You can check out my latest little contribution, “Thou Shall Not Maketh a Booty Call on the First Date” over at Nerve magazine today. Basically, it’s about this guy (“D”) who recently canceled our first date, and he then attempted to booty call me via text message on the same night. Sheesh! Just when you think dating can’t possible get any more ridiculous …
Anyway, so, in a totally unrelated and random chain of events, I’ve decided to go to DC for a visit. I leave this afternoon. Mags and a couple of other friends live there. Bro, Alison (aka Andy Milonakis’ sister), Veronica and a few other chicas are joining me. Ah … Washington, DC. Mothers, lock up your sons. Wives, lock up your husbands. A band of horny New York women are coming to town! On second thought … maybe I should stay away from DC guys while I’m there. Remember my run in with the panty-sniffing Irish boy? Oh, wait. He was from Boston. Okay. Whew! I’m safe to go to DC. More details about the trip to our nation’s capital coming soon.
Yesterday morning, I woke up very comfortably wrapped in the strong arms of my guy friend Dylan. Yep, we slept together. In the same bed. But, get this: we didn’t have sex. And, I don’t mean that we didn’t have sex in that “everything but” kind of way. I mean that we honestly didn’t have sex. Of any kind. In any way. His penis never entered any of my orifices. Neither of our tongues physically examined the other’s genitals. So, what words were spoken? And, what romantic interlude (if any) did transpire? Um, well, that’s private.
Some of you may remember that I recently wrote about Dylan on this blog. He’s the cynical romantic, and he’s in town visiting for the weekend. He’s sweet. He’s also kind, strong, genuine, sexy, witty, thoughtful, and honest. “If he’s so great,” you might ask, “why didn’t you sleep with him?” Truth be told, I don’t really know why. Maybe I could have gone for it. Maybe he would have rejected me. Maybe he would have responded delightfully. I don’t know. I’m not inside of his head. But, I am inside of mine. And, although I’m usually up for breaching the line of friendship with a hot guy friend, I just didn’t want to do it this time. So, I didn’t. I just wasn’t in the mood. I think I’m holding out for something more here in New York. I want a relationship, not just a night of hot sex. Man, it’s been a long time since the last time I got laid. How much more time do I have before I’m officially reclassified as a virgin again? (I fear I may be dangerously close to that point now…)
Oh, those Canadians. Yes, she forgot the National Anthem. But, this clip is still pretty funny. If you missed it on VH1′s “Best Week Ever”, click the link below to watch the 47 second video. Best wishes for a great Fourth of July!
Today, you can find me ranting about my dating life over at my little blog column on Nerve. Be forewarned: it’s not really coherent. I’m kind of figuring some stuff out about my dating life right now. No worries. Nothing good, bad or ugly. Just thinking some things through. If I come up with any answers to anything, you’ll all be the first to know. Now, on to other things … As you know, I absolutely adore each and every one of my readers here at FBC. So, today, I thought I’d give you each a little love serenade. Fret not; no need to cover your ears. I’m not going to sing. But, I do want to draw your attention to a few songs. Whenever I feel contemplative about the state of my love little, I like to listen to sappy music. Why? Because I have ovaries, that’s why. At any rate, point and clicking my way through my archives, I recently noticed that I often write about songs. If you’ve recently joined me here at the FBC, you may have missed these posts. If you’re one of my lovable and adorable long-time readers, this will be a trip down memory lane for you. Sit back and enjoy …
What a Wonderful World
“Forty years after the song was created, ironically, we’re still in a war [...]”
Making Love in the Green Grass
Did you know Van Morrison’s love song Brown-Eyed Girl was originally titled Brown-Skinned Girl?
Stay With Me. I Guess I Have A Point.
“I used to hate Sheryl Crow with a passion that I typically reserve for snot-nosed, overpaid, pasty child-stars like Dakota Fanning. This song changed my opinion of her [...]”
A Little Song about Midgets?
“Do you remember that show Ally McBeal? During one episode, a woman sang a soulful rendition of Randy Newman’s Don’t Want No Short People at the funeral of a man who hated little people [...]“
Stockings on Their Dicks
Okay. So, I lied. I do sing. I just don’t sing well. In any case, here’s the only post during which I actually sing to you. It’s an MP3. Remember to turn your speakers down.
Welcome to Monday. Today, I thought it might be fun to foray into the fabulous realm of man grooming once again. Men, as I’m sure you already know, have the somewhat magical ability to sprout hair from the follicles present on the bottom halves of their faces. Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with four examples:
The classic standard: A full beard. Perfectly coiffed, the male beard should be absent of extraneous hairs. Notice how the gentleman pictured here has a straight line of well-groomed hairs on the top? All hairs are in line, and none are longer that the others. No barren patches or peach fuzz. Good job, son.
One step away from the full beard is the goatee. Unlike the full beard, a goatee leaves much of the face exposed. The result is a very pleasant flesh-to-hair ratio.
Pornstasche, handlebar, or pencil-thin. The mustache is just like a goatee — sans soul patch and bottom hairs.
If the mustache is a goatee without soul patch and bottom hairs, the soul-patch is like a goatee sans mustache and top hairs.So there you have it. When it comes to men’s facial hair grooming, you know what the options are. But, which do you prefer? Ladies. Gentlemen. Please use the comment section to tell us your answer to this question: When it comes to facial hair — beard, goatee, mustache or soul patch? Which is best?
Yesterday morning, I woke up very comfortably wrapped in the strong arms of my guy friend Dylan. Yep, we slept together. In the same bed. But, get this: we didn’t have sex. And, I don’t mean that we didn’t have sex in that “everything but” kind of way. I mean that we honestly didn’t have sex. Of any kind. In any way. His penis never entered any of my orifices. Neither of our tongues physically examined the other’s genitals. So, what words were spoken? And, what romantic interlude (if any) did transpire? Um, well, that’s private.
Today, you can find me ranting about my dating life over at my little blog column on 
