful man. I don't make bank like Wall Streeters back in the day, but I haven't been hungry since college. My girlfriend is younger. We met when she was in grad school. Like many recent grads, she's not steadily employed, in debt, and driving an unsafe car. So I support her, house her, feed her, and pay her bills (medical, etc.). She needed to pay off her credit-card debt—28 percent interest rate!—so she took work stripping and later as an escort. Through escorting she was able to pay off her credit-card debt in a month.

Now some guys would find this distressing, but I found it kind of hot. Here's the thing: After she paid off her credit-card debt, she stopped escorting. I'd like her to continue part-time until she finds a career. She's mixed on this. We would like to buy a house and make things more permanent, but our income isn't enough to do that if she's making waitress wages. I guess it boils down to this: I would prefer to be with a sex worker than a waitress. I'd rather she make $200/hour on her back than $10/hour on her feet. She says she has issues with sex work. What do you think?

Perhaps I'm Mildly Perverted


I don't think it's up to me, PIMP, or you. And I would hope that your girlfriend, who's financially dependent on you at the moment, doesn't return to sex work because she feels coerced.

But I can certainly appreciate your point of view. There are men out there who're turned on by the idea of their girlfriends/wives having sex with other men; some men are turned on by the idea of their girlfriends/wives being paid for sex. You're clearly one of those guys. And you're within your rights to share this information with your girlfriend and to try to convince her to return to sex work. Because your fantasies of sex work—of her doing sex work—turn you on. And, again, that's fine. But you could make a more convincing case, PIMP, if you were better acquainted with the realities of sex work.

You should start sucking off strange men for money.

You'll have to service men, I'm afraid—while lots of men fantasize about being paid to have sex with women, there's a fatal supply-and-demand problem. Simply put: There are just too many men out there willing to give it away for free. That created a glut on the supply side, which has distorted the market, as there's more than enough free straight cock out there to meet the needs of straight women.

So you'll be giving head to dudes, PIMP. And after you've choked down a few hundred loads, you can go back to the girlfriend and say, "Sex work isn't so bad!" with some credibility. And if you keep doing sex work after you've sucked off scores of men you're not attracted to—men who may or may not have treated you with respect, men who may have very different standards of personal hygiene than you do—that might convince your girlfriend to continue to pursue sex work for your amusement.

Good luck.

Torn About Porn

Sasha Grey


Porn!...is Not Allowed?




Pornocalypse Now
by Douglas Haddow
(Excerpt)

Let me entertain you with a fantastic scenario – If Orwell had been born in 1984 rather than 1903, he would be a member of a subset of young men whose lives have been framed by two critical shifts in the mental landscape: the collapse of the global superpowers (USSR/US) and the rise of the pornography industry. Obviously there are countless events that have shaped the world in the past quarter century, but in terms of timing and impact, none have had such a profound effect on the average G8 20-something as the reshaping of conflict and sexual narratives. Just as the war on terror mainstreamed the notion of war without actual war, the pornography industry has successfully popularized sex without sex. [...]

And so it began. My virgin eyes were submerged into an ocean of luma-chroma sex acts and the outrageous poetics of consumerist eros: turgid hard-ons mechanically harpooning seeping vaginal canals and gracefully spraying sperm streams atop mountainous titties with their omnipresent nipple peaks. [...]

But the tasseography of the news ticker was of no interest, the television had become redundant and outdated. I was 14 and a friend had just gotten a 14.4 US Robotics dial-up modem – our ticket to unchecked informational freedom and, more importantly, thousands of pictures of naked women.

In tune with my demographic dropping its collective nutsack, pornography transformed from a primarily physical medium into a limitless stream of easily accessible imagery. Production costs bottomed out, profits exploded and a booming transnational porno industry came into its own.

The mass appeal of Deep Throat-era sex cinema hits was resurrected in the form of downloadable masturbation resources. Only now, rather than experiencing sex media in a gender-inclusive mainstream setting, Internet pornography catered primarily to the individual male’s niche desires. Jerk-off fantasies were the dominant leitmotifs of the early Internet – its raison d’être. The Internet was, and still is, for porn. In the ever-expanding webiverse, pornographic imagery supplied the perfect vacuum in which blogs, social networking and YouTube could come into existence. Buoyed by this exponential growth and the backing of media conglomerates like News Corp, the production of hard-core video increased by 700 percent from 1992 to 2005, with worldwide revenues clocking in at nearly $100 billion. Porn had officially arrived, and its enviable profit margins forced “legit” mass media to gradually conform to the aesthetic of its fleshy contours.

It was as if the white noise of consumerism had turned a shade of hot pink. All of a sudden the leader of the free world was evoking Peter North via René Magritte à la “this is not a blow job.” Soon after, the world gasped as two giant metal phalluses penetrated the twin monoliths of capitalist civilization. A blockbuster snuff film to ring in the new century, the “I can’t look but I must” sensation of the 9/11 tape loop would go on to serve as the stylistic precursor for 2 Girls 1 Cup. [...]

A Wisconsin-born, cowboy hat-wearing opportunist, Max Hardcore took advantage of the mid ’90s amateur boom and has steadily pushed the limit ever since. His work foreshadows the style of video (no plot and little pretense) that now dominates Internet upload sites: an increasingly violent performance style dubbed “abuse porn.” [...]

I continue to surf, looking for a video that features Sasha Grey, who should be calling me for an interview at any moment. Grey, 21, is the porno industry’s public relations wet dream come true. She has already performed in over 100 adult films and stars in Steven Soderbergh’s arthouse feature The Girlfriend Experience. She’s slated to be the “next Jenna Jameson,” and might be the first porn star to successfully convert her adult video (AV) celebrity into a legit acting career. What interests me about Grey is that she represents a notable shift in the pornographic ideal – she doesn’t project the typical persona that we’ve come to accept as the standard AV schtick. She’s young and calculated and delivers performances that are provocatively masculine. A quick Google reveals that her personal brand is rooted in the alternative. She’s done an American Apparel advertising campaign, promotes herself as a quasi-postfeminist intellectual and frequently name-drops the likes of Jean-Luc Godard and Jean-Paul Sartre.

The first video that pops up is titled Sasha Grey Anal. I click play figuring it will provide a good warm-up for our phoner. It starts with a close-up of Grey’s lips and she is directly addressing the viewer:

“I want to be your sex slave, I want you to hurt me, I want you to make me cry. I’ll do anything, anything at all, whatever you want, I’m such a fucking whore, I need to train, I need to be broken, I want you to fucking hurt me.”

A couple of minutes later some dude is holding the camera and staring down at Grey, who is staring up at us while giving one of her trademark ‘throat fuck’ blowjobs. She sounds like she’s choking, and the dude starts to drag her by the hair with his cock still in her mouth.

Then the phone rings, not in the video, but in my apartment. It’s her, the real Sasha Grey, as opposed to the porno-world Sasha Grey flickering on my laptop.

“What does the word pornographic mean to you?”

“To me it’s not just people having sexual encounters, or pictures of people having sex in magazines. More than half of the news we see on television today is pornographic because it’s not real news. It’s pure junk for the mind…They are manipulating the audience to feel a certain way. It’s all encompassing. American Idol is pornographic, completely exploiting people’s talent or lack of talent for television ratings.”

On screen, Sasha is gagging on a dildo that the dude has just pulled out of her ass. “Choke yourself on it” he says. I skip ahead a few minutes and Sasha is presenting to the viewer a rather apt existential dilemma:

“Is that what you fucking want? You want this filthy whore’s tight little asshole?"

The real Sasha Grey says in my left ear:

“… I think we’re still very repressed, especially in America. It comes back to what does pornography mean. In Europe there are more films that have to do with sexuality than violence and here in America it is the opposite. And I think we can sell sex all day on television, in magazines and on billboards but when it comes down to it people are still afraid to talk about their sexuality …”

“So are we lacking an important dialogue?”

“Definitely, It’s still embarrassing. If you try to speak with a Midwest housewife, or a young 20-something from the Midwest and say cunt or pussy she is going to freak out, even if you say vagina – for some of them, the word vagina is a disgusting, vile word. You have to say ‘down there.’ It’s really bizarre.”

The calm, thoughtful tone of her voice creates an unsettling sensual cocktail when mixed with the vacancy of her pixilated hazel eyes, an oasis of “the real” in a desert of unreality. [...]

The Sasha Grey brand is an ideal vehicle for the normalization of porn because she’s a willing industry activist who genuinely believes that the consumption of her videos promotes a positive understanding of sexual health.

But has our outlook on sex become so pornofied that we’re willing to accept 20 minutes of vacuous anal sex as sex-positive edutainment? Although porn has been embraced by feminists looking to shrug off the failures of the Dworkin era, the discussion that predominates current analysis of the medium tends to ignore the nature of the industry’s core demographic: males, aged 18-29.

If the average porn consumer – a male North American, Japanese or European 20-something – were to walk into a doctor’s office and receive a virility exam, the results would be abysmal. Due to our toxic living standards and the prevalence of untested chemicals in the social environment, the male gender has recently entered into rapid physiological and genetic decline.

In affluent, industrialized nations, the birth of males has dropped every year for the past 30 years. Genital defects, learning disabilities, autism, ADD and a variety of other afflictions have all skyrocketed in males while remaining comparatively low in females. But perhaps the most telling indicator of the male plight comes down to that which is essentially synonymous with the pornographic: sperm. The average Gen Y bro has a sperm count that is 50 percent lower than his father’s and, of the few spermazoids he does have, 85 percent of them are genetically damaged. According to Dr. Fernando Marina, fertility expert at Barcelona’s CEFER Reproduction Institute, if this trend continues, all men will be infertile within 60 years.

On a genetic level, the male gender is crumbling, which almost seems natural when one considers the fragmented state of modern masculinity. [...]

Rather than making a conscious effort to resituate “the masculine” in the context of rising gender equality, heterosexual men have in many ways fallen into a subconscious, anti-feminine counterrevolution. [...]

The porn industry, now bigger than Hollywood and pro sports combined, has facilitated the transformation of sex into a liquid consumer good. There is nothing left to separate the individual from the market and the industry’s success has also produced a feedback loop that results in its own intensification. In order to compete with porn, the mainstream media appropriates the pornographic, which in turn forces porn producers and websites to create more vicious and chaotic content. The mainstream becomes porn and porn gradually edges closer to snuff.

Of course very little of this sexual media reflects reality in any way. When watching hard-core porn, one is struck by the message it so desperately attempts to communicate: sex is boring. And the more violent the porn, it seems, the more anti-sex its message. But could anything be further from the truth? Isn’t having sex with another living, human being the one thing that provides the most intense connection with the present moment?

As our surroundings become inundated with pornographic imagery aimed at keeping us plugged into the feedback loop, it’s easy to get distracted from what’s going on beyond all the hot pink noise. It’s in this fog of fake fucking that man sleepwalks closer toward an abyss of genetic implosion, environmental destruction and total economic collapse.

But crisis can precipitate change, and what needs to occur now is the genesis of a new “masculinism” – a philosophy of man that embraces the achievements of feminism and strives to reconnect with the real.

Since the beginning of America’s recession, over 80 percent of those who’ve been laid off have been men. This ironic byproduct of pay inequality provides a couple of great opportunities: the chance for a radical shift in gender relations, and the chance for men to rediscover how to subsist outside of the tyranny of consumer ease.

__________________________________________________
COMMENT [adbusters.org]

I found the article interesting. Only yesterday I was sitting with mostly male mates at a pub and we got on to discussing porn and strippers, as the proceeding night had seen some of us attend a buck’s night for another friend, which consisted of stippers, topless waitresses and porn all night. Let me tell you, I hate going to buck’s nights. Beer and boobs is not the penultimate or ultimate experience in my life…maybe I’m wrong and will have an epiphany watching Xporn at 2am?!

It turns out, every guy at the table, gets nothing from porn or strippers.

I personally find nothing more lonely and emasculating than ‘rubbing one out’ while watching some porn via my laptop. I’m not a prude, conservative or born again. It makes me feel sick, not liberated that I can find free porn on the internet. I used to think that it was great. If I were horny and needed some release but didn’t have anyone to help me. After some time I realised it made me feel even more alone than before. Even more isolated from humanity. How foolish I was to believe that I could find an intimate connection with a recording of people whom I don’t know, and watch them fuck each other? How did I get this idea in my head that it could be something worthwhile to do with my time?

At the moment I have a girlfriend, and I have noticed that some of my actions in the sack have been influenced by the porn I have watched on the web. I do not watch porn now. I just went online to read some more on Sasha Grey, fortunately I only lasted about 2 mins and found something more positive to do with my time like get back to studying for my MA.

I’m not sure who is worse off, guys or girls in this dilemma. We have created it equally (I think) as there needs to be at least 1 female in each video. Are they victims, part of the puzzle or equally involved? Instead of hipsters harping on about how bad the world is and shopping themselves into nirvana, we can as the sages say ‘cultivate the opposite virtue’. Hey, it could be fun to actually stand up and become who we are meant to, not conditioned by the veils of ignorance and media hype to consume. We have a choice, it’s basic and fundamental. Don’t forget that. You either tune in to porn or do something else with your very valuable but brief moment on this earth. Porn is not going away. But it doesn’t mean you have to watch it or engage with it. It’s a monster, just like the ones that used to hide in your closet or under your bed.

Good luck…to all of us!!!

Peace

People talk about how women are treated as a result of guys watching porn and expecting to be able to engage in degrading acts. But what is this doing to men? How are we supposed to feel and act when it seems most of the porn out there is violent in some way?

And when does it become violence (with a bit of sex) ? And not porn with violence?Someone sent me a link to ‘ultimate surrender’. I thought I had seen everything until I was watching women fight each other for the right to fuck the loser.

Wo, my head spins just wondering about what lies around the corner.

...Say Nothing at All

Strobist and a Laptop by A.J. French_flickr.com


The Class Act: "Did you know that I had no intention of proposing to you? I bought the ring from Walmart as a cheap gift to placate you."

The Giver: "at least I know have a cool story about the relationship that came to an end when a girl got frusturated at not being eaten out. :P"

The Psychoanalyst: "That's why you'renot a good lawyer and why I can tell form the get-go you have low self worth and were brought up in a narcissistic family that made you feel you needed to become a lawyer to have a 'title' to feel good about yourself."

The Addiction Counselor: "I still think your a beautiful girl and when you lose a few pounds and tone that body up, your gonna be stunning. Just don't give up. Try and get addicted to hitting the gym."

Crap Email From a Dude

TMI, Dude

Natalie Portman


My agent talked me down after our first MOMA fight. “Take it easy, D,” he recommended. “She’s a great girl, you just have to get to know her better. Also, just going out with her sold 40,000 copies of Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon.”

“Fudge,” I said, knowing how bad that album really was.

Natalie & Devendra

Miss Delite Says...

No! by missdelite (polyvore.com)

BETRAYAL HURTS LIKE HELL.

The Box

Porcelain Twinz

THROUGH a couple of flukes (acquaintances, a cousin involved in the ownership) I’ve ended up at The Box twice in one week. The Box is a club in downtown Manhattan. It has a live burlesque show and a drinks list featuring $13,000 champagne (did I read that correctly?).

As with many such places, The Box adheres to a mystical door policy. On Visit #1 I was told to say “SUGAR RAY” as a password. On Visit #2 I was not allowed inside until my cousin poked his head out the door and identified me like a perp in a police lineup. Casual humiliation: a staple of the nightlife.

On both visits the atmosphere inside reminded me of an Edith Wharton novel. It is moneyed, socially complex, and devoted to elaborate carousing. The club is full of thoughtful details: paper bags of popcorn, servers in old-tymey costume, live music and a red velvet curtain. There are bottles of Grey Goose the size of rain sticks. It is the kind of thing that sends a ticker tape of WHOA! through your mind.

It is a bizarre place to be - a spectacle with all the theoretical implications of that word. “Fellini-esque circus” works too. Like any cultural Petri dish, The Box felt emblematic and puzzling all at once. Worthy of a witness, certainly, and some documentation. I’ll give a little overview of the show we saw on Visit #2 (it was mostly the same show as Visit #1, but shuffled around.) Analysis will follow.

The first act (though it changes from night to night) had a Persian theme. There was a naked blonde babe wriggling on a chaise while a sultan tickled her with a pink feather. Throughout the room men leaned toward their friends and said, “Check it out.”

Oh, a brief interruption. On the first night we’d been seated in a balcony booth. The second night we were on a sofa directly in front of the stage. From the balcony, the performers had appeared perfect. From up close the show was less magical. You could see backstage, for one thing, and you could tally the natural flaws of the performers’ bodies: stray zits, heavy makeup, pubic stubble.

After the Persian act a contortionist came onstage and balanced his entire body on a strap-on penis attached to his assistant. Cool. Then there was a medley featuring a comic midget and some vaudeville renditions of Billy Idol and Rolling Stones songs.

The best acts were the ones with some sort of intellectual component. A girl dressed as Hitler performed a skillful striptease that felt like antique political satire. One routine had a dancer in traditional costume emerge from a Matryoshka doll to perform a Russian dance. At one point she lifted her dress, squatted over a pedestal, and ejected a mini doll from her vagina. (Cue hooting.) More traditional dance. As a finale, she squatted again over the ejected doll and hoovered it back up. The final routine that I can remember was incest-oriented. Details elided here.

Now, let me ask you a question. Do you have a switch in your head that you can flick in order to extinguish moral judgments? Like for when you go see stand-up comedy or a Wayans brothers movie, or when you listen to George Carlin on headphones? There are certain things you can’t enjoy, I mean, without suppressing your moral responses. Turning off the switch is the equivalent of playing a game: you acknowledge that it is a temporary situation in which certain rules need to apply in order to have fun.

Well, The Box presents quite a challenge to this switch. There is so much to delight in: the naked girls, the atmosphere, the drinks, the show. And yet, there is so much to panic over! One thing that is apparent from the start is that There Are No Rules For the Rich. Inside the club you can smoke cigarettes and ash them on the floor, straddle your boyfriend amid 300 strangers, laughingly refer to the financial straits of third-world countries and do drugs. No one is held accountable for their bad behavior. Outsiders like us will always find such an atmosphere uncomfortable. At some moments it felt sinister.

“Decadent” might be the exact word for The Box. I should clarify, though, because “decadent” is so often misused as an adjective. Molten chocolate cake, for instance, is not decadent (though it is tasty.) For something to count as decadent, it has to have a strong element of waste and disregard. A touch of pre-apocalypse. Images that recurred to me at The Box: sinking of the Titanic, court of Louis XVI, Tsar Nicholas II.

With the economy dissolving into paste, the bar for decadence is falling. Things that used to seem like standard elements of celebrity glamour (private jets, $30,000 handbags) are quickly becoming distasteful. What was glitzy is now gauche. I wonder how Kanye West will adapt.

And what about The Box? Hard to say. When we took the J back to Bushwick at 4 AM (sprinting from the subway stop all the way home because it was the first chilly night of the season), I had that metaphysical hangover you get when you’ve snooped through someone’s journal or eaten your roommate’s peanut butter straight from the jar. Bad feelings, both.

In Which the Password is "Sugar Ray" by Molly Young

We Want it All

Jon Hamm as Don Draper (Mad Men)

Ad Chik says: The message here is simple men: BE A MAN. Stop whining and enough with the self-absorbed therapy already. Cads are back because we've had it up to here with the touchy-feeley shit. If I hear my husband refer to me as his "Partner" one more time I'm gonna mash every tooth in his head!
Any Cads around? Would love to slam a few martini's with you and then slam YOU. My husband has his period tonight.

Manly MAN says: No offese Ad Chik but, you sound like a linebacker. Very attractive, indeed.

From: Mad About the Man (Observer.com__2008)

Miss Delite Says...

Contact Yoga couple

by acedout (flickr.com)

YOU CAN'T HAVE GREAT SEX IF YOU'RE NOT IN GREAT SHAPE.

One Man's Floor is Another Man's Ceiling

Perfection
by jjjohn (flickr.com)

From the many, many call girls I've worked with, the number one request from dudes (other than "can we fuck with out condoms" and "can I have a blow job") is "will you pee on me."

It's a way common straight male fetish - but many dudes don't want to ask their wives to do it, and many wives, once asked, are like "no fucking way."

Call girls often like it, because it's less work/risk/effort/whatever to pee on a guy than to fuck him or suck his cock. -drunkexpatwriter

gawker.com/5052926/ashley-dupres-first-days-as-a-hooker

Dating Don'ts

Will Arnett & Amy Poehler

FOR THE WOMEN:

Here are a few things I would avoid if I were a lady trying to impress a guy:

1. Don't complain all the time about how mean the other girls are at work.

2. Don't eat your date's fries while at the same time declaring you don't or can't eat fries.

3. Don't start a monologue on your cousin from Midland, Michigan or your favorite nail polish or that wonderful Cosmo article about 'How to Please a Man'.

4. Don't try to say the name of your perfume in French if you don't actually speak French. (The 'l' at the end of 'Chanel' does not sound like the 'l' at the end of 'channel'.)

5. When I say, 'your dress looks great on you!', do not interpret this as meaning that I keep looking at your cleavage or your butt.

6. If I do not keep looking at your cleavage or your butt, do not interpret this as lack of attraction to you, or as a symptom of homosexuality. I may simply be a gentleman.

7. If I ever mention sex at all, do not go on defensive mode. Just go on talking as if it were a possible conversation topic; or, if you'd rather not talk about it, change the topic, but please do it gracefully; 'men are all pigs!' or 'men think only about one thing!' is not a good way to achieve that.

Here's a rule: Don't espouse antisemtic politics during sex. I had a date with a 'woman' in LA once. We met through mutual friends (no longer friends). We ended up back at her apartment and in the middle of sex, she starts talking about how glad she was I wasn't a Jew (but I am). She actually said 'Hitler had it right.' Even as disgusting as that was, why, oh why, would someone even bring something like that up at that moment? Is getting screwed by a Nazi her fantasy? Let's just say the moment lost it's magic.

(ffffound.com)

FOR THE MEN:

Don't pre-emptively tell me you have a small penis.

Don't text me on a Tuesday night after midnight "I could totally eat ur puss now if u r interwssetted." I'm not.

Don't lick my face. I get flashbacks from Silence of the Lambs.

Telling me how hard you are going to fuck me is only hot when we are a) naked and b) on the verge of fucking. In a well-lit bar in front of 10 of our colleagues at a work event, it's presumptuous and gross.

Don't hit on my friend(s) first. Yeah, I saw that.

Don't tell me how many girls you fucked on your job as night manager at a hotel.

Do not ask a table full of my friends if you can be the "stuntcock" later in the evening.

Don't ask me what kind of "kinky shit" I'm into before we've gotten to appetizers. Skeevy.

Don't ever begin any sentence with, "Can I tell you something/ask you something and you won't get offended?"

Do not tell me that your ex has a restraining order against you. On the second date.

Well, okay, tell me, so I can get the hell away ASAP.

Don't avoid giving me anything but your cell phone number. I will get suspicious from that alone.

Do not tell me, within five minutes of meeting me at a party, that you get 4 times as large when aroused.

Don't pull out your IPhone and show me pictures of positions you want to try.

Do not put on porn within the second date or meeting as if its no big deal and we have no prior discussion of the topic and say, 'So, you like that?'

Don't say, "I know women like it when men are forward. I want to take you home and fuck you." when I'm obviously not interested.

Do not tell me that you share a bed with your ex-girlfriend, whom you live with, and that your current girlfriend doesn't know.

On the first date, don't get drunk, tell me you think I'd make a great dominatrix, and then, when I change the subject, start addressing me as "Mistress."

Also, please don't spend the entire night avoiding eye contact or (even worse) looking over my shoulder and then think you're going to get some. You're not. Not even close.

Do not buy me a drink if I have declined the offer and then get angry when I refuse to drink it.

Don't tell me that you have a photo album filled with ziploc baggies of your ex girlfriends' panties.

The appropriate time to "reveal" your girlfriend is, well, before we even get to a point where there is any possibility of our fucking.

Don't tell me I look like/remind you of your mother.

Don't say "you would be stunning if you toned that body up."

Do not refuse to take me to a certain restaurant for my birthday because you don't have a 2 for 1 coupon for it in your Entertainment coupon book.

Do not start reading the newspaper during the first date.

Do not ask me to tell you about my "hot lesbian encounters" when you find out I went to a women's college.

Don't tell me I sound like your mother right before you (attempt to) kiss me.

Do not wait for the check to come to announce you have to go to the ATM.

Do not offer to play me the song you wrote for an ex-girlfriend.

Dont tell me you know this great little Italian place and then take me to the Olive Garden!!! (three blocks from Little Italy in nyc no less).

Don't email me telling me you are ready for our date tonite with your "man-parts a-throbbin''.

Don't say you like that I'm under 5 feet because you want me to "feel dependent on your strength." Check please!

Don't tell me that you have been enjoying looking at me from across the bar for the last half-hour, it just makes you look CREEPY.

Don't spend days talking to me and wooing me before our date and then send me an email the next day telling me you are legally married (but separated) and should be breaking up with your girlfriend soon, and you think we can definitely make something work.

Do not ask if you can lick my armpits.

When your friends are ready to leave, do not obviously gesture to me and say, "I'm working on something here!"

If I do end up fucking you, don't tell me, "I don't want to kiss you, it's too intimate."

When we decide to go our separate ways, don't tell me "There were times when I cared about you."

Oh, well. I once had a guy tell me that I was his "perfect type" and that he could prove it because he designed his own blowup doll, and 'she' looked just like me. Then, after letting him down as gently as I could, he comes up to me with his friend's iPhone and shows me the doll's picture on his private flickr account.

Don't think you're so irresistable that I won't notice or care if you don't call when you said you would.

When I come back from using the bathroom don't be laying on my couch with your penis out of your fly. That is neither sexy nor hot. I now just want you to leave.

If I am sitting on your floor, watching a movie on our first date, do NOT suddenly shove your erect member in my face, then later smugly claim you were just "testing" to see if I was a "slut" and I "passed", so would I like to go out again?

Don't ask me if you can put it in my ass the first time we sleep together and when I decline, ask me to leave mid-coitus because that is a deal breaker.

Do not get so drunk off of TWO drinks that your friend has to come get you and leave me with the tab.

"You have wonderful childbearing hips" is not an opening line.

Don't debate with your friend whether you would let me fuck you or just give you a blow job and then try and get my number. Guess what? I heard you and neither is gonna happen.

Don't constantly question me about whether I'm being honest with you, when I am, especially when you still have an active online dating profile after proudly telling me we should be exclusive.

Don't stealth-brag about the famous person to whom you lost your virginity. I'm not impressed and I doubt she remembers, if your current performance is anything to go by.

Do not bring red roses to a woman on the first date. This is not an adorably romantic gesture. This is creepy as all hell.

Do not attempt to impress me by speaking Spanish to a waitress, if you don't actually speak Spanish.

Do not call out, as you watch my ass while I walk to the washroom, "You know, you're not really that fat. You're, like, thick at best."

When I say, "Hey, you know, my friends will make sure I get home OK, so you can feel free to go," do not interpret this as an invitation to stay.

jezebel.com/5051963/a-guys-guide-to-not-getting-it-on

jezebel.com/5052251/the-unfuckablesthe-sequel

salon.com/mwt/broadsheet/2008/09/19/dating_donts/index.html

Miss Delite Says...

Ana Paulo Coelho

HOW CAN A MAN EXPECT TO HAVE GREAT SEX WITH A WOMAN WHEN HE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT MAKES HER TICK?

Mae West Said it Best

Betcee May
(pinupgirlclothing.com)

**When I'm good I'm very good, but when I'm bad I'm better.**

**He who hesitates is last.**

**Too much of a good thing...can be wonderful.**

**It's better to be looked over, than overlooked.**

**To err is human - but it feels divine.**

**When a girl goes wrong, men go right...after her.**

**Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?**

**I like my clothes to be tight enough to show I'm a woman...but loose enough to show I'm a lady.**

**She's the kind of girl who climbed the ladder of success...wrong by wrong.**

**You may admire a girl's curves on the first introduction...but the second meeting shows up new angles.**

**When choosing between two evils, I always like to try the one I've never tried before.**

digitaldreamdoor.nutsie.com/pages/quotes/maewest.html

(pic: flickr.com)