Dudes


I have a lovely friend whom we will call Marla, for the sake of this discussion.  Marla is just like us.  She is a smart, capable, attractive young woman with loads of potential and that mixture of confidence and nagging self-doubt particular to modern women in their twenties and thirties.  Marla has nice shoes that she keeps under her desk, a subscription to the Financial Times, and commutes daily and smartly to her city job at a respected bank.  With continued focus and effort, Marla is Going Places.  She also has a nice boyfriend she loves, but with whom she is not certain she sees a long-term future.  No matter; Marla is focused on her job and happy with her relaxed relationship.  She is living in the moment, and the moment is good.

And then.  Marla attends an important client event with a number of her colleagues, including several VPs.  The dinner goes very well, the drinks are flowing, the mood is giddy, and somehow, without prior intention, Marla goes back to a hotel with a Senior VP from her company.

“I didn’t mean to sleep with him,” she says.  “Even when we went back to the room, I thought we would have a drink or two and then I would leave.  We talked a little about his wife, as a matter of fact.  I never felt like he was trying to seduce me, or vice versa.  It was late, and I curled up in bed, and then…  Well.” (more…)

Very, very thankfully, I have had only two stalkerish episodes in my life, outside of the usual bad-breakup scenarios in which one party has a more difficult time moving on; in that scheme of things, I have been guilty of my own share of unwanted phone calls or emails for the subsequent week after The Bad Talk.  Fortunately, I can take take a hint, and believe that the one or two boyfriends I’ve had who have ended things against my wishes still regard me fondly (I base that on friendly, occasional Facebook hellos that indicate we are in good stead and happy with our mutually infrequent communication).  I wish them well, they wish me well, and there is no drama or involvement.

Yeah, so.  While I have pursued a few guys beyond the point where they displayed disinterest, I can say with honesty that I’ve never harassed anyone or caused them fear (to my knowledge; I am sort of paranoid about that now, but given the “Ice Queen” accusations more commonly thrown my way and my general unwillingness to destroy someone’s car or call their mother to tell them what shits they are, I’m pretty sure I haven’t crossed that obvious, glaring line).  Which is a good thing, as I just spent about four hours of my afternoon reading the entire contents of Psychotic Letters From Men, as fixated on this blog as I was watching the final seasons of The Wire.

I was glued to this site to the point that my live-in Boy Person was annoyed that I would not go out into the rare London sunshine for a walk or a drink, so obsessed was I with reading about Terrible Men and The Women Who Despise Them.  Why is this site so good?  A few reasons. (more…)

The Body Fortress Goliath to my standard hotsauce David.

Well, it’s finally happened.  My skinny, indie-band-guitarist-looking boyfriend has brought home a vitamin bottle full of powdered protein bigger than my head and announced his intention to Buff Up.  It’s been a while coming.  His best friend is a highlighted gym bunny, two of their good mates are professional football players with tree-trunk thighs, and another is elite Special Forces with a chest like the side of a barn and the alleged ability to maim with his big toe – not that any of this affects their collective smoking and drinking regime.  The rest of their boy gang are regular blokes with varying degrees of fitness, and Boyfriend has coasted comfortably as the Good-Looking and Sensitive One for years.  He’s got strong legs and more than held his own in the weekly five-a-side, but lost his niche a bit when he left everyone behind and relocated to London to move in with me.

I knew it would all change when we started partnering in hand-to-hand combat class and he discovered I could punch harder than him, as well as tote him across a gym in a fireman’s carry.  Actually, no, he likes these things about me, and since we found out I’m three pounds heavier, he will jokingly accuse me of throwing my weight around whenever I’m being bitchy.  Oh, the fun we have!  It just proves I could save him in a war zone or an emergency.  If I felt like it. (more…)

Note: I am not snarking on this man, but would like to say that the BF's back situation is not quite so dire.

I’m heading off on Tuesday morning for five nights in Malta and a much-needed vacation after a stressful first quarter (what else is new? – oh, I mean that stress-wise, not jetting to Malta-wise – the latter is new).  Our flight is at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am, and we are requested to appear at the airport two hours in advance.  To cut down on travel stress, we’ve booked an airport hotel room for tomorrow night, and I intend to head there after work for the luxury of rising at 4:00 am rather than 3:00 am, and the avoidance of taxi/tube/train panic.  Worth £44?  You betcha.

Besides my typical packing freakout (present and accounted for, sir!), I took the opportunity today to engage in pre-vacation grooming.  I opted out of a bikini wax this time in favor of an economically advisable DIY razor-job.  While I have been dreaming of a sunshine and beach holiday, I fear that even Malta will be too chilly this time of year for sunbathing, so I don’t see any point in suffering through a wax when I will likely be clad in jeans and a monochrome tee-shirt for the majority of my visit.

Nonetheless, I have plucked, bleached, and shaved in anticipation – at the very least I am hoping for a Turkish bath and a massage, and, sadly, one wishes to conform to Western beauty standards.  But while I am responsible for my own grooming, it seems I am also responsible for that of my male vacation companion.  I’m not complaining, per se – if one was able to competently shave one’s own back, one would be something of a medical marvel.  But aside from my responsibility for sunscreen, bathing suits, itinerary printouts, and toiletries (all things he has/will forget without my prompting), I am also tasked with boyfriend depilation. (more…)

Okay, we might as well give up.  Because no one is getting any work done today, not if you have a working internet connection and can read.  Eldrick Tont “Tiger” Woods, Golfer Extraordinaire and Stupid Fucker of the Year is the hot topic for today after one of his mistresses stuck it to him by releasing a hilarious and damning series of text messages she says she received from the Fool.

Sports fans, head over to Deadspin for the original and where you will appreciate some of the comments.  Actually, I’m a bit disappointed in DS today, the early comments were cracking me up but the later ones are just weak.

But VirusWithShoes from Wordsmoker has taken liberties with the texts and has posted his version which has me howling with laughter.  Observe: (more…)

I am an attractive young woman.  Evaluations of my level of attractiveness and the relativity of my youth will vary from person to person (not to mention day-to-day), but generically speaking, this is a fair statement.  I am also a professional in an industry populated mpstly by men.  As such, I am largely at a disadvantage, but retain one *unique* advantage based on my personal presentation, if I choose to cultivate it.

This is a song familiar to a lot of you.

My office wear is carefully calculated to appear appropriate in the service of my own physical and mental comfort.  Any aspect that could be challenged as “alluring” or “radical” is studiously balanced out.  If my pants or skirt are form-fitting, my sweater or blouse is loose or non-confrontational.  If my shirt is vee-necked and tight, my trousers are wide-legged and paired with a blazer.  My hair, which is highlighted red and blonde, is subject to much comment by male colleagues (usually that it is too red and they prefer me blonder).  I take it into consideration, but still wear silver-hooped earrings every day, because I like them, and their size and shape belies how much my ears stick out (I hate my ears).  Every day, I wear an extremely high-quality, fake silver Rolex and a tasteful silver ring I bought on the street in Barcelona.  I take pride in the fact that people who have worked with me for years are surprised to find out I have a tongue stud, because I chose a subtle one ten years ago.

Pantsuits and pearls are for client meetings, with discreet pearl-drop earrings and straightened hair.  I have one gray suit and one black pinstriped suit.  I wear them with shined, heeled black boots for external meetings, or burgundy Franco Sarto heels for meetings in the office.  I bought both suits half-priced in a sale for $300, and then spent $100 in alterations.  I don’t own a skirtsuit because I haven’t found one that fits me well enough to merit alterations, although I have a gorgeous turquoise shift that my mother bought me from M&S when she visited me last year, which is very professional without looking matronly.  I keep it in the coat closet at work with a spare set of pantyhose, in case of an emergency client meeting.

Having been compared to a librarian, a schoolgirl, and a flight attendant at the office, I am careful to ensure I don’t look too costumey.  I once wore a tight black sweater over a crisp white shirt, with a black skirt and buckled leather boots and realized, mirthfully, that I looked like a Pilgrim, but no one noticed. I wore that outfit again for Thanksgiving, for my own private tribute, because I am an American in the UK. (more…)

I live in Vegas now and one thing Vegas has a lot of is nudity.  I was reminded of this (as if one could forget) last night as I was sitting about 10 feet from the stage at a middle-of-the-pole strip joint.  The girls were alright looking, all had put some effort into hair and make-up and kept their skin looking fairly smooth (red lighting is your friend, girl) although I would say the ratio of Buttahfaces to Hotties was about 4 to 1.  There seemed to be a lot of the Tiger Woods Selection of strippers on deck last night, and the ones who didn’t make you want to put on your beer goggles all looked hella aggravated.  Lookit, it’s not easy to be up there all night, night after night, trying to look ‘exotic’ or ‘ravishing’, especially when you consider what working conditions the average stripper has to put up with.  So this is what I was thinking about as I waited; the ugly expressions so commonly found in strip clubs and the usual causes of them.  I reached back to my days in a thong and came up with Top 5 Complaints of a Stripper:

–  Losers that camp out in the front row and grease up the rail with their skeevy, sweaty hands while carefully parsing out 17 dollars in singles.  Wow.  Hey.  Careful.  Don’t hurt yourself putting that one dollar bill out there for the girl who’s been dancing 3 song sets all night.

– This one used to annoy me purely out of principal – strippers that hit the stage looking fine as hell until you get down to her feet and her toes are hanging on for dear life to those Bakers platform heels, looking like swollen shrimp cocktail.  Get those bear claws outta here, girl!

– So you get a lapdance from a stripper and sit back to enjoy the show.  You know you can’t touch her but you’re so convinced that what she secretly wants is for you to palm your grimy, ragged hands all over her ass so instead you think you’re slick and you slide your finger under the band of her thong and tug on it.  Then when she whips her head around to see what the fuck your retarded ass thinks you’re doing, you smile all stupid like and ask her, “You like that, huh?”  No, fucker.  She didn’t enjoy a band of elastic cutting her in half while you eyeballed her asshole – surprised?

– You know what’s creepy?  You calling a girl over to your table of 4 with no extra seating available and expecting her to perch on your knee while you bounce her up and down against your balls and try to play patty-cake on her tits with your face.  Either pay her for a dance or follow her back to VIP – she’s not a fucking accessory.

– Oh, you REALLY think you’re being crafty, don’t you?  You think you’re a fucking genius when you roll up to the club in commando mode, or wearing some silky shorts, figuring that when she grinds on you it’ll be just like her rubbing on you naked.  First of all, you ain’t slick, she knows exactly what your game is and secondly, you putting your tiny dick front and center sans padding only confirms what she already knew – you’re hung like Jon Gosselin and too cheap to pay for a booth.  Fuck off.

This concludes the community service portion of my probation (I’m lying).

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