Swinging in the City – My Night at a Swinger’s Club
What do you wear to a swingers’ club?
No, not a ’40s-inspired dance club. My wardrobe is well set up for such an establishment. I mean a down-and-dirty, no-holds-barred (whatever that means) sex club.
I stand in my closet, a space rather devoid of PVC and latex. And other than an ill-advised pleather skirt, I possess very few clothing items made from oil by-products, with the exception of a few lycra workout tops. Which even I don’t think are de rigueur at swingers’ clubs. Read More….Click on Headline.
Henry Hargreaves Has His Hands Full
Snapshots From a Call Girl – Benny
Snapshots From a Call Girl – Daniel
The Hot Marriage
By The Wife
Tuesday: Mission District: 11:30PM
I am lying naked next to my husband. My finger traces his nipple– slowly and Continue Reading →
deliberately making its way down… down… down.
Cheating with Honor? The Holy Grail of Monogamy
I know, I know, “til death do us part,” and “I only have eyes for you” sounds really romantic, but let’s be honest, that’s a holy crock of shit for most of us. After watching our parents divorce and cheat with the best of them, many of us are left scratching our heads thinking, “what’s next?” While the monogamous dydadic relationship model still works for a good 30 to 40% of the population, what about the rest of us supposed heathens and sluts?
According to national surveys ranging from the prestigious Kinsey Report to the Cosmo magazine scratch and sniff girl surveys, over half of us are lying through our pretty teeth about what we say we want and what actually happens behind closed doors, and the statistics surrounding infidelity are staggering. Indeed, most experts do consider the ‘educated guess’ that at the present time some 50 to 65 percent of husbands and 45 to 55 percent of wives become extra-maritally involved by the age of 40. Conservative infidelity statistics estimate that “60 percent of men and 40 percent of women will have an extramarital affair. And with this many marriages affected, it’s unreasonable to think affairs are due only to the failures and shortcomings of individual husbands or wives.” (The Monogamy Myth, 2003)
So what are we to do with modern love relationships? Fuck like bunnies without abandon until we drop? Join Swingers-R-Us and call it a day? Walk around feeling disconnected, doomed and jaded about all prospects of long term relationships? Abandon our princess bride banter on the joys of Wuv and Maaawwage for good?
This might come as a surprise to some of you,(it was to me!)but it seems that there are OPTIONS to being a big bad nasty cheater. Out of the mucky underworld of infidelity there are cultural uprisings of alternatives in the world of sex, love and relating, and they are definitely giving the status quo a good run for their money.
This shake up seems to include snapping ourselves out of the often unrealistic cultural coma we were all force fed to begin to redefine relationships to encompass who we ACTUALLY are versus who we CLAIM to be, as well as developing a little known aptitude called TELLING THE TRUTH!
And big surprise, many of these paradigm-stretching folks are right here in our beloved San Francisco.But who are these people? And can these new paradigms really last when the culture is so entrenched in a sometimes ill fitting and deceptive cloak? How do we retrain ourselves to live beyond our programming? These are the questions many of us are grappling with…
The truth about the relationship revolution might surprise you, and in the upcoming issues of Sex+Design; we will explore the lives and thoughts of real life relationship revolutionaries, social activists and educators in the field of non-traditional relationships to allow you to see for yourself….
In the next issue, I have the privilege of interviewing the world renowned author and relationship expert Deborah Anapol. In her own words, Deborah readily admits that her new book, Polyamory in the 21st Century, “would have been impossible to write when she first started exploring this territory 30 years ago because at the time, only a handful of survivors of the sexual revolution were willing to admit they were still non-monogamous – it was very unfashionable! Four books, hundreds of TV shows and magazine articles and thousands of workshops later, it’s a new world!”
Our in depth conversation will cover her perspectives on intimate relationships that don’t conform to our culture’s monogamous ideal but endeavor to be honest, ethical, and consensual. This will include exploring the practical, the utopian, and the shadow sides of this intriguing, yet often challenging lifestyle while shedding light on the reasons people choose these alternatives and how their lives have changed as a result, including her own.
Love, Lust and Longing from the Eastern Block
The Sensitive Player by Alex Crevar
Why is it that no matter how well you plan, you can never get to bed at a reasonable hour the night before a trip? You can pack your grip a week ahead of time. You can lay your tickets, passport, and itinerary out on the bureau with OCD precision the day prior. You can eat an early dinner, flip on the white-noise machine, pull the mask over your eyes and still, still you end up on a barroom table in Croatia, minus one shoe, sleeves rolled up, shirttail out, bourbon stain across your chest, and sports coat balled up in a corner while trying to sweet-talk a miniskirt-ed co-ed with red-bull-and-vodka breath over a blaring Missy Elliot remix.
To make matters worse, on this occasion, the Sensitive Player hadn’t planned his evening’s refreshments very well. He’d mixed the aforementioned bourbon with a few glasses of a popular Croatian beverage known as a bambus – red wine and coke – a tumbler of grappa here and there, beer, and a celebratory trio of bad tequila shots in honor of someone who did something … the details were blurry at best. End result: On the pre-trip morning in question, Señor Sensi P had not quite made it to the bedroom and was on the floor in the living-room doorway in socks and green-and-yellow-polka-dotted boxer shorts clutching a square of paper upon which two numbers and names were scribbled in two different female handwritings. For some reason, trying to remember which one was Lucia (raspy voice? leather pants?) and which was Martina (nice behind? could shake it?) was more important than looking at the clock, which clearly showed that Monsieur S. Player had 20 minutes to gather his belongings and make the 15-mintute walk to the station for a train headed to Budapest.
My only goal was to find a car with a vacant cabin to lie down, draw the curtains, and feel sorry for myself. Instead I was forced to squeeze into the last, non-adjustable seat in the smoking compartment. No, second-to-last. A fellow American filled the last one. A gum-smacking, coffee-filled New Englandite. A Yankee.
Had I ever been to Budapest? Oh, I love Budapest. Don’t you love Budapest? I know a super little restaurant in Budapest. Would I like her to draw a little map to that little restaurant? No? Well if I change my mind, she’d be happy to. She draws really “awesome maps” she told me. Really.
In the tinny echo chamber that was my head I was trying to float away on the Marrakesh Express. My reality was something akin to a 5-hour sequestering with Steve Urkel. But here’s what you learn as a Sensitive Player bopping about cultures where word-of-mouth is the main source of down-and-dirty party info: listen – even in the darkest of moments – and you will learn. This spry lass knew of a hip wine bar, where her fellow study-abroaders – ladies mostly – start their evenings. They’d love me, she said. You are so funny, she insisted. I grunted and burped a mixture of tequila, tic tacs, and Old Grand-Dad.
As if this news wasn’t good enough, all at once – after explaining this potentially trip-altering detail – the gum-smacker wore herself out and grew quiet. I caught a wink. Sawed some logs. I was on the Marrakesh Express now. I seem to remember a lute and a flautist and someone thumping a noise harp. Certainly there was a contortionist. No question there was sandalwood wafting. Lots of sandalwood. When I woke, I was in Budapest’s Keleti Station. The car was empty … a map to the wine bar stuffed in my shirt pocket.
There’s a vibe I always get when traveling that makes me feel like anything is possible. When I walk in a shop, restaurant, bistro, café, or random apartment in a new town I feel I can do no wrong. I am not just Mr. S Player. I am Mr. S Player’s even more adorable half-brother. Same father. Sensitive Player, Esquire-edition, is just certain everybody wants a taste of this foreign matter. This funk machine minus the afro-sheen. Lawdamercy.
Walking into the wine bar, tiny map in hand, all the stars were aligned. I walked with a gentle swagger. Distinct but not too cocky. And it’s a fact that homeboy’s hair was looking good. Not too much humidity in the air so it had just the right wave. In the omniscient words found in the Book of Brown, first chapter, first verse, the Godfather said a mouthful when he spoke unto his disciples: “Hair is the first thing. And teeth the second. Hair and teeth. A man got those two things he’s got it all.”
The gum-smacker nearly peed herself when I came in. Actually she really might have. If there was little wetness it probably came when she jumped straight into the air and squealed like a really small pig. Not an adolescent swine. A newborn with its little legs moving super fast trying to catch up to mama with an ecstatic zeal rooted in fear and milky hunger. “Oh you really have to meet Dorika. And this is Nusa. Here’s my roommate Janka.”
“Ladies,” SP said as if he were adjusting his monocle and as he was handed a glass of wine.
“Will you come with us to a house party?”
“Will I come with you to a houseparty?! ….” I said, almost peeing myself, then reeled it in and played it cool. Got to hang the carrot, you see. I gulped down the rest of my red Hungarian wine called Bikaver, which means bull’s blood. “Hmmm, you sure I’ll be welcome?
“Oh yes. Bring a bottle. There will be sushi. There will be music. There will be ….”
The Marrakesh Express was rolling again. This time there was a definite hint of ginger-flavored gummy bears. Was there a monkey in tux? Seems I could just make out a trapeze artist in a singlet two sizes too small and with a blond and downy sheen that could only be seen when she stood at a profile and the moon was just so.
Lawd knows Sensitive Master Playah ate some sushi. Drank some wine, too. And when that was running low, he gave a cutie a fistful of forints to jog down to the 24-hour kiosk for more, “how you say, blood of bull?” Then, just as a joint started making the rounds, SP, Esq., changed the music. But he did it smoove. There wasn’t the harsh song break that draws attention. There was the silky trans that says: “Come along and ride on a fantastic voyage.”
It was then that Katarina, a sandy-haired Hungarian honey, walked in with the sugar toting the new bottles of wine. My Katarina flooded the room with fresh life.
My God what a package my Katarina was blessed with … all the right curves. Not too much. Just enough to jerk a neck and with a face that made me breathe through my nose for fear of dropping spittle on the dance floor. She was perfect. She walked over just as MJ was talking about “mama-say mama-sah ma-ma-coo-sah.” When I asked if I could get her a drink she nodded. When I returned, she was waiting. When “American Boy” came on she put her arms over her head, closed her eyes, straddled my knee and wriggled hips. When folks started to leave she gripped my arm and kissed my cheek. She pulled me out the door and kissed me hard as we walked down the stairs of the apartment.
We walked through the crisp, late-spring Budapest night and held hands. We never spoke. I was already thinking of where to file for a marriage license the next day. We stopped and kissed against a street sign with genuine abandon until the sun started to creep atop the horizon and shimmied along the Danube. As her bus pulled up I realized why we’d stopped here. “Come stay with me, I said.” She nodded politely, beautifully, no. As we kissed one last time she said only: “I hate you for not living in Budapest.” She smiled the most precious, pouty, longing smile I have ever seen. We watched each other through the window until she turned a corner and was out of sight. I didn’t get her number. Forgot.
I slunk to my empty hotel room like a popped and dirty balloon being dragged on a string across the gravel and straw and peanut shells and cigarette butts in a carnival’s parking lot by a kid worn out from too much cotton candy and the hollow, once-in-a-lifetime realization that he came this close – this close – to hitting the 50 hole in skee-ball.
Read More Sensitive Player: The Irony of Being a Player, Having Sex and Falling in Love
The OKCupid Chronicles – “Things”
A common misconception about me is that I date lots of guys and have lots of sex. I talk very candidly about my “dating life”, as well as my views on men, relationships, etc. I blog about hating feelings and having the hots for terrible dudes. My OKC mailbox fills up every other day with messages from men who want to date me, or fuck me, or have me mother their children. In real life, I go months without getting laid. Right now, I’m over a month deep into the misery that is involuntary celibacy.
It’s not because I don’t have options, I do. I collect hollers from dudes at bars and even dudes at grocery stores. And there are always guys who I used to get naked with who periodically text me at 3am. But at this point the sex I could have with dudes who aren’t that into me is almost as undesirable to me as sex I could have with dudes I meet at bars.
For lack of other options, I’ve spent the last 2 years having “things” with dudes. Mind you, these are “things” and not “relationships.” Relationships are what happens when two people like each other and don’t mind if other people know about it. They involve declaring your status on Facebook, hanging out sober, and becoming socially irrelevant. I’m really just guessing at this because I haven’t been in a real relationship for 4 years. Maybe 5. And maybe the one real “relationship” I was in was kind of a disaster. Regardless, I have had lots of “things” in my lifetime. “Things” involve intentionally accidentally running into each other at bars, leaving separately (or secretly) to go hook up, hurt feelings, lots of drunk fucking, inappropriate texting, miscommunication, booty calls, etc. Some “things” I’ve had look and feel like “relationships” only without the ever elusive “boyfriend/girlfriend” titles. Some of mine have involved dudes actually giving a damn about my feelings but usually they involve me really liking dudes who just don’t really like me – at least not enough to let a “thing” become a “relationship.”
I know better than to blame my persistent singledom on the guys I’ve tried to date. I do have a thing for emotionally unavailable douchebags, but I’ve dated some nice guys to whom I was the emotionally unavailable douchebag. Sometimes I let the walls of cynicism down just enough to let a guy know that I have a heart, but usually that involves him taking my heart, fucking it in the ass, and then not returning it’s texts.
That aside, most recently I had a “thing” with a guy for about 8 months. We met because we had a “missed connection” on the bus one day. No one ever posted anything on Craigslist, but we eye-fucked each other on MUNI pretty hard and I definitely searched m4w all week looking for “cute girl in the Nirvana shirt on the 49.” Thankfully, fate (aka malt liquor) brought us together at a dive bar a couple weeks later. After drinking a 40oz of Mikey’s on the bus one Tuesday, I developed the superhuman ability to drink a thousand cans of PBR and then not give a damn about approaching a cute guy at a bar (aka punching him in the back) to tell him that I know him, because I like, “saw him on the bus one time”. I don’t exactly remember what happened after that. Somehow my missed connection (let’s call him MC) was not completely freaked out by the whole situation and we exchanged phone numbers. I also vaguely remember making out around the corner from the bar, but up until recently I wasn’t sure this had actually happened (it did).
After leaving the bar, I proceeded to accidentally send MC some texts intended for another person (mind you, NOT accidentally intentionally). I then threw up in my bathtub for a couple of hours and passed out with my shoes on. Malt liquor and I don’t have a very healthy relationship.
I have no idea how or why MC didn’t write me off as another insane San Francisco girl, but he didn’t. And we hung out a couple of days later. We hooked up awhile after that. After hanging out a few more times MC told me that that he needed to talk to me about something. I was prepared for “I have a girlfriend” or “I have herpes” or “I have a kid,” so the “I just got out of a relationship and I’m not looking for something really serious” wasn’t actually that bad. MC is one of the only guys I’ve ever “dated” who warned me about these things ahead of time.
MC made the hard cold lump of stainless steel that is my heart throb a little bit. We had infrequent, but very intense sex. He would sometimes hold my hand in public. He is the only guy I’ve ever dated who likes sleeping in til 4pm and eating disgusting amounts of skittles and gummy worms.
He was also terrible at texting – which drove me nearly insane. I realize that the expectation that someone have their phone on them at all times and respond to texts in a timely fashion is kind of absurd. But it’s 2000andfucking10. The average person DOES have their phone on them pretty much always and DOES respond to texts within an hour or so. An unanswered text is a subtle, “fuck you.” An unanswered text from a dude who has gotten you naked is a definitive, “I’m not that interested in you.”
MC was a bad texter. Which meant he wasn’t that into me. But when we did hang out, he was funny, and kind, and looked kind of like Conor Oberst. It helped that he was prone to asking me to meet him in the bathroom or outside the bar, pinning me against the wall, and making out with me in a way that left me with ripped tights and weak knees. We hung out maybe once a week, sometimes less, for months. Our “thing” never became a “relationship” but MC never lied to me, or treated me like shit, or was disrespectful to me in any direct way. In a lot of ways he made me realize that I’m pretty alright, and date-able, and maybe even lovable.
A couple of months ago I had the revelation that I’M A GROWN-ASS WOMAN and I did something I have never done before. I ended things with MC. Well, I didn’t actually end them. BUT I did tell him that I wanted more of a relationship than he was able to give me and I wasn’t going to continue doing what we had been doing. This was HUGE for me. I have never had the kind of self-respect to think that I deserved more than what a guy I was into was giving me, however little. MC was really nice about it, he told me he knew I deserved better and hoped we could remain friends. He told me what is in my book one of the sweetest things a guy has ever told me: “I wish I had had time to get sick of you.” I cried a little bit while walking home, and I never cry.
I hate to admit this, but one of the things that lead me to my grow-ass woman revelation was signing up for okcupid. There’s nothing to make you feel fucking worth it like 100 creeps hitting you up on the internet. No, seriously. For the first time in my life I had guys asking me to dinner instead of asking me if I was going to so&so’s party later or knew where to find some blow. I got messages from doctors and lawyer, bros and creeps and weirdos. I got messages from dudes who looked like Abercrombie models and dudes who looked like Larry David. What I realized is that there are, in fact, a lot of fucking fish in the sea, and a lot of those fish are down to date me.
I’ve since learned (the hard way) that you don’t know rejection until you’ve been rejected by someone you met on the internet. And I’ve since aggressively made out with MC in the photobooth at Pop’s and been spotted leaving his apartment in last night’s outfit. But I walk that walk of shame with my head held high. Because I’m a grown-ass woman. And there are plenty of fucking fish in the sea.
READ MORE of THE OKCUPID CHRONICLES:
Tantric Sex for Beginners
By Veronica Christina
My friend Sean recently wowed me by casually mentioning that he had just attended a three-day tantric sex workshop where the end goal was, well, for no end goal. “The point,” he said, “is to channel all the sexual energy that would normally leave during an orgasm, back into your body. It gives you so much energy!”
Sure enough, achieving the big “O” is not Tantra’s main objective. Instead, you attempt to prolong the act, increasing potent sexual energy and intimacy with your partner. If you focus soley on the grand finale, you’ll miss the amazing range of feeling the rest of the show offers. “Sexual energy is one of our most powerful energies for creating health,” says Christiane Northrup, M.D., author of Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom. “Through the intimate connection with another, our stress hormones lower and our serotonin shoots through the roof.”
Hmmm, I’ve certainly heard of Tantra but besides the Bible-length Kama Sutra, wacky-sounding positions like “lotus” and “jumping spider” and tales of Sting engaging in 36-hour lovemaking sessions, I didn’t know much, let alone that the intimacy is great for our health. “Even without an exhaustive education,” says Wendy Strgar, CEO of Good, Clean Love, “the principles behind tantric practice can go a long way in deepening the connection you share with your partner.”
Here are four beginner’s techniques you can try out.
Design an “Intimacy Space”
This should be a comfortable area that is playful and relaxed. First, clear the room of any attention-grabbing clutter. Next, decorate with flowers, candles and cozy fabrics. Scent is really important to our sensuality, so try natural oils like jasmine, ylang-ylang, or rose. Make sure your bed is as comfortable as possible with soft sheets and a number of pillows. Lastly, chose a soundtrack of music that you both like. Play it softly in the background to enhance your mood.
Breathe Each Other’s Breath
Harmonizing your breath is one of the easiest ways to sync with your partner. Straddle your partner’s lap (called the yab-yom position) and inhale while they exhale and vice versa. As your partner breathes out, you’ll find yourself taking their breath into and down through your entire body. As you exhale, consciously attempt to energize the breath. In this way, you’re sharing all of yourself with your partner. “Becoming conscious about your breath is central to all yogic practices and is foundational in Tantra,” says Strgar.
Keep Your Eyes Open
“The idea of making love with your eyes open is one of the fundamentals of deep connection in intimacy,” says Strgar. “It is surprisingly harder to do than you might expect. Move toward this idea as an intention rather than a rule and be amazed as the collection of glimpses that will reshape how you think about your partner and yourself. It is not easy to be seen, even by the people we love. Truly witnessing the act of love is profoundly transformative.”
Take it Slow
Sorry guys, foreplay is essential in Tantra. A leisurely, slow build helps men control longevity and piques women’s arousal. The longer you linger in this process of building energy, the longer your session will last and the more energy you will build. Use this time to fully focus on each other. As in meditation, when your thoughts wander, gently guide your attention back to your partner and the magic of the moment at hand.
Cock Rings 101 – Everything You Need to Know
Part 1 of 2
Admit it. You’re curious about cock rings. You don’t really know exactly where you’ve seen, but you have seen them. Hanging off the epaulets of Rob Halford’s motorcycle jacket, for example. Maybe when you were basking under the sun at Baker Beach. C’mon we’ve all been there. How do you even get them on? And why would any dude want a heavy ring of metal squeezing their junk anyway? Well lemme tell you, they feel really good, increases pressure (read: give you much harder erections) and, they are a lot of fun. Either flying solo or with your girl, no matter which hand you bat with, you too can wear a cock ring. And I’d bet that once you give cock rings a spin, you’ll wonder how you ever got off with out them. Just for the record, I’m wearing a cock ring as I write this.
The Basic Cock Ring:
It’s exactly what it sounds like. It’s a ring of ¼ inch round chrome or nickel plated steel (or rubber or silicone or gold or neoprene or leather and I’ll get into the various derivations later…) that goes around you region and gives the entire works a pleasant squeeze, holds your engorged parts in a nice grip and with the weight of the metal, gives your boners an extra oomph that you can hang a hat on 
(magnificent isn’t the right word, but it’s the first that comes to mind…). Also, it gives your perineum a slight stimulation, which feels really (I mean really) good. Think of the cock ring as a Wonder Bra for your goods. It lifts. It fluffs. And generally makes the whole region more impressive to behold.
Most steel cock rings are fairly inexpensive, about $2-$3 dollars from you friendly neighborhood smut shop. You can even find them at your hardware store, but make sure the connection point is nice and smooth. The last thing want is a sharp metal edge pressing into the most sensitive of areas on your body. They’re available in a variety of sizes so you can the perfect ring for where ever you wanna hang them. You’ll probably want something between a 2” and 1 3/4” diameter. But if you’re not sure, get a few different sizes and try them out. Experimentation is always a good thing. It’s a low cost investment and knowing is half the battle.
Now what:
Once you get your shiny new cock ring home, relax a bit. You don’t want to slide it on when you’re at full mast. You’ll hurt yourself and—unless you’re into that sort of thing—kill the mood. Fully relaxed is good. Half chub is even better. Start by sliding the ring over your unit and down to the base. Holding the ring with one hand, reach under and cradle your bag with the other and pop one bean through the ring with your fingers. Now, gently slip the other bean through the ring. You might have to gently press it through which is fine, it should just pop right through. Hold your junk firmly with one hand and snug the ring up to the base with the other and hey guess what? You–my friend–are wearing a cock ring. Yay You! Once it’s snugged up and firmly in place you‘ll feel a slight squeeze all around your package, the pressure will begin to build and you’ll be growing a good firm stalk. In a few minutes the metal will warm up to your body temperature. Now go watch your favorite brand of smut and do what comes naturally.
Beware of the lube:
OK a quick note about lube. Be careful to keep the area around the hoop free of lube. If too much lube gets under the cock ring it’ll slip down and not hold the goods as firmly and just get in the way (much like your girlfriend’s beloved cat…) And speaking of girlfriends, a few women whom I’ve interviewed on this subject have reported they rather enjoy the extra stimulation cock rings give their clitoral regions when their boyfriends/husbands/partners wear one a.
Movin’ on up:
After you’ve had plenty of quality time with your cock ring you might wanna change up the grip and pressure. An easy way to do this is to stack on more rings. More rings increases the firmness and pressure to your sensitive spots as well as add more weight to the apparatus. 
One thing to be aware of as you stack those rings on – what might feel good at first can start to ache eventually. Go slow and stack them on one at a time. Remember this isn’t a competition so no one will think you’re less of a man if you can’t stack on half a dozen rings on the first try.
Another fun technique is to get a smaller diameter ring and slip it around just your bag and/or shaft. This adds pleasing separation to your constituent parts. With your ball sack it gives a nice tightness to the skin and heightens sensitivity. Around your shaft, it holds the erection firmly while increasing the sensitivity to your head and sensitivity is what it’s all about. Give yourself some time to experiment with the different styles and materials and enjoy yourself as you investigate the wonderful world of cock rings.
Want More? Check Out:
The Exotic World of Cock Rings: Rubber, Silicone and Leather, Oh My!
The OkCupid Chronicles – Zero Degrees of Separation 2
So we left off ZERO DEGREES OF SEPARATION with our Okcupider, John, having swapped spit with my good friend Melissa, but there is another mutual friend to factor into this equation….
Friend #3 is someone I have known for the last 3 or 4 years living here in the city. We both grew up in the same town and although we went to some of the same schools and share many interests and several friends, we had never met. When I moved to the city and would talk to people about how I ended up here, David would always come up as someone I should know. We ran in similar circles and finally met, at of all places, Delirium (of course, of course). We hit it off but never really came together until one night in September.
I was beginning what was to be a magnificent career as a professional trainwreck. I somehow had found myself on “The Scene,” the mess of promoters, partiers, drug dealers, and DJs who essentially rule the bars of this city. I was new, and young, and thrilled with the prospect of going out. It was all very glamorous – the sex, the drugs, the music, the beautiful people. I was giddy with it. I became friends who two people who are arguably the most powerful promoters in this city. They throw the end-all ridiculously excessive, electro-party in the city. 18 and up. A shit show of magnificent proportions. They asked me to host, and I gladly consented.
Hosting a party is essentially helping to promote it. It involves you having your name on a flyer, drinking for free, sending mass texts, excessively posting party information on social networking sites, and making terrible life choices. It is a job that the most despondent of self-loathing party people aspire to have. It is proof that you are (finally) POPULAR (loved, wanted, needed, desired). It is the homecoming queen of nightlife. It is validation.
So, self-loathing, insecure, pathetic, 19-year-old me was ecstatic. I picked out multiple outfits, planned costume changes, handed out flyers and invited everyone I knew, friend or otherwise. And of course, I invited David.
I don’t remember much of that night past 11pm. There are brief flashes of taking shots, dancing in a onesie on stage, screaming into a microphone, and doing copious amounts of cocaine in a bathroom. Everything else is gone.
I texted David a few times in the weeks afterwards to see if he wanted to hang out again, but he was always busy. I had fucked up. We would run into each other from time to time and it was always awkward. Then I quit The Scene. Got my life together. Ran into David at a house party and talked a bit, I poked fun at how we had met, and in some strange way, apologized for the person I had been. We kept running into each other in the next month and ultimately ended up exchanging phone numbers again. Hung out. Discovered that we shared a love for some under-appreciated and very obscure bands. There was a small spark again. I thought he was dreamy.
Of course, this lead to me cabbing to his house one night at 3am and staying up til 5 to make out. I could tell he wasn’t that into it, but we repeated this pattern over and over again. This culminated in us almost having sex, but not quite. Sex makes things complicated. We would interact frequently online, Facebook comments, and Twitter replies. The strange new frontier of flirting. I wasn’t sure if he was into me, and I stopped caring. He was a cool guy, and a good friend. If we made out every once and awhile, so be it.
David is the 3rd friend that OKcupider John and I share. They had met a couple of weeks before, at a house show that David’s band played.
I’ve since hung out with John and few times, and we’ve talked more candidly about the whole situation. Thankfully we both found the situation to be far more awesome than awful. Recently there have been plans made for John, myself, David, and John’s friend to go on a double date. I am very excited about this.
It should be noted that David and myself fit quite unwillingly into the genre of “hipster.” We listen to obscure music, like art & stuff, and wear mostly clothing we’ve scrounged up from various thrift stores. The fact that we’re both from an affluent town known for it’s ridiculously hip kids with trust funds only makes things better. Of course, neither of us would ever consent to being labeled a “hipster.” That would be, like, totally lame.
John and his friend on the other hand, are not hipsters. John had been dubbed a “Dude-bro” (see previous post) although I have since assented that he is not quite a Dude-bro in the conventional sense. He prefers the term “Tool.” His friend is in many ways his female counterpart. Our double date is to take place in the Marina. And it is a competition. Tools vs. Hipsters. Winner takes Delirium. David and I have been fucking practicing, and with out doubt, we got this. No problem.
THE POINT IS:
It is impossible to meet anyone, online or otherwise, that is not in some way connected to oneself. Seriously. And fuck that “6 degrees of separation” bullshit, this is San Francisco, consider yourself lucky if you and the person you’re interested in have not had sex with the SAME PERSON (this is arguably the gayest town in the world, where sexuality is like quicksilver), let alone made out with each others’ friends.
Unfortunately, this is just the first example of my theory, which was still just a theory until on a recent date, when I was given further proof that I have no hope of meeting someone who is legitimately a stranger.
But I’ll save that for next time.
READ MORE of THE OKCUPID CHRONICLES:
The OKCupid Chronicles – Zero Degrees of Separation
So I have encountered a problem. My attraction to dating on the internet was partially rooted in the anonymity of it all… I can be whomever I want. Not that girl who is dated so&so, or the chick who made out with your roommate’s friend, or that promoter girl who was a HOT FUCKING MESS ’05-’08. Similarly, I like the idea of meeting people whom I would never meet otherwise, who are far enough from my incestual circle of friends that I can be sure they have not already slept with someone I know. The internet is big enough that there is security in having an interaction with someone untainted by history. There is the promise that, for a moment in time, you can be exactly who you want to be without having to explain your past. You have the liberty of presenting yourself and your life in whichever light you choose, and that is empowering.
Unfortunately, San Francisco is such a tiny, fucking cesspool that meeting someone who is legitimately a “stranger” is IMPOSSIBLE.
PART ONE, “JOHN”:
I met someone on OkCupid whose similarities to myself were mainly our personalities and outlook than our lifestyle or interests. This promised an important social distance and made me confident that he had little to no chance of knowing any of my friends. WRONG.
For the sake of anonymity, and because he might very well read this, let’s call this person “John.” Some light detective work on John’s part revealed several startling things – all stemming from the fact that we have three Facebook friends in common. The first friend is inconsequential – someone far enough removed from both of our lives to be harmless. The other two friends are not so negligible.
FRIEND #2, “MELISSA” :
Delirium occupies a very special place in my heart. I would estimate that I spent more time there between the ages of 18-20 than I did at my own apartment. I have done a variety of inappropriate things in their bathroom, most of which are illegal, all of which do not make me seem like a particularly decent human being. For many years Delirium was the hipster mecca of San Francisco. The place was (and still is, too some degree) veritably crawling with art school students in tight pants, vintage T-shirts, and flannels. In recent years, as mainstream media has adopted much of alternative culture, there has been an influx of … well, non-hipsters. People from the Marina in Polo shirts ordering Coronas and enraging the hipster population. As a result, many hipsters have abandoned Delirium, retreating deeper into the mission or staying home in order to get fucked up and work on their “art.” The weekdays are “better” than the weekends, when most of the douche bags in this city are so occupied with their 9-5 jobs that they don’t have the time or energy to rage in the Mission. So Delirium exists as a sort of middle ground, where hipsters and non-hipsters mix and mingle, sometimes peacefully, other times not so much.
Delirium’s reputation as a hipster bar, and now as a disenfranchised hipster bar, is only preceded by it’s reputation as a place to get laid. I will admit that probably half of the people I have made out with, gone home with, or brought home with me, I met at Delirium. Something about the place makes people just want to get down. Maybe it’s the $2 Tecate cans? I can only guess.
The point of this is:
1. Delirium is a place where hipsters and non-hipsters mingle, or rather, collide.
2. Delirium is a place where people exchange body fluids.
Is this beginning to make sense? Friend 2, Melissa, is acquainted with our OkCupid-er, John. BEFORE YOU GET AHEAD OF YOURSELVES, the people in question are both adults, and not the 18-19-year-old idiots who spend most of their time having regrettable sex. They are grown-ups who know better. As grown-ups, they only engaged in some “aggressive making out.” Harmless – seriously.
BUT SERIOUSLY?!
Why does EVERY single guy I meet, even on the goddamn internet, have to had exchanged some kind of body fluid with someone I know?
As with most disheartening situations in my life, I found this one to be ABSOLUTELY HILARIOUS. And really, this little bit of familiarity dispelled some of the creepiness of meeting someone on the internet, and made it less awkward to consider actually meeting John.
Of course, there is the third friend to take into account, but I’ll get to that next week.
READ MORE of THE OKCUPID CHRONICLES:
The OKCupid Chronicles – You Should Message Me If…
Right now, I am all about REFORMED SCUMBAGS and DUDE-BROS.
Reformed scumbags are dudes like the ones I’m friends with and have dated but whom have rejected the scumbag lifestyle for stuff like “having a job” and “not being wasted all the time.” Reformed scumbags still get shitty on the weekends but don’t hate themselves enough to be permanently drunk. Reformed scumbags have had sex with enough people to be bored with casual sex, and have become too lazy to play the field. Instead, they want to do bad things to me, and only me, all the time.
Reformed scumbags have discovered the joy of showering. They have learned that there is food outside the realm of pizza and burritos, and that they can be pretentious about it. They can afford even more expensive bikes than they could before. They have sweet, full-sleeve tattoos instead of lame stick & poke bullshit. They wash their clothes. They own iPhones. They have cool jobs as graphic designers or in the tech industry.
Dude-bros are a completely different animal. Dude-bros are pretty much normal-ass, well, dudes. They have decent paying, 9-5ish jobs that they hate but that allow them the time and money to get shitty on the weekends and go to Coachella. They were either unmemorable or really dorky in high school but rarely angst-ridden or “emo.” They went to decent Universities and got degrees in Business, or something related to computers. They listen to indie rock that they read about in Rolling Stone or on blogs or that they discover on Pandora. They all love Death Cab for Cutie. They also love hip hop, anything from 90s R&B to top 40, and have memorized the lyrics to many songs. Listening to hip hop is as close to a black person as most Dude-bros will ever get, besides that one dude at work who they try really hard to impress.
Dude-bros make fun of hipsters constantly but aspire to have sex with hipster girls. They call all hipster dudes “gay.” They clown on hipster fashion but have adopted Levis, American Apparel, Converse, Vans, and flannel as their own. They secretly wish they were more stylish but find tight pants to be too restrictive and uncomfortable. Dude-bros are very into physical fitness. They belong to gyms and exercise regularly. This helps them to cope with having been gawky, fat, or otherwise awkward in high school. Conversely, they have terrible diets. They have the same appetites and food preferences they’ve had since high school.
Dude-bros are intimidated and fascinated by girls like me. They are both attracted and repelled by my tattoos and facial piercing, interest in obscure music and jaded attitude towards men and life in general. They wonder about what weird sexual shit I’m into and what sort of things I will let them do to me if they can get me naked. They assume that I have only dated girly-ass hipster dudes and don’t know what it’s like to date “a real man.” They think that I am probably overly-emotional, depressed and psychotic and are both scared and intrigued by the prospect of me stalking them. They talk down on my lifestyle, clothing, interests, etc to try to remove focus from their own white-bread lifestyle, clothing, interests, etc. Often, they just want to get me naked, because the thought of dating someone who is probably nuts, combined with the ridicule it would provoke from their family and friends, is too much. Alternatively, some of them revel in the thought of their friends’ and family’s reaction to them dating someone like me. Others just hate themselves and think that someone as judgmental and pretentious as myself will help them to hate themselves more. Some of them just hate women and think that someone as insecure and fucked up as myself will have plenty of daddy issues for them to exploit. These are the kind of dudes who also want me to do weird sexual shit that I’m just not into (anything involving knives, pee, fisting… uh…).
Similarly, I’m both intimidated and fascinated by Dude-bros. My usual arsenal of references to pretentious literature and obscure bands doesn’t work on them. In fact, most of the stuff I usually talk to guys about, I can’t bring up with Dude-bros. I can’t talk shit about other hipsters. Or how lame electro has become. Or how shitty so&so’s coke is. I can’t talk about how lame ANYTHING is, because if it’s something they have heard of, it’s definitely lame and thereby not cool to talk about. Dude-bros suck all the irony out of everything. But what draws me to Dude-bros is the prospect of someone liking me NOT because I’m into cool shit and dress super rad and know so&so and can judge the fuck out of everything but because I’m ME. Yeah, ME. That’s some super “let’s take acid at Dolores Park” hippy-trippy bullshit but it’s way more important than myself, or any self-respecting “hipster” chick would ever let on. Because we’ve all been cheated on or dumped for some chick with more tattoos and tighter pants and a bigger record collection. We’ve all picked ourselves apart because we got into that band in ’05 when we should have been into them in ’02. We’ve all hunted down the rattiest vintage T-shirts we could find and read up on the most ridiculously obscure shit possible so that we can be the fucking hip-est of hip. And usually it’s not good enough.Hipster dudes are generally disinterested assholes and we live for the day when we will finally be cool enough to break them. FUCK THAT.
Dude-bros think that I’m cool and weird when I’m not even trying to be cool and weird. They think that the stupid shit that I feed into is just STUPID SHIT. They don’t judge me when I want to (non-ironically) listen to some goddamn Taylor Swift… or some Death Cab for fucking Cutie (I’m talking post “The Photo Album,” ok? “Title and Registration” is a dope fucking song, so fuck you). Dude-bros really don’t care how many 1000 page novels I’ve read or hardcore shows I went to at Gilman, they just think it’s sort of neat that I did. Dude-bros are so badass that they literally don’t give a fuck about any of the silly, ironic, desperate bullshit that permeates hipster culture. And you know what? That’s pretty neat.So if most Dude-bros are focused on how many “cool points” they’ll score by bagging a hipster broad, I’m ok with it because I’m collecting points for bagging a Dude-bro. We’re even.
If there’s a better place to find Reformed Scumbags rubbing shoulders with Dude-bros than OkCupid, I haven’t found it. (Maybe at one of the Pixies reunion shows?) Regardless, I’ve now accumulated a pretty baffling assortment of messages from both groups. I never thought I’d entertain the idea of going out with someone who wears board shorts but then again I never thought I’d end up trying to date dudes I MEET ON THE INTERNET. Life’s funny sometimes.
READ MORE of THE OKCUPID CHRONICLES: An Introduction of Sorts
The OKCupid Chronicles – An Introduction
AN INTRODUCTION OF SORTS
There is something wrong with me. When I walk into a dive bar and am greeted by the smell of puke & PBR, the montage of flannels and black beanies leaves only one thought in my head:
I WANT YOUR BEARD BURN ALL OVER ME.
I am a grown-ass woman. I have two jobs. I have my own, sweet fucking studio apartment. I have health insurance. I have a killer resume. I have a savings account. I have a goddamn OkCupid profile. I am winning at life, not by a lot, but I am winning.
So why the fuck does the sight of some unemployed, un-showered douchebag exiting the bathroom with a vacant stare and white ’round his nostrils make me want to have unprotected sex on a couch somewhere? A bike lock in a Chrome bag makes my panties drop. If you tell me that you can’t afford to buy me a drink, but would be stoked if I could, like, buy you a Hamm’s or a shot of Jack or something, I might be into it. Let’s be real, I am probably all about it
It’s not that I have no morals, because I do, it’s just that I am one of THOSE GIRLS.
I date dudes in bands. And DJs. And bartenders. And dudes who went to art school (preferably, those who dropped out of art school to pursue a career in making coffee). I date dudes who cannot afford to take me on dates, and if they could afford to take me on a date, would probably use that money to buy beer and drugs.
I have been that girl since I kissed my first punk rocker in leather pants and a bullet belt. I have an arsenal of Mix CD with hand-drawn covers and Bright Eyes B-sides. I have a restraining order. I have Polaroids of myself making out with various ex-boyfriends. I am about three steps away from having some dude’s name tattooed on a part of my body.
BUT…
I’m done. No, seriously, I’m done. To be honest, a part of it is that most of the dudes I’m attracted to when I walk into a dive bar, I have already made out with. Maybe. Ok, probably. Or at least they are good friends or roommates with some dude I dated 
summer ’07 – or have slept with one of my girlfriends. San Francisco is a tiny, and very slutty, little city. I know, because I have done my part to make it that way. Regardless, I have paid my fucking dues. I have done my time posted up at Delirium, and Hemlock, and Pop’s, and most other bars that offer a dollar beer. I have convinced a large portion of the female, hipster population of San Francisco to hate me. (I’m sorry, I didn’t know that you used to date, and that you still love him or whatever. Also, please don’t hurt me.)
The point is: I’M A GROWN-ASS WOMAN. I am beginning to realize that the fact that you have that one limited release EP on vinyl does not mean that you are THE ONE. In fact, that might be the only thing going for you, and unfortunately that just isn’t enough for me to go home with you, let alone try to date you.
I’m sorry, but if you can’t afford to pay your phone bill, I don’t think we should hang out. I know you can, like, @ reply me on twitter to arrange a time and place to meet up, but later, after you’ve called your drug dealer from my number, and he won’t stop calling to harass me about the money you owe him, I’m gonna be sort of bummed out.
Similarly, if you are like, staying on your friend’s couch for awhile until your unemployment kicks in, I’m not into it. I know that he doesn’t mind if we have sex in his living room. Even better, I know that you really appreciate it if you can, like, crash at my place for the weekend. But I’m just going to have to say no. You being hungover here is seriously getting in the way of me eating candy alone while watching Law & Order SVU. Please leave.
I’m not saying that I’m done with scumbags, because I’m not. Scumbags are my bread & butter. My scummy dude friends are my everything, and I gladly play wing-woman so they can bag bitches a few years away from being as bitter & jaded as myself. I am, essentially, a scumbag myself. I’m just saying that I am done dating scumbags. I’ve put in too many long, painful years of “romantic” benders and bar-bathroom hookups, it’s high time someone actually took me to dinner or bought me a drink. I don’t know if I could handle it if a guy bought me flowers, but I really hope that I can get to the point where that sort of thing doesn’t make me cry til I hyperventilate. Hence, I am forgoing the bars and turning to the internet. And if I know anything, it’s that shit’s gonna get weird.
READ MORE of THE OKCUPID CHRONICLES: You Should Message Me If…
How Homo is Your Homie? A Guide to the Kinsey Scale
By Kevin DeSpain
It was 10 am on a Sunday morning and I was at the bar fucked up. I was higher than a kite catching a warm summer’s breeze. It was summer alright – except it was summer in San Francisco which meant it felt like winter and the breeze was anything but warm. If it’s 10am on a Sunday and you are still trying to keep the party going (when you should’ve pumped the brakes hours ago) there’s only one place you end up here…The End Up. The End Up has its historical place in the San Francisco club scene: good sound system, great Djs, a killer outdoor patio. Everyone has found themselves here at least once in their “party career.” But today was ugly. I’m not gonna say I’m the cutest in the crowd, but this crowd was hurting. We’re talking a hundred deep and everyone was hard on the eyes. When it comes to natural lighting, let’s just say San Francisco summer fog doesn’t pull any punches. It was bad. And it was gonna get a lot worse.
I ordered another round of Heniken and Fernet shots for me and my buddy Jose (the name has been changed to protect the guilty). The drugs were gone, the high was coming down, and the only person I knew was Jose. By now it was 11am and the song remained the same. I was still telling myself I was leaving in 30 minutes. Three hours later nothing had changed, not even the weather.
Jose and I took refuge in a dark corner of the club and entertained ourselves by checking out Jackie, the cutest chica in the place. Seated on a couch a few yards away, I’d keep catching Jackie staring. The minute I’d make eye contact, Jackie would whip her head back and look the other way. Baby was playing so hard to get she was flirting with whiplash. Three house tracks later, baby made her way to the bar. Jackie’s English was not so good, and since my Spanish is only “asi asi,” I let Jose do the talking. In the meantime, I did my best to keep the talk small. First, get Jackie the vodka Red Bull, then tell her how “cute she looks,” “Does she have any hot friends?” and “Does she like to party?”
Deep into conversation I remembered my promise to go home but fuck it – I was having fun. Especially when an older Asian guy tried to grab Jackie by the arm and tell her “I got some weed, let’s go to the car and smoke.” Jackie couldn’t help but smile with all these men hounding her. During it all, Jose kept whispering in my ear “we should both take her back to the house and fuck.” You see, Jose didn’t give a fuck that Jackie was a tranny. The fact is I didn’t either. 
But just because it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, does not mean I wanna fuck. Jackie was a dude, and seeing a plastic surgeon on occasion wasn’t gonna change that fact. Sure, Jackie had good bone structure and big brown bedroom eyes but I got tranny-dar from a mile away and that’s not how I get down.
The clock was ticking, the drugs were gone, and I needed a shower. The joke was getting old. It was time to go. I killed the last of my getting-lukewarm beer and bid farewell to my friend. I was sober enough to drive but they don’t make shades dark enough to block out the shit I was feeling. It was ugly, but I’ve seen worse. In less than an hour I’d have my head on the pillow, feeling relieved that the night/day was over. Alone in my bedroom, I’d promise myself I’d stop partying for a month. I’d make the same promise next weekend.
Promises, like hearts, are easy to break. I haven’t talked to Jose since we met Jackie. I’m sure when I do he’ll tell me what he told me the minute before I left the bar that Sunday, “I’m right behind you bro.” I don’t know if Jose took Jackie back to his house to watch TV or play cards. It didn’t matter, I knew the answer. I knew the answer before we even met Jackie. If a guy is always taking about threesomes and “crossing swords” and showing you that movie on his iphone (you know the movie, the one he took of a girl giving him head) it only means one thing. Jose has got some sugar in his tank.
How Jose gets down behind closed doors is his business but I would prefer that a dude be a little more up front about his sweetness. Or maybe Jose really is being straight up? 
Maybe it’s in the handshake? Maybe it’s that extra long look into my eyes? Are there signs that I’m missing? Like the way a guy ties his shoes? What if he’s wearing slip-ons? What about sandals? What if they’re Tevas (that one I do know, he ain’t gay, but he needs to be). Who’s to say Jose is being sweet anyway? Maybe I’m just confused? I tend to see things in absolutes: blacks and whites, goods and evils, fine and ugly. But maybe, like in life, things aren’t so clear. And maybe, just maybe, when it comes to sex and sexuality being a homo is not so black and white either. Maybe I should’ve asked Dr. Alfred Kinsey about dudes who like their rolls sweet. Way back in 1947, Dr Kinsey founded the Institute for Sex Research at Indiana University. He also created the Kinsey Scale.
THE KINSEY SCALE
0 – Exclusively heterosexual with no homosexual
1 – Predominantly heterosexual, only incidentally homosexual
2 – Predominantly heterosexual, but more than incidentally homosexual
3 – Equally heterosexual and homosexually
4 – Predominantly homosexual, but more than incidentally heterosexual
5 – Predominantly homosexual, incidentally heterosexual
6 - Exclusively homosexual
Maybe Dr Kinsey was onto something and there really are shades of gay. But now that I think about it, I could throw out a few examples of the Kinsey Scale right now. Keep in mind these are my examples, if you disagree or you got different examples, then write your own piece and don’t hijack my shit.
Example A: You mention to a buddy that you are writing an article on the Kinsey Scale for sexanddesign.com, and after explaining what the Kinsey Scale is your buddy blurts out the fact that he is a “bonafide zero” which means he is 100% exclusively heterosexual with never, not once, any sugar.
Rating on the Kinsey Scale: 2
Just by default, dude gets a 2. Why? Just because I’m writing an article on the Kinsey Scale doesn’t mean I’m looking for you to volunteer how straight you are. I wasn’t asking, I thought I already knew. We’re watching some football on a Sunday afternoon and the next thing you know we’re arguing who’s the straightest. “I’m straighter than you dude.” “Bullshit, I’m the straightest dude you ever met.” Two dudes arguing how straight they are is the gayest shit I’ve ever heard.
Example B: A heterosexual male who likes to get a mani and a pedi.
Rating on the Kinsey Scale: Not Applicable
Metrosexual was term created by some jealous homosexuals who were mad that straight guys got hip. If a man likes to get his nails done it has nothing to do with sexuality. It’s called grooming – get over it. So I gotta walk down the street with a unibrow and a bush under my nutsack to prove I’m exclusively heterosexual? Get the fuck outta here, next….
Example C: A heterosexual male who wears tighter jeans than his girlfriend.
Rating on the Kinsey Scale: 5
I don’t care if you’re the Hugh Hefner of hipsters, the tight pegged jeans says one thing… cameltoe.
Example D: A heterosexual male writes an article on the Kinsey Scale, causing him to ponder the meaning of sexuality, making him question his and every other straight males identity.
Rating on the Kinsey Scale: Don’t worry about, that’s my business.
I’m writing for Sex+Design. They have a huge female following. Nothing turns a women off more than a homophobe. And nothing turns a women on more, than a man whose comfortable with his sexuality. You do the math (I’m not getting rich off this so I might as well get laid.)
Dr Kinsey and his team interviewed 12,000 men between 1938 and 1947. And out of those 12,000 men interviewed, 37% of those men labeled themselves as bisexual. Now I know why my gay friends are always hitting on me – 37% of you straight dudes out there got sugar in your tank. Those must be the same dudes that my gay friends are always talking about when they say they like to “hook-up with straight boys.” I like to tell my gay friends that if they’re hooking up with “straight boys” then they aren’t that straight. You folks read that right, I got a few gay friends. A bonafide 100% exclusively heterosexual male can have a few token homo friends. I don’t know close you can be with ‘em, but it’s possible.
Kicking it with a some gay dudes is always an educational experience – they are usually well-groomed and are always on point when it comes to the fashion and style. Gay men can also tell great stories with lots of extra attitude. And they can be real catty, kinda like women. The only problem with a straight guy hanging out with homos is that all conversations, introductions, hellos and goodbyes always come back to one thing…. them trying to get some. You could be talking to your gay friend about some random shit like “how the early morning bad weather might be an ominous sign for today’s statewide elections” and no matter how you spin it, it always comes back to him telling me “how sexy I look in my t-shirt.” I could tell my gay friend how my cat just got run over by a dump truck and no matter how bad he tells me he feels, I know in the back of his head he’s thinking “how sexy I look in my t-shirt.” I feel so objectified, like a piece of meat. Sometimes I wonder if women can relate to these feelings I have? I’m sure they do. Now that I think of it, it might be a good conversation starter next time I hit the bars.
No disrespect to the legacy of Dr Kinsey but fuck the numbers. You want a true factor if a dude likes his cereal sweet? Put him on a desert island with nothing but a palm tree and a couple hairy coconuts to keep him company. Let a man sit on that desert island for a year. Then ask him about black and white.
THE DESERT ISLAND SCALE
A year later…
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. It all became a blur. I was stuck on a desert island with no internet access, which meant no porn, which meant boredom set in. I had already played out the last of my remaining options…. I had humped a sand dune. I got freaky with a jellyfish twice (got stung once.) I saw a turtle get naked. I hit on a school of fish and got dissed. Blue balls set in. I prayed to Mother Nature for a sign, for a glimmer of hope, for a piece of ass. I prayed to the great goddess of the earth to send me down one of her sun-kissed angels dressed in a loin cloth with perky bronzed titties that would point me towards civilization. I prayed to Mother Nature for my Pacific Islander Pocahontas. Instead, the bitch sent me a tranny.
Jackie washed up on the shore. Wrapped in seaweed with wet sand running out her ass. Jackie was a hot salty mess. But she was my hot salty mess. After a year on a desert island that duck can walk like cat and bark like a dog for all I care because a man’s got needs, and sometimes you gotta work with what you got. You don’t need a scale named Kinsey to tell you that. The absence of pussy does not make the dick get harder, but it sure gets lonely. Especially at night when you got all those stars to count. We all want to be loved, and if love is now rocking implants on a dude that was once named Jack, then fuck it, I’m gonna spoon.
In the meantime, before the rescue ship finds my ass, how me and Jackie get down under palm trees is our business. So until everything in the world becomes right and good by dropping a hot young co-ed from the clouds, you’ll find me and Jackie laid out on the beach getting a tan without the lines. Because in the end, you don’t gotta be straight to know there ain’t nothing wrong with loving the dick…. especially if it’s yours.
Texas Two-Step … Bosnian Edition
The Sensitive Player By Alex Crevar
Most connect Sarajevo with the war of the 90s, when mortar shells rained down on the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina. If they think about it, that is. After all, it’s a place stuck somewhere in an area once called Yugoslavia, which is somewhere in that blurry blob in Southeastern Europe among countries with communist-sounding names.
Some really old timers would perhaps remember that the First World War started here when Archduke “l” Franz Ferdinand was assassinated during a visit in 1914. (If you are among this WWI group, you’re likely in the older-than-100 category and I salute you. I also worry, frankly, that by reading this column you’re perhaps not spending your last days as wisely as you might. Suggestion: squeeze into that zoot suit one last time, grab yourself a flapper, put a fresh carnation in your lapel, stash a new jimmy cap in your wallet, wind your pocket watch, leave your worries on the doorstep, direct your feet to the sunny side of the street, and may your final moments be spent cutting the rug or doing the horizontal mambo … walker or no.)
At any rate, the bottom line is that Sarajevo’s a complex place with regard to history and politics, and, more appropriately, for love. They say Bosnia is the place where East meets West. This was the border between the Ottoman Empire and the Austro-Hungarian Empire for centuries. And there is still a considerable amount of Turkish influence. A Muslim town, the sound of muezzins calling folks to prayer can be heard five times a day.
“Okay, Okay … but how are the women?” you’re wondering. “Have I been putting my own jimmy caps to use?”
You are sharp today, my friend. Nothing gets by that steel trap of a mind. Thank you for keeping the Sensitive Player honest. I’ll get to the point.
I know I’ve made proclamations before but let me be clear here: the women are so beautiful that one has problems making it 
through the day. Really. I think it may be the mixture of the different cultures that give the lasses an evolutionary step up. As I sit in my office and try to meet this or that deadline, all I have to do is look out the window and see a gaggle of Bosnian ladies – wielding cigarettes and laughing conspiratorially – and Shazaam! I am transported to a place where pillows are made of chocolate.
Yeah, that’s right, I said it, they’re made of chocolate. And there’s a subtle hint of something exotic wafting about the place … I can’t quite put my finger on it. I want to say cinnamon and bacon. But I think that’s only because of my fondness for bacon. In actuality Muslims don’t eat pork. At any rate, cinnamon is kosher. I mean okay. And the chocolate pillow certainly can’t be argued with.
Maybe it’s because there are so many of them that they seem more beautiful. Something like sensory overload for the heart … and the nether regions. Homeboy just don’t know. He just don’t know. I’ve said it many-a-time but I’ll say it again: I am not the sharpest knife. Ain’t a person ever accused Don Sensi Play Play of that. But I got mad instincts. And when I feel that blood a-pumpin’ and that chocolate-bacon-cinnamon dream starts to wash over me, ooohh-weee: it’s like things get all noodle-ly.
The situation wasn’t any different when I first arrived here in the late 90s for a visit.
At that time troops still patrolled the streets. There were no tourists. There were three foreign-owned businesses in the country.
To make this story less like the dotted line following Billy in a “Family Circus” cartoon, that visit turned into me becoming manager of a restaurant named Texas (one of the three businesses). Again, to cut to the chase: we made mean chicken fajitas and we were the sole importer of tequila and Corona beer to the country. To get even more to the point: you really haven’t lived until you’ve invited a bevy of beautiful Bosnians – all juiced up on margaritas – to come back to the apartment and dance to Stevie Wonder.
During such an episode, I convinced one honey eating at the restaurant to join us back at the pad. That sweetie – let’s call her Wanda to protect her identity and because, come on, Wanda – was Bosnian. But, in the spirit of full disclosure, she had moved to the States during the war and had thus been more than a little corrupted. (Unfortunately for one Mr. S. Player, Bosnian culture is significantly more conservative about chicas running around with chicos.) “Aha,” I thought. “Gotcha.”
“You Haven’t Done Nothing” turned into “Reggae Woman,” which turned into “Sex Machine” (man gotta eat, lawd knows … it can’t be all Stevie). Suddenly Wanda and I found ourselves in the street. Nominally we were looking for a late-night bakery. Actually, I had my pants around my ankles in an alley behind the Old Town.
But, as is typically the case, while she was buttering my bread I was looking at her with a whole new level of respect. It was officially the first instance of my chocolate-and-bacon dream. In this one there was a duck-billed platypus. It was, if I’m not mistaken, wearing an Atlanta Braves jersey and tapping out a rhythm with its tail. Though hard to pick out at first, when I got it, it seemed so obvious: “Of course, Willie Nelson’s ‘Whiskey River.’” That realization came just as the rubber was meeting the road, so to speak. Shave and a haircut, two bits.
Son, we were drunk. I mean stinking and now sticky drunk. So much so that neither of us had a clue of how to get home. We sat down in the National Bank’s doorway and purred into each other’s ears … the purring of cats in heat plus tequila. The next thing I knew, it was morning. I knew it was morning because it was hot and really light. I also knew it because we were spooning on the doorstep as bank customers stepped over us to get into the establishment and get started with their daily business. Wingtips, high heels, pumps, and tennis shoes straddled our early-morning cuddling.
Though it likely sounds a little depressing, it wasn’t. I was invigorated. And she was cute and chirpy, even as she pulled a candy wrapper off her cheek. We made plans for that evening – the evening before she would go back to college Stateside – and I put her in a cab.
I hurried home. I took a nap. Showered. Cleaned my sheets. Went grocery and alcohol shopping. Said a prayer to the love gods. Accompanied it with a dance I like to call the “Lone Wolf.” And then I waited for her phone call.
It’s been nearly 13 years and I’m still waiting … while burning chocolate, cinnamon, bacon, and butter incense. My gods won’t let me down.
