What's YOUR Number?

It frequently comes as a surprise that even the sweetest, dweebiest, nerdiest guys have had considerably more sexual partners than I have. I mean, I’m not that bad to look at and I’m certainly no angel, yet I’ve shown restraint with my lady parts to avoid becoming known as the town slut.

But then I hear these stories, and it’s like, with guys, the more casual, emotionally unattached, and depraved the hook up, the prouder they are.

• Duuuuude I fucked some girl last night (high fives ensue) 

• Duuuuude I think she pissed on our floor (snicker snicker) 

• Duuuuude is she still here..? (looks of horror all around) 

HA HA HA. How is this a thing?

When a girl has a one night stand (or a casual fling or anything remotely “unacceptable”) she instantly wants to undo it. The morning after, heels in hand, she is quick to flee the scene of the crime.

A girl feels the need to rationalize, to justify, to erase.

She wonders - is there a loophole in the system that will allow this guy not to count as a notch on her bedpost?

• Maybe it was just the tip? 

• Maybe he didn’t finish? 

• He wore a condom, right? So it barely even counts... 

The fact that women even feel the need to make such ridiculous (and patently false) justifications is sad.

Why can’t we just screw proudly and not give a damn how many penises are in or around us?

How Google Search Results Sum Up the Difference Between Men and Women

They say men are from Mars and women are from Venus but by they, I mean some pseudo-therapist who made a gajillion dollars in the 90’s by calling himself a relationship counselor and writing a book.

As annoying as the book sounds, it’s true that men and women have their differences. When it comes to things like socializing, money, and football, I sometimes feel like guys are speaking a foreign language. What do you mean you might make fantasy playoffs? What sport are you even talking about? And how does a playoff exist if the whole thing is made up. CAN SOMEONE PLEASE CLUE ME IN.

Anyway, that got me thinking about all the ways guys and girls are different and one thing I kept landing on was online search behavior. When I google, I look at shelter puppies and pinterest and celebrity gossip. What do guys search for? Porn? They probably have all their favorite sites bookmarked by now though, right? Well, here’s how I imagine it might look for the average Jack and Jill.

Ladies: 

• Calories in a Starbucks pumpkin spice latte 
• Pumpkin muffin recipe 
• Calories in pumpkin muffins 
• What to do with leftover canned pumpkin 
• Harry Winston engagement rings 
• Google maps 
• UTI symptoms 
• Ryan Gosling shirtless 

I’d say this list pretty accurately reflects my search queries on a random Tuesday in November. Now for the dudes.

Gentlemen: 

• Two blonde sluts 
• Amateur 
• Spankwire 
• Pornhub 
• Morton’s menu 
• Directions to Morton’s 
• How to unclog a toilet when the plunger won’t work 
• Can I have sex with my girlfriend when she has a UTI? 
• Spankwire 
• Pornhub 
• Amateur 
• Two curvy sluts 

If anyone finds themselves offended by this list and my sweeping generalizations, please feel free to contribute your search results in the comments section below.

Who's the Other Woman - Me or You?

Hello there. We've never met, but I hated you once.

You’re like me, but better. All those important feminine features you’ve got are undeniably superior to mine.

Your hair is long and shiny, and not only in your going out photos, but in casual, everyday pics too.

Your arms look starving-model-skinny from every angle – not just the shots where you put your hand on your hip and jut out your collarbone.

You have dark hair and dark eyes and a smattering of freckles just like me, but on you it all comes together in an edgy, smoky tableau of hipster awesomeness.

And somehow you’ve mastered that sultry “I’m-gonna-suck-your-d” look without coming across as a whore. I’m impressed. You’ve got me beat.

He never told me about you, so I assumed he was mine...

THEN I found out you existed. And it’s just oh-so-clear he has a “type”. Laughable, really. I mean, look at us.

While you were moving and then job hunting and ultimately achieving greatness in Palo Alto, he xanaxed his way through a pseudo-relationship in DC.

DID YOU KNOW THAT? Would you want to know? Has he uttered my name even once?

Our six degrees of separation have ruinously collided, leaving us unfortunately intertwined, side-by-side, bed partners and kissing sisters. Zero degrees.

Let's Talk About BJ's

One of my friends is a total slore (slut+whore for those of you unfamiliar with the term) and a touch anorexic. But I love her. Whatever.

Anyway, I was only a little surprised when she asked me over lunch the other day how many calories I thought there might be in a mouthful of semen. I was drinking a coconut water at the time (which, I’m sorry, totally tastes like jizz even if you’re not in the middle of a conversation about it) and proceeded to laugh/choke/spit a cloudy stream of it all over my sandwich.

Soggy bread in hand, I mulled over the possible nutritional benefits of man milk. It’s just protein, right? But, like – how much protein? Like an egg? Or a small piece of chicken?

If a vegetarian is nutrient-deficient from inadequate meat consumption, can she increase her protein intake by giving a guy head? Just how many blow jobs would it take to replenish a protein-depleted individual? Suddenly math gets interesting…

And ok. What about vegans? They shun animal products in favor of a strict plant-based diet. But …we’re animals. Should a vegan avoid performing fellatio to prevent errant spermies from slipping down her throat?

Next time you hear some activist-hippie-plant-lover yammering on about their wholesome, life-affirming diet, ask them about their sex life. If nothing else, you might get them to shut the hell up.

Oh – and in the end, I googled it. 15 calories and 150 mg of protein per mouthful. Approximately.

Boyfriends and Bus Routes

Romantic encounters have exposed me to my city in an entirely new way. I’ve ventured to happy hours uptown, apartments downtown, bedrooms in northeast, and showers in southeast. I’ve traveled by car and bus and train. I’ve brunched on shake shack burgers at 10 am, inhaled greasy jumbo slices at 11 pm. Waffles on Sundays, bagels on Mondays. Barhopping and bedhopping and headaches and mucky morning mouths.

It occurred to me the other day that dating is the best way to get familiar with a city. It’s kind of like attaining fluency in a foreign language by becoming romantically involved with a local. Pillow talk has a way of improving one’s vocabulary…

Growing up in my northwest bubble did little to prepare me for the quirks of DC’s remaining quadrants, so the past few years have been particularly eye-opening. When I first moved back after school, I felt like a clueless tourist following my friends onto different modes of public transportation. I was bewildered, but they knew what was up.

Now, in the throes of post-college, single life, I finally feel like I have a sense of DC’s neighborhoods. Cross-city commuting can be viciously stressful when improperly executed, so mastering WMATA is really just a sensible hook-up strategy.

In school, it's all so easy. Everyone worth kissing is a stone's throw away. In the real world, the cute guys are often geographically undesirable. But here's my advice: Ride the bus. Get to know your city. Use a condom.

Five Lies My Parents Told Me

1. Sex. 
When I was little, I asked my parents what sex was after I heard my friend shout the word at the top of his lungs one day on the playground. My mom took me aside and explained that sex was a very special kiss between mommies and daddies that felt wonderful and made babies so that's why people did it. Well, imagine my surprise when I discovered it was a hell of a lot grosser than kissing, usually felt pretty mediocre, and rarely happened between mommies and daddies. In fact, that's probably the most overused joke in today's shitty sitcoms. Sorry honey, not tonight - cue the laugh track, bah dum, cha!

2. You can be anything you want to be. 
This one is a constant source of frustration for me. Yes, when you're young you can be anything you want to be and I wanted to be an Olympic gymnast. But then, once you hit puberty, you literally, physically cannot become an Olympic gymnast anymore. Like, you go to the Olympics when you're 12, you don't begin training then. So here I am, 24 and completely disillusioned by the parents who led me to believe I could pursue any dream at any time. I didn't realize there was a time limit to my dreams!! Now I'm obviously too old to be anything I want to be. Also! When I was a kid, I didn't understand that people were different races. I coveted my neighborhood friend's dark skin and wanted to be just like her. I now realize I will never be a black person. I mean, I guess I could try to tan my way to bronzed hotness, but I'd probably just wind up with a giant freckle blob and then peel. Gross. I guess I'm stuck being white for life. Thanks a lot, MOM.

3. You are beautiful. 
My parents always told me I was beautiful because I was a very cute child and it was a nice thing to say absentmindedly while tucking me in at night. Today, I realize I am not. There is a pretty obvious distinction between beauty and cuteness - a concept that current culture ensures is drilled into the minds of everyone with an X chromosome. Beauty is Frida Pinto. Beauty is Penelope Cruz. Beauty is Mila Kunis. Cute is freckles. Cute is round cheeks. Cute is me. I've come to terms with this now that I'm in my 20's and frequently mistaken for a 14-year-old, but it took some serious hits to my ego to knock me down a few pegs. I pretty much spent the better part of a decade thinking I was way hotter than I was. Awkward.

4. Santa is real. 
This is probably the most pervasive lie that parents in America tell their children. I grew up sort of non-Christian bordering on Jewish and celebrated Hanukkah from time to time so it's not like my parents had any obligation to go along with the elaborate lie of Christmas. I would have been perfectly happy receiving my gifts like any other normal child without the fantastical tale of a fat guy in a red suit lording over his elfin sweatshop. I don't even remember exactly when I discovered the truth about this holiday, but I don't recall being particularly upset. If anything, I just felt a little betrayed that mom and dad didn't think they could be real with me. Besides, I definitely didn't care about Santa as long as the tooth fairy was real. (I found $4 on my bedside table after I got my wisdom teeth taken out last year which I accept as substantial proof that she exists.)

5. He's only mean to you because he likes you. 
Yeah....he was mean to me because he actually hated me. Like, we were not friends. Oh and this carries over to grown-up life too. When guys are assholes, it's not because they have a crush on you. It's because they don’t want to sleep with you. Message received.

Wherefore Art Thou Romeo?

I forget what it feels like to be in love and I want so badly to be reminded.

I have a vague recollection of yearning; so much want and need and a heightened awareness of my being. Like a homunculus come to life – all lips and hands and overly sensitive private parts.

And I want that again.

I want more than a casual crush on a coworker who smells like herbal outdoors and cracks Dilbert jokes by the water cooler.

I want more than a lustful fling who’s all touch and no talk and leaves me breathless but confused.

I want more than a convenient companion – someone you fool yourself into believing you’re in love with just because it would be so easy.

No, I want that can’t-talk, can’t-breathe, forget-how-to-act-like-a-normal-human-being kind of all encompassing love. Thanks Disney for making me believe that exists. Can I just go to sleep for a decade or two until some hot guy who owns the kingdom wakes me up with a kiss?

When my parents interact, I see something rare. I see love wrapped up in friendship with a dash of passion. They found each other young and grew together and somehow, against all odds, made it last. If they could do it over again, I know they’d tread the same path, retracing their steps. Because they are part of the lucky few who found earth-shattering love and guard it, cherish it, and appreciate it every day.

I’m exhausted by my own ambivalence.