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First Annual Man-Pageant

• EXBOYFRIEND: At one point in history, dude called me his girlfriend and I called dude my boyfriend. Now, we’re no longer dating. So, whenever I introduce dude to my friends, I’ll say, “This is ___.” When dude isn’t looking, I’ll silently and exaggeratedly point to dude behind his back and mouth the word “exboyfriend” to my friends. They’ll nod understandingly because, chances are, they’ve already heard the stories about dude. On the blog, I’ll call dude “exboyfriend.”

• EXBOYTOY: We dated, but dude never called me his girlfriend and I never called dude my boyfriend. If I tell my current date, friends or whoever “This is __” without explaining dude and I used to date, they’d ask, “Why didn’t you mention you and dude used to date???” Hence, the phrase exboytoy.

• FRIEND: Maybe we slept together. Maybe we didn’t. Maybe we still occasionally sleep together because we still have strong sexual attraction / chemistry. In any case, it’s absurdly clear that neither one of EVER wanted to be the other’s girlfriend or boyfriend. No messy history; we’re just friends.

How about you, dear readers? What words do you use to introduce someone you used to date? What’s your ex-etiquette?

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Photo credit: Yellow exboyfriend sign appears online and is available for purchase at ScottysaysRadio.com.

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How Should You Introduce An Ex?

If the video does not appear above, view it using this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HxymHJNI9Iw

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I Kissed a Boy

The Dick Side of the Thr33some Sheet

While discussing fine wines with Twanna at an East Village loft after party for a reading at Gramercy Park National Arts Club, she told me she had just had a thr33some. “I’m writing about my thr33some!” I exclaimed. Being a dude, I was eager to hear it from a ladies’ perspective, especially since the two ladies involved in mine had jilted me.

As Twanna recalled the sexy details of hers, I got jealous. I admired how wholesome her thr33some experience had been. Mine was in a bathroom at a New Year’s party with one curvy lezzie and a Kate Moss-esque friend from high school. After making out with both girls and feeling their breasts, I was just about to get their panties off when “Kate’s” drunk Russian mom started banging down the door. I forgot to mention we were at her mom’s New Years party, didn’t I? We disentangled ourselves and emerged to the revelries.

Somehow I got stuck with an obese 60 year old Russian woman and her young beefy hubbie who had married her for a green card, while “Kate” and lez ran off to go down on each other (I later found out). Bored, I got drunker and drunker with the Ruske couple. At some point I was so drunk I thought it might be a good idea to have a thr33some with them! Unluckily, they seemed to think the same thing.

“I have big Russian c0ck,” the husband laughed, slapping me on the back.

“I should leave,” I tried to get to my feet.

“Goodbye kiss!” the wife cried, clutching me in a firm grasp and thrusting her cold, wet tongue in my mouth.

“Your wife just kissed me man,” I said incredulously after I was released. “Does that mean you want a smooch too?”

“I’ll punch you!” The beefy Red screamed, suddenly taking offense. No loss. I rushed out of the slumbering apartment as “Kate” and lez emerged in a sexed out haze from a back room confusedly watching my escape.

So, why am I sharing TMI — of course, besides the fact that Twanna and I concluded fine wine gets you drunk and I have a crazy story to tell? Because I want FBC readers to know that people are weird. The weirdos aren’t the ones who write about their weirdness in an open, honest way. The ones we should worry about are the really whacked people who hide their secrets away, who pretend to be shocked and mortified at the “sluts” and “d1cks” who are simply trying to put all their human confusion down on paper or out in cyberspace to figure it all out.

I’m usually a pretty tame, lame guy. Although I yearn for Ms. Right, I am not beneath using Vaseline and porn instead of wanton sex until I find her. Sometimes thr33somes happen to onesome people — I’m just setting the record straight.

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Related link: Get your Pomp and Circumstance on!

Photo credit: Ali Loxton

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Manly Monday: A Guy’s Perspective on Thr33somes

“Believe it or not,” I told one of my guy friends (one of the sweetest men in the world), “I’m actually much less scandalous than everyone thinks I am.” Ever the deep and introspective genius, he responded, “It’s not so much about being scandalous. It’s just that you’re a major extrovert & somewhat free from social fetters; that combination, imho, usually allows greater opportunities for sexual experimentation.” Rachel tells me, “People don’t know what to do with you. They’re uncomfortable with the idea that someone can be extremely comfortable with their sexuality and a ‘good girl’ at the same time. But, let’s face it, neither of us is considered wholesome – for whatever that word means nowadays.”

I can’t change who I am. Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. So where does that leave me? Honestly? Sobbing while walking alone east on 42nd Street between Lex and 3rd Avenue at 12:32am this morning. I’d just returned from Jahfurry’s birthday party. It was a great night filled with amazing live music, reggae dancing, tons of interesting people, a really good appetizer plate of bacon-wrapped scallops with BBQ sauce and a guitarist who I honestly thought might throw his instrument down and fuck a random birthday girl in front of all of us. It was a great night. When the party was over, Rachel and I walked toward Grand Central to catch separate trains to our respective homes. We talked about boys, dates, love lives and the way that people perceive sexual women. Why the hell is it so fucking hard to find a man who can handle an extroverted, outgoing, sexually comfortable woman without getting totally fucking freaked out? I’m just looking for a decent guy who isn’t so fucking insecure. Is that too much to ask? I wanted to cry. And, once Rachel and I parted, that’s exactly what I did.

Maybe I intimidate men. Maybe my personality places me squarely on the fringe. Maybe, woulda, shoulda, coulda, I really don’t fucking care anymore. I can’t keep thinking about this shit because it’s driving me crazy. So, I’m going away this weekend. One of my friends’ parents have a place in the Hamptons. A few of us are gonna spend time on the beach and take a break from this fucking city, from life. I swear if anyone in our group asks me questions about the threesome when I’m out there, I just might fucking drown ‘em.

It was just sex. That’s all. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.

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Photo credit: Tomas Lara

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Le Matin après le Ménage à trois

Wait. What the hell was I talking about? Sorry for the fatphobic tangent there. I planned to talk about men with accents today, but then I got off track. I started talking about last night, the cupcakes, the beer, Central Park. Whatever. Okay, so, LAST NIGHT … After the cupcakes and beer, I went home and my phone started ringing at Booty Call O’clock. It was this British guy I went on a couple dates with several weeks ago. In recent weeks, he’s taken to calling and texting me in the midnight hour. One message said something like: “Fancy a small party?” Um, I take it that would be a party of five: me, him, his dick and his two round testicles. I didn’t call him back.

From a European man, The Angry German, who writes for Esquire:

Women seem to take the English accent as an aphrodisiac. I can say, “Hey, I work for an investment bank, have my own place, and write a column in Esquire magazine” and get no response. Whereas butt-ugly Mr. Winterbottom to my side says, “Hey, I am on parole and need to buy some coke — care to help me out?” As long as he says it with a Brit accent, it is guaranteed that she will go home with him and fund his cocaine addiction.

Smart. Funny. Sexy. God, I love Esquire. And, yes, I need to date better men. Anyway, read the rest of the Angry German’s rant here.

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Men With Accents

“Want me to get you a water?” I asked. She walked to the bar and ordered a glass of white wine. If I was annoyed before, now I was pissed. I’d invited her to the party, and now I felt like I’d been resigned to a babysitting job that I hadn’t applied for. She didn’t ask me to watch over her, and maybe that wasn’t my job to do so anyway. At the same time, I was worried (maybe overly so?) because — even though I hadn’t known Apple long — I’d only ever seen her that drunk once before. Also, I was slightly embarrassed. I’d been invited to the party and the drunk girl was my guest. So, when Apple walked over to the host and a group of other men and asked for a light, I joined her to keep an eye out.

“Where’d you guys go before this?” The host immediately asked. “She’s really drunk,” he said to me in a hushed voice after Apple lit her cigarette. Apple and I sat down and joined The Host and a guy I didn’t know at their garden table. The stranger dude had perfectly smooth skin, a great smile, and a head topped with thick tufts of dark wavy hair. Energetic and funny, he seemed to have a knack for making women feel like they were the center of his universe when he talked to them. I’ll call him Mr. Charming. “Hi,” I said as I introduced myself. He flashed me a dashing smile, extended his warm hand and responded, “Hi, I’m Charming.”

The four seated around the table became a threesome when the host left us to mingle as hosts are wont to do. As I chatted with Charming, my mood improved. Better to focus on a cute boy than a drunken girl, right? It was probably a selfish act; I should have paid more attention to Apple. She wasn’t saying much, and she didn’t know anyone else at the party. She eventually left the table and went to the bar for another drink. Orange arrived and took her seat. “What’s going on with Apple?” she asked me, “I just bumped into her on my way in and her speech was completely slurred.”

I rolled my eyes and brushed it off with a wave of the hand before introducing Orange to my conversation partner. “This is Charming,” I said. Small talk ensued until Charming eventually left the table to mingle with other party members. My eyes darted over to the bar and I saw Apple showing a bartender her dance moves. Another guest of the party came up to me and suggested that I should check in on my friend. “She doesn’t look like she’s doing too well,” he said. A party girl during my college years, I’d made a drunken fool of myself, dodged projected vomit, said and done things I later regretted, and wrestled keys from a woman who didn’t seem sober enough to drive. Much of that halted when college parties gave way to careers and I replaced drinking buddies with real friends.

When Apple returned from the bar, I mentioned additional people had asked me if she was okay. I was concerned, but I probably sounded judgmental and rude because Apple seemed annoyed. She picked up her purse and spun on her heel before spitting out, “I’m gonna go.” I felt like a bad friend, but I let her leave. I later followed up to make sure she got home okay. (She did.) Orange and I prepared to leave the party. I said goodbye to Mr. Charming and, downstairs on the streets, Orange and I got into a tiff over stuff that’s too long to repeat here. Damn it if this wasn’t a long night.

The next day, Mr. Charming contacted me and said he’d like to meet up. I accepted and, on Sunday, we enjoyed each other’s company at a Brazilian restaurant. With a Long Island Iced Tea in front of him and a strawberry Caiperena at my lips, we discussed the host, Orange, Apple and the Friday night party. He seemed surprised that Apple and I were friends. “The drunk girl was with you? It’s one thing to go out for drinks, but she couldn’t even hold a conversation. THAT’S your friend???” he joked. I got Apple’s back; I explained that she’d been stressed at work, and she’d already attended a party earlier that evening. Maybe she’d had too much to drink, but I didn’t feel comfortable talking about it because she wasn’t there to defend herself. So, I steered the topic away from her and toward me. Mr. Charming and I talked about my past lovers, dates in New York, my longterm affair that never turned into a marriage and his marriage that turned into a divorce.

Although we’d only met days before, he already reads FUNKYBROWNCHICK.com. The host from Friday’s party told him about it. “Yeah, it’s Funky Brown Chick,” Mr. Charming said, “but, I really wanna know more about the girl behind it. There’s more to you than sex and dating. You’re more than just that girl.” I told him it was difficult to lead a fractured life. Details about my dates were online but I maintained a private life of friends, family, jobs, a guy pal from back home that I cherish, etc. I’m more multi-dimensional than my blog reflects, I said. “Anyone who blogs will tell you that the best stories are the ones that can’t be blogged,” I told him. His lips curled into a delicious grin, “That’s a pity.”

Indeed, my friend, it is.

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Drinks & Mr. Charming

• Britney Spears Is Not a Fan of Underwear

• Delightful Curves Ahead: Plus Size Underwear at AboutCurves.com

• No Pants Day NYC

• Christopher Walken: Man Wearing A Bra

C’est tout. Wish me luck on my date!

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Photo credit: Dan Shirley, UK

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I Have a Date on Saturday

“When Jennifer Rohn arrived in London from Idaho, America, ten years ago she had a vision of a typical British man: a mix of Hugh Grant, Lord Byron and Colin ‘wet shirt’ Firth in Pride & Prejudice. This man would have floppy hair and wear Savile Row suits; he would pick her up in his Aston Martin, take her to dinner at Scott’s and then woo her with some Marvell in front of a blazing log fire back at his country pile. The reality, however, was more disappointing.”

I love the Brits — especially the men. They’re fantastic! If you’ve read this blog for any amount of time, you know about my preference for imports. We’ve already given Manly Monday nods to the French and the Aussies. Coming soon: An Ode to the British Male.

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I Heart British Men

I asked you to repeat yourself because I couldn’t quite believe what I heard. “You wanna do what??” As if you’d pressed playback on the iPod of your own voice, you repeated, “I’m gonna piss in your mouth.”

[Continue reading]

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Today at panties210: The Underwear Blog — Victoria X 2 = {Underwear Squared}, Read the latest about Victoria’s Secret and Victoria Beckham.

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An Open Letter to the Man Who Told Me He Wanted to Piss in My Mouth