Tuesday, March 31, 2009


He called me out of the blue. This man I had dated briefly a couple of years back. Back then, he was going through a toxic divorce, all three kids in therapy, brand new upstart with no initial income. But his ability to throw back quips was sit-com worthy. And he wore perfectly starched cobalt shirts, his mastery of the kitchen was further inviting.
His decision to marry me came in the first ten minutes of first meeting me back then; to get me to say “yes” over our first drink, our first outing, over the phone, in the car when he picked me up from the airport. I said “no” to the whole thing and dumped him.

He was “better” now. Two years down the road, divorce final, kids cured, he had a big job with a major food importer, and was making the big bucks, and he wanted to spend it on me.

I wanted an out, so I told him I was dating someone. He said that he was, too. But that he had felt bad about how he had behaved – all obsessed and broke. His voice sounded balanced, safely in the midrange where I felt comfortable enough to accept his offer of lobster rolls at a pretty cool joint in the West Village. I put on my dark nice restaurant jeans and went in to the city to meet him at the hotel he was staying at for the night.

I announced myself at the front desk, she called the room, and told me to go up, which made me nervous. But I remembered how I had spent time in his bedroom back in the day, and he hadn’t laid so much as a well manicured finger on me. I went up, he was finishing off some emailing, still impeccably dressed. He threw in a pre-dinner drink offer, and off we went on the hunt for a nice bar in the village. He pulled out my chair at a very expensive bar restaurant. Not the kind of place I frequent. There were Euro-looking men with fairly attractive, painfully well-groomed women. Some of them possibly professionals at a price point where they could gain access to an establishment of this caliber and not look out of place.

It was me who felt uncomfortable. I like dive bars, or cool bars, but this place had the patina of passports, expensive perversions, and food too expensive to enjoy. Richard promptly ordered a double Kettle One, straight up. I followed suit with a more diminutive version of the same, on the rocks.

It was fun being out with him. He was funny with the bartender, and completely focused on me in spite of the expensive women who flanked us, some of them with accents. We did the obligatory catch up, I mean, this was the reason we were there, for him to validate himself, and pick up the tab. Always engaging, Richard had a lot of great stories, many about the Japanese that he currently worked for. Gregarious Jews and conservative Japanese business men = comedy. HBO would have been interested as it was, but then Richard even topped himself. He disclosed that he had done a 30 day sentence in jail. It was great stuff: Contempt Of Court in the final stretch of his divorce litigation with his impossible ex-wife. He thought that white men in suits could say “f*ck” to Supreme Court Judges, until the court officer got close enough to smell his imported fragrance and laid the bracelets on him.

Two more buckets of Kettle One for the second act, and it was sure to be a good one. Delivering in spades, he told me he ruled the roost. Highlights were his manual spell check of all outgoing love letters. “It’s not DEER Jane.” He made food suggestions in the prison dining hall, and made connections that were going to pan out handsomely for the purveyor he was now representing. He joined the AA meeting for kicks, made up a bottom out story on the spot, and had received a hug from a 300 pound tattooed man who revealed two giant swastikas when he outstretched his arms for Richard to fall into. It was great stuff, he had me where he wanted me, drunk and overly amused.

Next stop was more vodka and dinner. He steered me away from my first choice and led me to a more sexy upscale Greek place with plush padded benches against the wall. I took the bench, the waitress pulled out the chair across from me for Richard to sit in. He gestured towards the bench, and asked if he could sit there. I had dated a cop that always took the seat facing out, to keep an eye on the door, so I got up to switch. But he said, “no, silly,” and slipped in beside me. I felt the tenor change. Richard was now taking charge and coming in for the kill. I felt the evening shift, I was starting to desperately miss the man I was casually seeing, I had used it as an excuse, but it wasn’t a lie.

He ordered more vodka, followed by just about everything on the menu. I kept drinking to quell my nervousness, but it fueled it instead. “You could be eating like this every night, “ he started his presentation. “I think you’re smart, hot, intelligent, pretty, always have, and have never changed my position on this, I want a life with you, and believe me, it will be good, just look at tonight. And this is nothing.” I said, “Rich…,” he finished his name off with a “shush”. It was one “Richshush” after another. This was the guy I remember. Telling me to shut the fuck up so he can tell me how much he truly loves me.
I told him to lighten up, that he was ruining the lamb shank for me, that he needed to stop selling love to me like it was a truckload of salmon to Whole Foods. That’s when he pulled out the big guns. He got on the phone and hit up the hot young ex-con that would “gladly kill” his ex-wife for him, and had offered. Supposedly, he looked like Marky Mark, back when Mr. Wahlberg sold underwear. I have a fascination for dangerous fringe characters based on my stupidity and my buy-in to Disneyed television depictions. When this guy walked in, I knew I had put myself in danger by accepting Richard’s invitation to a “friendly” dinner. “Friendly” could never be attributed to this character. “Hostile”. “Confrontational”. “All women are c*nts”. Yes. Richard gestured towards ex-con on a platter and said, “Huh!?! How ‘bout that, I order you everything on the menu, plus Marky Mark!” Marky Marked blinked twice at me, not showing his hand.. A technique he had no doubt perfected in Oz. But that was when he was still in a good mood. I could feel him assessing my level of c*ntiness, and I could tell I was way off the charts in his swift assessment. Yet, he would turn in Richard’s direction with a look a 12 year old school girl might bestow on her first crush. I said something to Richard to diffuse my fear, and used a curse word for emphasis. Marky Mark stepped in on Richard’s behalf as though I had addressed the Pope and said, “Who the F*CK ARE you? Be a LADY for Godsakes.” To which I retorted, “Blow me.” I knew it was a mistake. I could feel his rage focus. I wanted to call my mommy. The manager. The police. Richard was no help. He was busy upping the ante, with desperate ramblings about ordering an 8 ball of coke, ecstasy, another appetizer. I was eye-locked with the ex-con. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to f*ck me or kill me, the difference between the two acts probably negotiable. I was petrified and frozen from all the booze. I knew I had to get out of there, but I was afraid that my sea legs would let me down, could I get up from the table? What if I needed to run? The waitress was giving me the “are you OK??” look. Richard clapped closed his phone and said, “we’re all set, drugs are on the way!” with an aside to Will Kill Upon Request, “Bobby’s on the way over.” Awesome. I would soon be dealing with a full house or possibly a hotel room full o’ inmates. The time was now, and it would have to be swift. I stood, locked and loaded with a firm, “I’m OUT.” I bolted for the door and just kept moving, sober from fear and escape, I didn’t look back or breathe until I was back in Brooklyn.

I wanted so much to call my casual boyfriend, my old boyfriend, any boyfriend that would comfort me. But I realized I had been rescued by My Knight In Shining Armor and it was me. She may not have completely gotten me into this predicament, but she sure as hell got me out.

Monday, March 30, 2009


As far as intimacy goes, kissing eclipses full-on f*cking and mouth to genitalia making out. The extreme intimacy of it is flooring. Face on face: no other way to do it, as opposed to intercourse, where you can pretty much avoid eye-contact or any other body contact if you so desire. The p*nis/vag*na lock can start and stop there if you want to take all closeness out of the coitus equation.

There’s no better way to rate somebody on the sensuality scale, because kisses never lie.
They can become a metaphor of what you can expect from that partner further down the road, down the hall, and into the bedroom.

People complain that when relationships or marriages “progress”, f*cking goes by the wayside, but the real truth is, kissing often goes out the door months after vows are exchanged, which for me is grounds for divorce.

I maintain that kissing should always have a place in an ongoing partnership, right up there with honest, open communication, it’s simply another medium, incredible in its capacity to join you in a non-literal sense. When it's done right, of course.

I once dated a guy, his face or name I can’t remember because his kissing was just that bad. His identity was wiped him from my memory as a form of self-protection. He used to shape his tongue into a thick torpedo, and he would f*ck my mouth with it. But like the worst f*cking possible. A constant piston-like in and out motion – with no sense of recipient. It was a mouth rape of a kiss. Not emotionally upsetting, but spiritually bereft. Beyond that, I didn’t know how to take it, literally. If his tongue is a dick, do I make my mouth into a makeshift vajayjay? Clamp down on it, slide on and off of it? Should I make an attempt to stroke the thruster with my tongue? Bite it to make it stop? After I let his tongue have it’s clueless way with me for 40 seconds or so, he was cut off from the rest of me. I showed his tongue-cock the door and never let him back inside.

Then there’s the opposite scenario, those who keep their tongue out of the whole business of kissing. Does it need an invitation? Can you attempt to throw a hint it’s way?
You don’t want to scare the non-tongue kisser with any grand sweeping gestures. But with these less in-depth kissers, even a light tongue tease can fall of deaf mouths. Great kissers recognize other great kissers immediately, and detect frauds on contact.

Then there are decent kissers you date, who simply use kissing as commerce to gain entry into other regions. And once they reach that goal, kissing becomes irrelevant. For them it’s just a means to an end. But for me, kissing is it’s own reward and should never be taken off the menu, yet it almost always is.

Some of the fondest sensual memories I have are of those first kisses in high school. I remember straddling a log in the woods with my high school boyfriend, facing each other, clutching hands outstretched, and finally the kiss – all sweetness and electricity. That first kiss lasted for three hours, throughout our entire relationship, and ultimately for years long after we broke up – and set the standard of melt that I seek today. And when you’re fortunate enough to find that person that can take you back to that log, that beach, the back of that station wagon, understands the sacredness of it all, the inherent newness in it – you have no choice but to take them deep and slow into your mind and swim in it.

Saturday, March 28, 2009


I’m living the life that most guys only dream of, or pay for with American Express, Visa, or singles. Women throw themselves at me. It’s an affliction. But that’s the price you pay when you’re a 15% lesbian.

Like the time my living room became a strip club. Janet Jackson was present in spirit, riding the baseline. My cute friend that fights men off with a stick, and once with pepper spray moves the coffee table aside and hits the dance floor. I think she’s getting her cardio on. She unbuttons her teeny sweater, down to her camisole. I figure she’s breaking a sweat. But undress continues, she lifts the white camisole over her head, long hair spilling from it, on to her tiny flowered bra. I haven’t felt gay in months, yet I’m getting excited. Next the jeans, shimmying out of them, eyes fixed on mine. No mixed messages here. The girl is in her bra and thong, and even Janet seems to be getting increasingly wet as the tune throbs and builds. I won’t say I’m not gay, because I hate labels. I’ve actually tried to be gay, tried very hard in college, but it just wouldn’t stick. But I’ve got a thong in my face, long hair blanketing me, nipples through silk bra. That’s when I croaked in that voice that just can’t hide horny, “let’s get pizza!”

That wasn’t the first episode of my career as a 15% lesbian. The first was in the 7th grade. The prettiest girl in the class invited me for a sleep over at her house on the beach, just the two of us. The invitation included the option to ditch the bottom bunk and share the top bunk with her. So silent, just the two of us on our sides, facing each other. Me trying hard to hold my breath, thinking it would stop the pounding. I was ashamed, even more ashamed then when she coaxed me into the shower to rinse off our sandy bodies. We were close and curious, and it stopped at that. That was my initiation into my career of half-assed lesbianism.

Years later, it was the captain of the women’s swim team at B.U. I was already dating the captain of the men’s swim team. I didn’t want to be hog the deep end of the pool. I should have chosen her over him. She offered to buy me drinks. He made me order the small juice at breakfast and only one egg. And they say dykes are cheap. But not as cheap as me, ponying up just 15% per usual.

Soon after came the blond thrill seeker dorm mate who had a penchant for shoplifting and bong hits before breakfast. She had a twin brother who was equally blond hot. She invited me to their parent’s house in Connecticut for the weekend. I was going to go for it. But once I arrived she must have smelled the readiness wafting off of me. She split with her ex boyfriend for the night. I sat dejected in her teddy beared bedroom, when her male doppelganger appeared at the door. He took my hand and led me to a moonlit golf course. Next night it was back on with sister and tequila shots, I was sure I was going to add twins to my resume, just one at a time. Suddenly the bar became a minefield. She wanted to know what had gone on with her twin. And that was that. As I slipped out of the house her twin hissed, “you blew everything”. I caught his drift, and it was a taboo-dirty drift, indeed.

Gorgeous girls don’t pop into my mind when I’m touching myself, yet they pop up into my life like a bad “B” comedy. My high school gym teacher driving me home in her new Corvette 80 MPH in a 35 MPH zone. The ring-nosed Latina following me with a non-threatening glance, then more threateningly down the subway platform. The CEO’s Maxim-ready assistant, dirty whispering in my ear my very first week at work. What does a girl have to do to make it stop? I bet sleeping with a woman would break the curse. But what fun would that be? My career as a 15% lesbian would be over.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009


I’m having a bit of a panty dilemma. Men are so specific about what they like. I actually think they’re pickier about the panties than the women that go in them.

I have a friend who’s boyfriend (now husband) had a very specific panty he needed her to wear during sex, or he couldn’t get off. I think they were called Lollipops, they were actually little girl panties. They had two varieties, one with a zig-zag elastic, those were the ones he needed or the whole thing was off. Well, one day I got a panicked call from my friend. Apparently, the specific ones he needed to cum, well, they were suddenly off the shelves, discontinued, and his erection would soon follow suit. Fortunately for both of them, she was able to source out every last pair of zig-zag elastic Lollipop panties left in the world on Ebay. With a “Buy It Now”, and through the magic of Pay Pal, their sex life was saved. I imagine her rushing into the bathroom after his money shot, and immediately rinsing those suckers out. God help her if the zig-zag elastic goes. That zig-zag elastic is the cornerstone of that marriage.

My last serious boyfriend had an affinity for pink cotton flowered panties. He used to make me climb up the stairs in front of him when I’d be wearing a thin cotton skirt. He’d do a slight grab-ass thing and say, “oooo, flowers" sorta like Homer Simpson, switching out "donuts" for "flowers". It was kind of his form of foreplay. Well, to keep love alive, I stockpiled all the pink flowered cotton panties I could find. Some were hot pink, some were light pink, some were magenta, some had all of the above. The background could be pink, or white, so I had some wiggle room in there. I still have a drawer full of pink flowered panties, and I’ve been wearing the new ones with my new guy. Until we had the panty discussion.

I felt I had to. He would come into my bedroom, and the first thing he would do was rip off my panties. This isn’t necessarily a good thing. It may just mean that he doesn’t dig your panties. Sure enough. He wants black. Black satin or black silk. Now, this isn’t a no-cum situation by any means. I don’t have to run out to La Petite Coquette first thing, but it’s nice to accommodate. Particularly when this particular guy pays close attention to what he wears for me, which is customarily black leather and chrome harnesses. Tops AND bottoms. I feel the least I can do is pony up and buy some goddamned black silk panties. I’m just a little nervous about what will happen when I reveal my newly purchased panties, all black and silky. He’ll probably want to keep them on, twist them around, pull them to the side, perhaps even use them as a background for his big finish. Spin-art-ing all over my 40 buck panties. But you can’t yell out, “Careful of the panties!!” in the middle of his anguished cum, it would be unkind, and negate the panties whole raison d’etre. So I’m saving all my money, looking under the cushions of my sofa for change. Who knows, I may come across a pair of black silk panties if I'm lucky.

Thursday, March 19, 2009


I’m seeing someone. Over me, under me, behind me, dressed in leather or military regalia. It’s a carnally combustible relationship that’s been lacking in one thing that no massive rod, bondage gear, or well-trained mouth can deliver: balance.

Ah, the extreme pleasure of simply strolling down the vegetable aisle together. Deciding what amount of pulp should be in our shared morning juice. Discussing the finer points of raw chicken, whole, quartered, organic, or not. I now know that joy!

What tops seeing your man dressed in leather, ink, and a t-shirt that brags “HARDCORE”? Your man dressed in leather, ink and a hardcore t-shirt carrying two bags of groceries with enough sensible foods to supply 5 quiet nights at home.

I’ve enjoyed years of domestic lifestyle ennui: the razor blade begging conversations about what to make for dinner. I swore those days off forever. Why are they suddenly sending sudden wetness to my heart, soul, and yoni? Balance! When those relationships lack fire, home cooked meals can never be heated to the point of becoming truly satisfying.

How can any relationship sustain passion to keep it interesting beyond the 6 month point? And what keeps couch couples from spreading apart? I’ve had friends that have survived cock softening years of diaper changes, unpaid bills, marital ups and downs, and how do they do it? What is the glue? The timeless sexual connection when two people get it right. Similarly, can the simple infusion of shared laundry loads keep my newly found lust life alive?

But I’m not living for forever, or even 6 months from now. I have my eye on the weekend, the sublimely ever-surprising sex, and the possibly on par experience of delving into his mind blowing herb roasted chicken once again; both of us fully satisfied, smiling, with grease slicked chins.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009


Drinks invited the Madison Avenue girls out for the 4th night in a row. My friend and creative partner Lauren were at our favorite watering hole, a stumble away from our agency. It wasn’t a gem of Zaggat, but we loved the unofficial one for one buy back we got at the bar.

I ordered a vodka. A bartender I had never seen returned with a dark, molasses voice and a shot of high IQ. That’s the thing with brilliant men. You can hear their intelligence before even they utter the first few syllables. His head was shaved, sleek and suggestive, his shoulders, taught, thick and round. Out of nowhere, they come: men that disarm you and write the next chapter in your meandering life.

8 minutes later we had a plan. Drink, debrief, and fall hard – across the street, after his shift.

This platter of passion and anger sat before me. Oil spill eyes, with pupils indecipherable were transfixed on mine. Words spilled and spewed out of him. Me, up way too late, like a kid under a blanket reading by flashlight, riveted.

Army career. Death metal band. Author. Drunk. Anarchist. I wondered if I would wear black at our wedding. His instability was prominent and thick. After my 9 year staid, passionless relationship, I was lulled into his tumultuous stream of consciousness.

Four in the morning, middle lane of 3rd Avenue, he took me in his arms. Tears, tongues, estrogen and testosterone crashed as cabs honked and swerved to miss us. My sweet flowered dress had lost its cottony crispness, surrendering to cigarettes, whiskey, perfume, and sweat.

He kissed me rabidity with infant-like neediness as he mumbled a disclaimer about having a girlfriend. I reached deep down inside of me and found a quarter sized dab of ethics, and rebuked his offer to stain my sheets with his scent. I backed away in wonder as he transformed into some sort of an ungodly beast. Crying out, movie-worthy, in the middle of 3rd Avenue – “I LOVE YOU AND YOU DON’T FUCKING CARE”. It bounced off buildings and reverberated in my ears and thighs. I left him there like that, watching him out the back of my cab window, arms outstretched, incensed and huge.

Later that week, I had heard from people at the bar that John was getting married. A week and a half after that, he was free and thinking about love, sex, and a girl from Connecticut. So I began my education of all things John. Pictures from his punk/metal days. vinyl recordings full of anguish, festering sexuality, and squandered intelligence. Pages of journal entries from days in the service. Smart, funny, haunting, lurid, wonderful. I was whetted by his pen, and his inexplicable drive to adore me.

I couldn’t tell you what happened after that. John fell out of my life as quickly as he had crashed into it. A year later, he called me at my advertising job. He had it all together, he had gone to school and was now a recording engineer at a well-known place in the city. He wanted to see me, for me to see him in his new element. A Halloween party was on tap at the studio, and he asked me to show.

I saw John lurking around the party. He came dressed, I guessed, as His Darkest Self. He was wearing his classic black, with blackened circles around his dank sunken eyes. He nodded from afar, and disappeared behind a black curtain. I headed back to Brooklyn, perplexed and unrequited.

One week later, I received a call at work. John had been discovered in his apartment, unconscious, two days after a Heroin OD. He had fallen with his leg twisted and bent in an impossible position. The word “amputation” was on the table. I called the hospital, his worn defeated utterances offered me comfort.

The leg was salvaged. John was released a couple of weeks later and having a barbeque at his father’s house on Long Island to celebrate his leg and his second chance at life. The promise of possible intimacy and hotdogs on a grill urged me onto the Long Island Railroad. John looked wonderful. His doctors had saved his leg. But Jesus had saved his life.

John explained, there had been a miracle. That he had a vision of Jesus when he woke up in the hospital. Girlfriends, Heroin, Jesus, it was always some excuse not to fuck.

We began spending quality time together. John was shopping for religion to replace his worship of whiskey, sex, and heroin. He started at Temple. He had always like Jewish girls, but wasn’t feeling a connection that high up the ladder. As he began to graze at the salad bar of organized religion, we spent afternoons and evenings together, often chatting until 4 in the morning, just like the old days. He insisted on sleeping on my sofa. John, writing in his journal, occasionally piping up with an inspired entry, me, trying to hide my haunting desire to inhale him from clear across the room.

A religious path was non-negotiable. Any other option would result in death. Plus, he was indebted to Jesus, big time.

A few months later, we had our first real date. John wore a jacket, I wore a skirt, we went to a nice place. We both ordered the shrimp scampi. I had red wine, he had ice water. We toasted to my birthday, which was in two days, and made a date on the day to celebrate. He invited me up to his tiny studio apartment to talk some more. “I want to be with you,” he said. The sex was talking. Jesus was hiding there somewhere in the tiny apartment, perhaps under the pile of soiled laundry. In full support his spiritual journey, I pulled away from his hand, which was gently working its way around my neck to draw me closer. He told me it was OK, as he popped the top button of his new black 501 jeans and drew himself out. The moment had finally arrived, and it passed quickly, the irony against the 3 year waiting period stung hard. He mumbled something about being tired. I let myself out, took the long ride back to Brooklyn and never heard from him again. My birthday came and went, no call, no date, no flowers, no goodbye.

I heard through the grapevine that John had enrolled in a Theological Seminary upstate. He was studying to become a Pastor, and word had it that he had set the place on fire with his passion, intelligence and intellect. I had spent a lot of afternoons in that wooded upstate town, antiquing and dining at charming eateries. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t drive by and scream out details of his blasphemy in the middle of campus in a halter top and no bra. But I thought better of it.

Years later, I did a Google search on John. He had his own parish in an extremely broken, impoverished town in Pennsylvania. He had married a fellow Pastor. She looked very kind and unembellished. They were starting a family. I found some writing he had done as a Pastor. It was gritty, impassioned, and wonderful. The core of John was still there, just cloaked in a cloak. I thought about his incredibly journey, and wondered how I had managed to still be standing in the same place – the middle of 3rd avenue, still waiting for that hell-fired impassioned kiss to pan out into something meaningful.

Thursday, March 12, 2009


Masturbation. It’s not just for boys anymore. But tell that to some of my girl friends.

For men, a day without masterbation is like a day ending in a possible prison sentence.
Always part of the morning routine along with shaving, shitting, and showering – sometimes in conjunction with one or more of the above. Call it “going through the motions”, with ten fold the excitement associated with the phrase.

Women on the other hand, don’t have quite the same relationship for what lies between their legs. When casually mentioning my favorite past time (it’s up there with crafts, and drives in the countryside) my female friends look shocked, horrified, or just plain confused. And the mere mention of “toys” elicits an even stronger response. You can see their nervous minds racing between Fisher Price to vaginas and back again. This ‘does not compute’ response is rarely followed by any Q and A, and typically followed by an abrupt change of topic.

To me, masterbation is a no brainer with multiple benefits: Anger management. Blemish control. Clear eyes and bushy tail. Negating the need for expensive department store blush. Masterbation can reempt a Big Mac meltdown, and a long hot session beats long cold sessions with Ben and Jerry’s any day of the week.

But what is it exactly that stops women from touching themselves? Is it the same thing that makes them recoil in horror from dissecting a frog, is it just too messy a business? Or is it the fact that our love button is somewhat hidden within the folds of our femininity? For men there’s just no ignoring a morning rager that simply demands to be taken out and played with well before the black Lab gets his turn.

I’ve also noticed a glaring lack of vernacular for the female act of self-pleasuring. On the male side we have “choke the chicken”, “jerkin the gherkin”, “beatin the meat”, as well as a host of other non-food related metaphors – no such colloquialisms exist for the ladies. In an attempt to coin a few, we might take our cues from feminine hygiene advertising that speaks with a whisper soft touch: “gilding the lily”, “loving the lotus”, or “stroking the pink pony” might be quite nice. More LTR focused women might dig “engaging in a committed relationship with the clit”. Oprah fans may find her latest coinage “The AHA Moment” to do double duty.

Call it what you will, masturbation is life affirming, man manifesting, and just plain good clean dirty fun.

Monday, March 9, 2009


Today I considered changing my Facebook relationship status from “Single” to “Sore”.
But much to my chagrin, no such option exists.

Supplied options leave little to the imagination. You can check “Single”, to “It’s Complicated” (an open-ended descriptor that begs many questions from “Newly separated?” “Generally confused?” “Still trying to pin-down favorite condiment for ongoing sploshing habit?”) And, finally –The Ladies Choice: “In A Relationship”. The ultimate buzz-kill option for all those viewing your FB profile, save for “Married” which may as well be switched out to “Legally Dead” as far as most FB poontang perusers are concerned.

Suggested FB Relationship Status options might be: “Tied To Bed And Left For Dead”. (A bit unweildy, yet nicely evocative.) “Fighting”. A bit vague. Upside implications include jealousy-fueled exchanges that end in mind-altering make-up sex. Downside would be: tumbling down other side of marriage bell curve on virtual fire pole with Crisco-slicked hands. “F*ckin’ n Fightin' " might be a simple fix, albeit it’s hillbilly intonation. “Bruised” also comes to mind. Inherent domestic violence suggestion is troublesome, but glass-half-full take of weekend of wrists pinned to floorboards sex is somewhat pleasing. “Bruised” could also imply emotional scarring, but at that point could be easily switched out for, “Baggaged”. A badge that few could deny, and none would admit to on Facebook, let along the therapist’s sofa.

So I’ve culled down some personally customized Facebook status options for today: “Doing Laps In Electrolytes” comes to mind. “Seeking Pre-Treatment Stain Removers” works, too. Or simply go for the less coy/more candid combo: “Want Your Ass Back ASAP”.

Thursday, March 5, 2009


I’m looking for a new business venture. An idea I can wrap my head around.
“Follow your passion,” “go with what you know.” I’m a long time fan of The Orgasm, and it’s recession proof. Not everyone has them, but almost everyone wants one. So I’m getting in to the sex toy business. And the great thing about sex toys is you don’t need a partner to get into it.

Possibly the last viable business opportunity, sex toys stand tall and proud when expensive cheeses, Time Shares, and cocaine sales plummet.

But where’s the unique selling proposition? Everyone already owns a dog-eared Rabbit from that sleek store in SOHO. Recycling heaps are filled with latex 8-inchers from a million ‘me too’ online stores. Tupperware-type toy parties are so 90’s. Surely, there’s a gaping hole in the sex toy industry. Then it hit me:

NetFlix for Sex Toys.

The business plan is straightforward, and is based on three key consumer insights:

Sex toys can be cost prohibitive investments. Sex Toys can gauge your wallet, some running upwards of $300. In these hard times, it may be better to lease than purchase. In the event of layoff, it may be easier to sell your BMW, not so much your Swarovski crystal studded man tool.

Sex toys are veiled in mystery and can stump even the most jaded world-class perverts.
Imagine an online catalogue that allows you to sample that electro-stimulation device by simply placing it in your shopping cart. Not sure if you’re a Giver or Receiver? Why not take both? Test the deep, murky waters of your sexuality with our complete range of rentable f'able fun. Keep it as long as you like, then simply slip it back in the hermetically sealed tmCum-Back-To-Us Pack.

Sex toys take up way too much space in your underwear drawer. Keep your sex toy as long as you like, no need to look for storage in your bureau, or fill up expensive off premise storage spaces that can really put the kibosh on spontaneity.


Sex toys are much more unwieldy than DVD’s. Hard to jam into apartment mail slots, Note to self: Incredibly Slippery Mail Slot Lube. Add on at Check Out.

Sanitary concerns? On premises Hazmat suited Toy Handlers unpack, tong, and submerge used toys in special 300 degree solutions of Oxy-Clean Brand Gizm-B-Gone. Please check STAINS NOT COVERED section for thumbnails of excluded fluids/substances and legal disclaimers.

All I need is the name, and a small business loan. My research is almost completed.

*(special thanks to my man friend on co-inspiration. you know who you are)