From the monthly archives:

June 2007

Urban Cougars and Their Young Boytoys

If you missed the series premiere of NBC’s Age of Love a couple of days ago, here’s the scoop: basically, it’s a new dating show starring sexy 30-something Aussie tennis guru, Mark Philippoussis. The twist? A bunch of young 20-something “kittens” battle older 40-something “cougars” to win the guy. (Yes, the show’s themes are every bit as predictable as you’d imagine they would be.) Although I’ve not been convinced that it’s worth watching an entire season of Age of Love, the show does make me think about my own dating life.

Maybe it’s because one of the guys who contacted me via Nerve Personals says he considered sending me an email referencing my “affinity for sex scenes featuring ‘older women’ with ‘younger men’”. Maybe it’s because I enjoy the movie Notes on a Scandal — a fictitious story about a cougar teacher who carnally “schools” one of her male cub students — just a tad too much. Or, of course, maybe it’s because I’m an obsessive person who spends way too much time pondering the whats, whys, and whos of the dating world. In any case, I notice that I’ve been very attracted to younger men lately.

Hmmm … obviously, I’m not alone on this one. In recent years — from CBS to ABC, from Oprah to MSNBC and iVillage — everyone has been talking about younger men / older women pairings. Good Housekeeping Magazine featured a piece on the trend. And, over at Nerve, writers like Douglas Rushkoff proclaim “in 2033, age 70 is the new 30″. (Psst! Today on Nerve, I wrote about a younger man who recently approached me.) Older urban cougars. Younger men cubs. Hey, with the photo above, I know that I’m in good company. How about you? Whether you’re male or female, tell me: Do you tend to date older or younger or exactly within your age range?

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{ 25 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

Barbados: The Recap

I’ve posted details about my trip to Barbados over on Nerve. Click here if you want the full scoop. (Pictures to come later.)

By the way, if you caught Matt Lauer’s interview with Prince William and Prince Harry last night, you might be interested to see what FBC readers said when I originally asked: “Who’s Hotter? Prince Harry or Prince William?“

{ 3 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

The Manly Things On Your Lips

Hey, sweeties, I’m back from my extended weekend in Barbados. I’ll definitely write about the trip soon & fill you in on all of the details — especially the island sex stories (others, not mine). Coming soon. But, for now, because it’s Monday, I thought I’d take you on a quick & manly stroll down memory lane.

One of the really cool things about the folks who read this blog (you?) is that you often continue to comment on topics, long after the day the post originally appears on this site. For example, although I originally posted the “Penises – Cut vs. Uncut” question last December, the reactions are still coming in six months later. So, I recently scanned through my site stats, and I’ve pulled together a couple of readers’ favorite man-related posts. Whether you’re a regular reader or this is your first time here, check out some of the manly conversations that are on your fellow readers’ lips:

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New York, New York

Hmmm … I returned home from vacation to discover (via Boing Boing) that New York is one of the world’s most expensive cities. I’m not surprised that we’re on the list; I’m just surprised that we’re so low (#15) on the list.

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I Need a Break

When I left Chicago two years ago, I wasn’t unhappy. I had a good job. No, actually, I had a GREAT job. I had an active dating life. I had wonderful friends. And, I had a beautiful 2-bedroom apartment to myself — complete with a 15-foot garden path that led up to the building. So, the obvious question is: why did I leave? Well, truth be told, I wanted more. I kind of felt like I’d hit a plateau because there wasn’t room to advance any further. In addition to the career plateau, I didn’t feel like I was growing as a person anymore. Every day started to feel exactly like the previous one. Each month no different from the one before. I don’t mean to imply that I didn’t like my life in Chicago. That’s certainly not true. I loved my life there. I’d just stopped growing. I knew it. My friends knew it. My supervisor knew it. “If things don’t work out in New York,” I remember the big guy told me, “we’d always welcome you back here with open arms.”

So, off I went to New York.

Truth be told, I thought that I’d pick up in New York exactly where I left off in Chicago. I knew there would be minor changes. For example, I’d resigned myself to the fact that I’d have a smaller apartment. But, I thought I’d have a 1-bedroom instead of a 2-bedroom. Oh, oh, oh. Little did I know that I’d crash with three different friends in two boroughs, live with a psychotic roommate and then get priced out of my new apartment (that had a mouse, mind you) before settling into my current building. And, all of that occurred within my first 16 months here.

If the living situation was shaky, life on the job front was unbelievably tumultuous. I’m not going to go into detail, because I never blog about work. For now, suffice it to say out with the old and in with the new. I’ve been with the new company since last summer, and I like it. It’s a day job that supports me while I finish my part-time MA program and pursue my creative projects.

Speaking of my creative projects, oddly enough, that’s the one area of my life that has worked out fairly well here in New York. It’s nothing that I could have ever predicted, but it’s definitely a very welcome surprise. I’m publishing more articles in print. Online, I’m ever-thankful for the gig with Nerve; it gives me the freedom to write about my life in a more sexual way than I’m used to. And, on air, my internet radio show & podcast (Dating Roadkill) returns for another season soon. Everything has worked out so well, that I’ve actually had to scale back a bit. For a while there, I routinely pulled 14-hour days. I would work a full-time schedule at the day job, run to my nighttime MA classes and then jet back to do the late-night radio show Once the show was over, I would stay up even later to write my blog posts and send out freelance gigs. When I had time, I’d fit my homework in between everything else that I was doing. It was too much. And, I needed to free up my schedule for new proposals that were coming my way.

At the moment, I only have the day job, the freelance writing gigs, and a few new things brewing that I can’t discuss yet. On other fronts, I still have a short while before Dating Roadkill starts up again. And, I’m not taking the MA classes this summer because I need the time off. Speaking of time off, it’s worth mentioning that I leave for a short trip tomorrow. As I mentioned a week ago, I’m going to Barbados with my friend Raj for 4 days. I’ve attended a wedding in the Hamptons last summer, flown around the US & the UK for for work a year ago, and I’ve gone to Illinois and Vegas to see family. But, the Barbados trip will be the first real vacation — i.e. no agenda-related travel — I’ve taken since the summer *before* I moved to New York. So, yes, if you’re counting, that’s three years without a vacation. I wanted to get away sooner but, at times, I didn’t have the money. At other times, I was busy trying to cope in New York. With the constant changes in my work and living situation, I couldn’t imagine going on vacation because my worries and problems would have just followed me right along on my journey. But, those days are behind me. New challenges, rewards (I hope) and other adventures are ahead.

Less than 24 hours to Barbados. I’ve never needed a vacation so badly in my fucking life.

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{ 15 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

Dorothy the Simpleton, and Her Dog Toto

During my lunch hour at work, I like to run in Central Park. And, when I say “run”, I mean move very fast by using my feet to pump up and down on pavement. Typically, when a human being with even an ounce of common sense sees a person “running” toward them, they move. And, of course, by “move” I mean move out of the fucking way. But, for whatever unholy and ungodly reason, I’m learning that people (in Central Park at least) do not see the need to also move their dogs out of the way, too. This travesty occurred yet again the other day. I’m running on the joggers’ path in Central Park when, directly ahead, I see this woman and her tiny little dog lazily strolling along the joggers path. Sure, I could ask myself, “WHY THE FUCK ARE DOROTHY AND HER LITTLE DOG TOTO ON THE JOGGERS’ PATH???”, but that question might raise my blood pressure to alarming levels. Or, it might cause me to have an aneurysm. So, I don’t ask that question. As I approach the woman and her dog, I simply huff and puff and squeeze out a quickly labored “excuse me” to alert them that I’m coming. The woman turns around, see me running toward her, and she moves over to the left side of the path. But, get this … She doesn’t move her dog. So, yeah, now I’m running full speed ahead. There’s a woman on my left. The low string / leash is stretched across the width of the path. And, the tiny little dog is on my right.

I assess the situation quickly. I could try to hop over the leash, but I might trip and fall and hurt myself. That wouldn’t be pretty. So, given the choice between the dog and the woman, I choose to go around the tiny little dog because he seems like less of a simpleton than the woman does. But, to my great disappointment, the dog lets me down. He won’t stay put, and he starts moving around. So, now the three of us — Dorothy the simpleton, her dog Toto and I — are doing that awkward dance / shuffle thing in order to get around each other and not get tangled in the leash. Eventually, I get through it all unscathed. But, I swear I wanted to tackle that woman and/or use one of my hands to pick up that little 2-pound overgrown rat posing as a dog and spike it into the pavement. So, to the dog owners and dog walkers of Central Park, I say this: “on behalf of me and my fellow runners, *please* move yourself AND YOUR DOGS out of the way when you see us coming.”

{ 6 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

How to Spot a Player, Vol 1.

I woke up this morning, and I felt compelled to write an entire post about players and how to spot them. Afterall, it’s Monday. And, Mondays are “Manly Mondays” here at the FBC. Actually, the more that I think about it, I can’t believe I’ve had ongoing Manly Mondays since November 26, 2006 and exactly *none* of them have been about players. So, today’s post is the first installment of an on-going series of Manly Mondays that will be sort of a cryptanalysis of the ways and words of players. (Click here for details about the alleged player who inspired this post.)

Together, we’ll tear a page out of the player’s handbook and decode exactly what it says. But, here are a couple of things to keep in mind. Please note that this cryptanalysis won’t hog up space every Monday. I have to leave room for other things. There are far too many gorgeous men out that simply must be adored on Mondays. And, of course, there and far too many probing questions that help us understand them better. Next, even though it’s “Manly Monday”, I by no means want to imply that men are the only people who use these tricks. Therefore, I’ll try to use gender-neutral language when describing the tricks. And, finally, note that each installment of the cryptanalysis will fully dissect only one trick at a time, in no particular order.

“Wait a minute Funky Brown Chick,” I hear you saying, “Hasn’t this already been done? Don’t we all already know the tricks that players play?” No, no my delicate little flowers. The point of the cryptanalysis of the ways and words of players is this: the players are morphing. The new breed of players, nouveau players if you will, have evolved. Their tricks are slightly more sophisticated. So, without further adieu, I give you …

Player Trick #305: The Late Late Dinner.

The players of yesteryear had it easy. When the player wanted to get a quick fix, the player simply had to pick up the cellphone and make a call or send a text between the high and holy hours of 10:45pm and 6:50am. Player made the call. Playee got played. But, then, something happened. The playees got smart. The phrase “booty-call” entered the dating lexicon. And, the gig was up. Although a few of the vintage players still use this trick, I get the sense that the nouveau players prefer “late late dinners”.

It’s kind of like talk shows. The Late Show is saucy. The Late Late Show is supposed to be saucier. Dinner at 7 or 8? Saucy. Dinner at 9 or 10? Saucier. (NOTE: I know my non-New Yorkers out there eat earlier, so feel free to make regional adjustments for the times.) And why, pray tell, did the players morph from straight booty-calling to the late late dinner? I don’t know. You tell me. But, if I had to venture to guess, I’d say there were two reasons. Reason number one: The playee gets dinner. The noveau player is a kinder, gentler breed of player who actually wants to do nice things like this. Reason number two: The noveau player is much more of a multitasker; it’s likely that the player had drinks, sex or something else entirely different lined up with another person earlier in the evening.

Feel free to use the comment section below to share your thoughts.

{ 6 folks got down with the Funky Brown }

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