Dear Serial Monogamist: Gettin' Some

Dear Serial Monogamist,

What's the easiest way for a girl to get laid in this town?

Sincerely,

Tired-Of-Masturbating


Dear TOM,

I’ve believed for some time that nearly any woman who possesses at least average looks and charm can probably pull tail on any given night. I know a single gal or two, and I know that when they’re determined to bone down, they’re successful.

But so much depends on you, darling. I mean, have you checked out all the options at work? Interns maybe? They’re usually pretty easy. Do you pass out your phone number indiscriminately to any male who glances your direction? I mean, you’ve gotta keep casting if you want to catch one.

You know and I know that I can’t write you a recipe for action, but I wonder if you know the basic recipe for “getting laid.” (Which is, of course, a helluvalot different than the “meeting someone special” or “having good sex” recipe)

1) Go out.
2) Apply alcohol.
3) Make eye contact with a target.
4) Look away.
5) Look back.
6) Smile.

Repeat until your target approaches.

From there, it’s easy. Laugh at his jokes. Touch your hair, but not too much. Tease him. Drink more. One item that women sometimes make a mistake on: Don’t try to get him to buy you drinks, buy your own. This is about getting some nookie, not about getting free booze.

At some point, hopefully after a spell of making out in the corner, all that’s left to do is offer to pour him a drink at your place. Do not pass go, and do not, for the love of tits, ask if he has a girlfriend (remember, kids, this is a “get laid” course, not a “be a good person” tutorial).

I should say something about safety at this point, you know, carry a knife in your purse, have a fruitbowl of condoms on your nightstand at all times, have a safety “out” word if you play with S&M; but Jesus, I’m a dating blogger. I’m not your mother.

One more tip. If June has taught us anything, it’s this: Fly solo. You’re less intimidating when you’re not surrounded by a flock of women. If you’re too afraid to go out alone, at least go to the bar alone when you get a refill.

If all else fails, lower your standards. Ugly dudes, guys with one leg, guys wearing silk shirts, hell, they all need love. Grab a hold of a mullet and go to town. Imagine approaching a nerd and taking him home. He’d be so grateful. I won’t judge you.

Haha, just kidding. You know I will. But I tease because I love.

Got a question for the Serial Monogamist? Sure you do. E-mail it to seriallymonogamous@gmail.com

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Sports Obsessions Are NOT Sexy Time

**Editors' Note: The same gal who sent us Where Were You in 1983? sent us this lovely bit about internet dating.**

I was lonely and bored, and my ex had just changed his facebook to "in a relationship" with the stripper he dumped me for. So I decided to give internet dating a try. And thus the story of Sex Blanket, as I now refer to him when warning others against internet dating.

SB seemed like a cool guy at first. Then it quickly became clear that his obsessive love of sports took up all the places in his personality where "intelligence" "humor" and "charm" should be. Then it became clear (from the multiple bumper stickers, posters and flags plastered all over his apartment, and lastly, enormous back tattoo of the school's logo) that he was a little TOO obsessed with his alma mater, a la Andy Bernard (Cornell) from The Office.

I was unimpressed and disinterested, but said loneliness and boredom convinced me that sleeping with him was an okay decision to make. I won't go into detail about exactly how and why, but it was THE. WORST. EVER. and multiple times I had to close my eyes and imagine that I was someplace else so I didn't throw up. No exaggeration, it was awful. And very, very sweaty. Him, not me.

Afterward, while I debated high-tailing it out of there and risking a DUI or trying to find a non-sweaty spot on the bed, he went to his closet and pulled out a blanket that was fuzzy on one side and kind of satin-y on the other.

"Do you know what this is?" He asked, in the wannabe suave voice that had added to my nausea.

"Um, no" I replied, terrified at what the answer might be.

"It's a Sex Blanket... you put it down before or after you have sex so you don't have to sleep in the mess afterward"

"Oh super" I replied, hoping to sweet jesus that the blanket had been washed since its last use, and wondering how the F this guy was having enough disgusting sweaty sex to necessitate a blanket of this kind.

So tell me, DiW friends... are sex blankets for real? Are all blankets with one fuzzy side and one satin-y side intended for this purpose? I received one as a Christmas gift from a female friend a few years ago and use it as a throw for my couch...

Anyway, SB and I haven't kept in touch since then, and so far all of my other internet dating prospects have produced similarly unappealing/creepy results. So for now I'm re-dating people from real life that I have dated in the past, cause at least I know what mistakes I'm making beforehand.

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MySpace Sucks

I had forgotten all about the hellish side of MySpace until I was cleaning out my messages last night.

Let me back up.

Once upon a time long long ago in a living room of a house I used to live in, I drunkenly hooked up with a guy I knew from firefighting. We used to work together. He was my boss. Of sorts. He was also rather attractive and knew it. We both did. Of course there was sexual tension the whole summer fighting fires. Of course he had a girlfriend. Of course she hated me even though I'd been nothing but pleasant and respectful.

Of course he didn't tell me they were still "on again off again dating" until the next morning.

"Huh. Interesting. So is the switch on or off this morning?" I asked.

"Uhhh. On. Yeah, on I guess. She would say on, so yeah. On," he replied.

Awesome.

Let me also back up to give some character development of this on-again-off-again girlfriend: She liked attention. She was loud. She was abrasive. She was attractive. She had a flair for drama. And if we had to go to blows, I might put my money on her and I don't often say that about other chicks.

In short, don't fuck with her man.

Which, I wouldn't have done had I known. But, he conveniently waited to tell until after the point of no return. Fucker.

So back to last night's mailbox cleaning.

I found the series of messages she sent in the weeks after. Oh boy. Here's a taste:

"Subject: O.P.P.

It has been brought to my attention that you had sex with the man who had been my partner for over four years. What's amusing is that he's been telling me for the last year that I'm gonna marry him and have his children. Fortunately for me, I learned (before making a big mistake) that I can't trust him.

While I primarily blame him (after all, he was my boyfriend)I also find you guilty of serious misconduct. Apparently you haven't learned or just aren't grown up enough to realise that you don't go around fucking other people's boyfriends. I must be honest, I never liked or trusted you from the beginning. It's too bad (for me at least) that I was right about you.

Let's face it, you wanted ___ from the beginning and I never tried to keep him from being your friend cause he always said he didn't find you the least bit attractive. Interesting how men can do that, screw woman they think aren't appealing. I guess one hole is as good as another if you're drunk enough and the lights are off so you don't have to see their face.

If this message hurts you in any way, I can't say that I'm sorry because nothing could describe the pain that I feel. Maybe you are laughing as you read this, or maybe you could give a shit; but on the chance that you have a shred of decency, I hope you take this to heart and realise the damage you have done. I would also take a moment to think about the fact that no bad deed goes unpunished, meaning that things have a way of coming back to you."

So ok. I felt bad. I mean, she has a point. And she even cleverly put a Naughty By Nature reference in the subject line. I didn't respond however; instead, I forwarded her message along to her "man" and said that perhaps he should look into it. He created the fucking mess after all. I thought he should be the one to clean it up.

But no. She didn't see it that way. Here's another:

"I want you to delete him as a friend from your myspace and never call him again. If you don't want to comply, I will show up on your doorstep and we can talk about it in person."

Show on my doorstep and talk about it in person? Um, no fucking way. Fuck you. Show up at my doorstep bitch?! That would be a bad idea. For both of us. Remember how I said I might put my money on you if it came to blows, yeah, not on my fucking doorstep. Bring it.

But again, I didn't respond. Simply forwarded it to her "man."

Thankfully all that died away. I haven't spoken much to him since, though he did text me a few weeks ago saying he'd be in town.

The best part? I found all the other messages from jilted girlfriends who felt it was my fault they were dating a shithead. Thank you MySpace. Thank you for allowing stupid bitches to send me ridiculous threats and for saving them for years.

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Taking Out The Trash

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from a gal who knows how to get 'er done. Er something.**

Back in my 'hey day' I was a fun-loving girl looking for a good time. Now, I'm a fun-loving girl looking to get drunk and dance her ass off surrounded by people she knows once every two weeks.

Yeah.

Anyways, back when I was living in Akron, I had a studio apartment on the third floor of a building a couple blocks down from one of my hangouts. Being the 'artistic' type, I hated the fact that I had to lug my garbage down four flights of stairs on a VERY NARROW stairwell, and then walk half a block up to where the dumpsters for our building were. It was winter at this time.

So of course there were about four big black hefty bags full of trash sitting in my extremely tiny kitchen. I couldn't even open the fridge. I didn't let that fact bother me, cause it was Saturday night and it was drinkin' and dancin' time.

At the bar (this one was across town), I proceeded to get very drunk with some acquaintances. I notice, however, this very adorable Skater Boy giving me the eye while he plays pool in the back with his friend. He has sandy blond hair, nice lips, and looks really good in the jeans he was wearing.

We eventually strike up a conversation although for the life of me I cannot remember who said what first. The night goes on, and I say I'm going to head home.

Skater Boy- "Um, did you need some company?"

Me- "Sure, but you have to do one thing for me. If you do that, you can stay the night."

Skater Boy-"Anything!" (sigh, I wish I could hook them in like that nowadays!)

Me- "You have to take all my garbage out."

Skater Boy- "What?!?! You're joking."

Me- "Nope. Deal or no deal."

Cut to Skater Boy looking horribly disappointed when he not only saw how much garbage I had, but where he has to dump it.

But he took that trash out in record time. And he got to stay the night.

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All about ass

*** Today we have an anonymous guest post with a little (though direct) message for the fellas ***


Hey, so I just want to say, from a woman's perspective, for all the guys out there: I do not want you to put things in my ass. If I do want you to put something in my ass, I'll go ahead and tell you. Otherwise, maybe it's safe to assume that no, I do not want you to put your dick or your finger in my ass.

Seriously, every dude I'm with, when we're going at it, and I'm getting close, will grab hold of the cheeks (THIS IS GOOD!) and then a finger will wander southward. THIS IS NOT GOOD. I'm trying to focus on getting off, I do not need to be thinking, "Oh, god, is he putting his finger in my ass? What if his finger smells afterward?" It's just goddam distracting. The thing is, guys, women do not have prostates. So applying pressure to my arse doesn't feel the same for me as it does for you. Are you trying to tell me you want me to put my finger in yours when you're about to come? If so, then tell me by TELLING ME. I'll do it. No biggie. Don't tell me by sticking your finger in my pooper.

Now, I know some women are into anal. You know what though? They're into it. They'll ask for it. Or, you can ask them for it, and they'll agree to it. Don't test the waters by trying to dipstick a test run. Among other things, if you shove your peter in my crapper, you then can't stick it in my vag. There are bacteria that live in the back door that should not go to the front (this is where the whole "front to back" thing comes from).

Thank you.

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Ooooh Girl, an honest R&B song

Thanks Dave for the video heads up!

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The mess in the living room

I recently realized something. A little blip of recognition.

If you're a breeder: Between your parents' house, your dorm, your roommates, and then kids of your own, a retirement community, maybe a nursing home ... there are very few -- precious few -- years when you can wake up on a Sunday morning and stagger out to your living room to find you'd left a pile of underwear on the floor, empty bottles stacked up on bookshelves, and lube and toys on the coffee table. Enjoy them.

I know I plan to.

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One more time, without feeling.

So, I've been thinking lately about numbers. Sex by the numbers. Actually, I guess it's more like the numbers of sex. Every now and then, you hear of someone talking about their "number." I could go into the ins and outs of "does it matter," "should we care," "why are high numbers great for guys and bad for gals," etc.

Because of that last effing double standard, I think a lot of girls have considered reusing our numbers. You know - the relationship ended on a decent basis, the sex was good, you're lonely and horny, and why go find a new guy/number when you could booty call the old one?

I was having this debate with myself not too long ago, thinking of just who I could call, when I ran across this movie. When I was in school, I had a friend who had read in Cosmo (the source of all legitimate sexual information, of course) that the average woman kisses 78 men before she kisses the one she'll marry. That's some lip-whoring, I think, but I don't judge. (I'm the good girl on this site, anyway. Who care what I think.) So, that's the first thing I thought of when I saw this movie. Anna Faris's character doesn't want to add on to her sex number because of a magazine article she read. This trailer just stuck me as so funny - a recycling PSA. I mean really, who hasn't had that feeling? For the good of your sanity and your sex drive, reduce, reuse, recycle, right?

Watch the PSA here and let me know what you think.

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Blondie and the hottie from the gym

** Today we have a guest post from Blondie, who has agreed to share some of her dating adventures in the city. Like some people we know (ahem) Blondie is enjoying a fairly fresh foray into singledom, making good use of the wonders and joys of the Internet. ***

Friday night was supposed to be my dating night off. Thursday night I had been with a couple I see, and I had a date on Saturday with a guy I've been seeing for a little while - so Friday I was going relax and give my "body" a rest.

I ended up going out to the bars with a couple friends. The plan was just to have a beer or two, go home and watch a movie. Well, I get to the bar and we hang out a bit and I realize that this guy who I've had a massive crush on at the gym is there. Not some guy I've seen - but a hot 6 foot 7 inch tall basketball player I've been watching while I cool down on the track for the last 5 years.

I tell my friend the story and he talks me into talking to the guy. Long story short - I talk to him and end up going home with him that night. Yep - I got to sleep with my gym crush. But that's not all.

Side note - this gym guy ends up not being very bright. It was an interesting situation for me - I felt like one of those guys who sleeps with hot dumb chicks. While we were hanging out post sex, I was found myself having an internal debate about hotness vs. intellect. Does his hotness make up for lack of smarts? Would I ever dare bring this guy around my friends? Would I be comfortable keeping a guy around for sex just because he was hot, even if he wasn't that interesting to talk to? (I appreciate that this might make me sound like an asshole but I have smart friends and they would call me out on this.)

But, the sex is fun, I have a good time. And, oddly, after sex, he hung out completely naked until I left. He was up walking around, doing all kinds of things. I thought it was cool how comfortable he was, most guys throw on a pair of boxers or something. Though I guess I could have done without him leaving the door open and looking at and speaking to me while he pissed.

As we're hanging out afterwards, he asks if I want to spend the night. I say no because, quite frankly, his apartment was kind of a shit-hole. I don't quite understand how a 32-year-old guy with a professional-type job could live like that. Anyway, I say no thanks and go home at about 3:30am or so. When I got home, I sent him a text saying I made it home safely. He didn't text back until the next day, but this is the conversation:

Me - I made it home safely.

Him - Who is this?

Me - Uh ... Blondie. The girl you slept with last night.

Him - Haha, no seriously, who is this?

Me - I am serious. Don't you remember?

Him - I'm in Seattle with my fiance. I think you have the wrong number

Me - HA! You're right. Wrong number. That's hilarious.

Well.

It turns out that I don't have the right phone number for this guy. He just gave me his number, I didn't give him mine. So now, not only did I hook up with the hot dumb guy, but I'm the one who never called again. Part of me feels a tad bad about that, but part of me thinks it's a little funny, if a bit of a bummer because I would like the option of sleeping with him again ... but c'est la vie.

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