This is part two of the basic etiquette for restaurant dates. It began with a rant here, and continued with part one here.
First, a couple addendums raised in part one’s comments:
A. As mentioned by an anonymous commenter after the first posting, if you’re picking your date up, do not call her and tell her to be outside. Do not honk. Do not wait in the car. Go the hell in and get her. Yes, it’s nice to bring flowers if you want to, but try to avoid the clichéd dozen roses, and do not bring carnations. A single rose, or gerbera, or orchid, whatever, is always a nice touch. I could be wrong on this, but I feel corsages are dated and behind the times, and often plain unpractical. I’d stick with flowers for the table. What’s more, if it’s a nice date, she’ll enjoy the flowers more the next day.
B. It’s totally cool and actually good to help a date with a coat. Help take it off, help her get it on. It’s just a nice touch. Unnecessary, but certainly nice. Hand it to the waiter or give it to her to put on the back of her chair, if coatcheck isn’t an option.
Back to bizness. You’ve got wine, you’ve got food, and now you’re dining.
1. How you eat is important. Eat small bites. Use cutlery as much as possible. Cut your food precisely and delicately while being relatively strong and assertive about it. (Press harder with your knife, do controlled movements.) Try to not make noises with the cutlery or against the china. If you’re responding to her question or statement as you cut, make sure you at least glance up to make eye-contact as you’re talking. Always, always show you’re aware she’s present when you’re speaking. And hello? Small bites, please? Chew? With your mouth closed. Do not speak with food in your mouth. Remember in grade two when they said to chew every bite 17 times? Please do that on dates. BONUS: It will reduce the chance you’ll get gas later!
2. If you want a refill of coffee or something, inch the drinking vessel nearer to the edge of the table closest to where the waiting staff will pass it by. An industry professional knows this is the sign for a refill, so you shouldn’t need to shout for them.
3. Never take the last roll, butter, or bit of wine without asking her if she’d like it first. She’ll almost always say no (it’s a date thing) and give it to you, but give her the chance to do so. If she offers to split it with you, say no if you just can’t handle more, & say something like “I’d love to, but I’m set to burst.” Sharing’s nice though. It’s sexy and intimate, and feel free to take her up on the offer.
4. Tear off bits of bread as opposed to gnoshing on an entire piece. Tear it over the plate, so the crumbs don’t pile up on the tablecloth. Butter it as you go to prevent yourself from getting thumbs into greasy badness. If you’re dipping in oil and vinegar, please, don’t double dip, tear bite-size pieces for dipping.
5. If you’re still eating your meal, you rest your knife and fork at 4:00 and 8:00 on your plate, respectively, between bites. Don’t hold your cutlery through the whole meal. Keeping it in your hand all the time – especially for women – tends to look aggressive. Take moments where you focus on your companion. (Goes for both sexes.) When you’re finished and want them to take it away, you set your knives, forks, and spoons used thus far at the 5:00 position.
6. If your server is stupid and tries to take your plate before your companion has finished, then they have clearly missed the basic training course. Tell them you’re not through, and gesture at your companion’s plate. If they succeed and take the plate away, she’ll be left feeling awkward eating in front of you. This goes both ways, so be a man and say something.
7. If she’s getting up to go to the bathroom – it’s not necessary, but it’s extra special classy and will probably get a small grin from her as she walks away from you – you can always push your chair back and stand as she leaves the table. When she returns, you can stand upon her arrival, wait for her to sit, then give her the napkin, or better yet, lay it on her lap. (You can be sexy about it and “accidentally” brush a finger down her thigh as you return to your seat, departing-like.) As I say, this is a real throwback, and is probably a little over the top for most evenings, but if you’re having a more special dinner experience in celebration of something, then yes, go ahead. It’s quite formal.
8. After dinner, your napkin gets folded (casually, in a tidy bunch, whatever, just not tossed down in a heap) and placed BESIDE the plate, not on it.
9. Paying! All the guys want to know this. Going Dutch is fine, but really, if you make more than her – she’s a student, you’re working in an office – then it ought to be on you. If you asked her out and chose the location, then it ought to be on you. If she asked you out, then it should rightly be dutch, unless she’s making your salary look comical. But if you want to feel like your balls are intact at the evening’s end, you probably shouldn’t let her pay, not entirely, but that’s your call. Some women will judge you for not paying. You know I’m right, as much as it galls you. A good move is always to pay, especially if you like her, and playfully ask if she takes trades for a home cooked meal, or tell her she can get coffees later or something. (If she balks at paying anything ever, then she’s a money-hungry minx and you need to be wary, in my humble opinion. Anytime a woman or man feels entitled to something, it’s time to be wary. Me, I like a man to pay, but I’ll always insist next time I do some cooking, and the way I cook, it’s a win.)
10. If it’s old-school car locks and we’re driving for the night and we let you into the car first, lean over and open our lock and let us in. Women, if a guy lets you in first, you don’t have to lean over and let him in, but it’s the kind of small gesture a guy really digs. Ever seen that old Cameron Crowe film Singles, when Keira Sedgwick lets Cameron Scott into his car? He’s bowled right over and is in love from then on. It shows you can not only graciously accept his chivalry, but that you’re woman enough to not feel threatened by reciprocating. Me, I’d always let the guy in. It’s just the right way to act. [Ed. Note: Do people even have these locks anymore? Lots has changed in the four years since this first was posted!]
11. When you’re dropping her off, and this is for anyone dropping a woman off – date or not – always, always wait until she’s gotten inside before you drive away. It’s a sign that you’re concerned about her safety, and honestly, our entrances aren’t always as safe as we’d like.
12. Not related to restaurants, but time to be said. Can we, for once and for all, move past the “don’t call the next day” bullshit? Call. Tell us it was a good time. Even easier and just as good, in the age of email, send her a quick note. “Wow. I had a great time. I’ll call you later in the week. Looking forwards to more with you.” That’s it. “Ooh,” we’ll think, “a guy who doesn’t play games.” You’ll get laid sooner, you know. Drop the bullshit head games. Keep it casual, light, and don’t make promises you can’t keep. Call her later in the week, don’t mention a specific day, but you’ve bought yourself time now. Just a note! A text! A quick email! It’s a lovely way to play.
If there are other dating scenarios you want the etiquette for, let me know via comments or emails. Happy dining this weekend, kids.
Category Archives: Best of Steff
Why women sometimes fake orgasm
Because you won’t listen to us
when we say it’s not going to happen for us.
when we say it’s not going to happen for us.
•
Because you don’t believe us
when we say it’s fine for you to come without us.
when we say it’s fine for you to come without us.
•
Because we don’t want to hurt your feelings
those times you’re trying so hard to please us.
those times you’re trying so hard to please us.
•
Because you usually can’t tell.
•
Because we feel like failures when we can’t.
Etiquette for Restaurants: Part 1
This is part one of two for restaurant etiquette. It was preluded with a rant yesterday. Yes, I’ll answer questions about going dutch, etc, but that’s next time. Tried to put this in the order it transpires on a date, but I’m sick and my head’s fuzzy.
I have had men saying women don’t respond to chivalry, and the chicks are just confused. I’ll write something about that in the next week or so, since it’s an important part of this topic, and maybe I’ll try to wrap my head around why that’s still happening and how to defuse it.
Anyhow, this is largely addressed at men, but there are women-related comments throughout, and a lot of it is knowledge both sexes ought to have about the dining scene.
Feel free to make comments about other areas of dining dates you’re not sure about how to behave during, and I’ll amend my part two posting if anything’s missing. Thanks!
Another thing? If you’re under the delusion that “manners” & “etiquette” mean the same thing, not true. Etiquette is about behaviour, social conventions, and even tradition. Manners have far less scope. This is Etiquette 101.
1. If you’re picking her up at her place and you’re seeing her pad for the first time, then find something positive to say about it. If you honestly love it, then flatter her tastes, tell her it’s very revealing. If it’s pretty uninspired, find a photo of her or something you can relate to. “Hey, I read that book. What’d you think?” Or “That’s a great photo of you. Was that in college?” Be interested. If you want us to care about sleeping with you, kissing you, or even just being with you, then be very, very interested in us. Women are like houseplants – give us a little attention, and watch us thrive. This’ll help you break the ice and give you a conversational direction to head in. It’s helpful on many levels.
2. Hold the door open. If I reach it first, I’ll hold it open for you – as any person ought to do for another. (Hear me, women?) When you’re holding it, look me in my eye. Don’t look at the ground like you’re sorry to be old-fashioned. Be proud, god damn it, and look at me as if I should know it’s that you respect me that’s spurring you to do it. It’s the kind of sexy thing Bogart would do. Be like Bogey. Smile, even.
3. Do I need to say this? Turn off your damned cell phone. Do not text message. Do not talk. Do not even acknowledge the thing in her presence. If it rings and is audible, shame on you. And women? Double for you! Jesus Christ, people. Put the fucking phones away on dates. I always do. Can we for five minutes pretend to be rapt in attention of those whose presences we’re in? Is it so hard?
4. When you’re seated at the restaurant, if the waiter doesn’t do it for you, put your napkin on your lap immediately. This signifies that you have class and upbringing. It also tells the service that they’re dealing with a well-trained patron, and they will give you better service (most of the time) if they see you know how to behave in such an environment. Believe it or not, I’ve read stories where waiting staff confess that a patron’s tendency to put their napkin on their lap influences whether the waiter thinks a good tip is coming or not — and you know what that conclusion means.
5. Your order will never get taken if you have your menu open. When she’s done and has decided and has closed her menu, casually pick it up and place it atop yours, the edge of them protruding slightly off the table, so the staff see you’re ready to order. Well-trained waiting staff understand this to mean “take our order, please.”
6. It’s all right to order for your date. It’s sexy. Don’t be a pompous ass and do it without her approval or input, though. Ask her what she’s leaning towards, and then casually mention that you’ll be happy to place the order for you both. If she smiles, you’re on. If you’re doing the ordering after she’s consented and the waiter asks you what you’ll be having, look him in the eye, then meet your date’s eyes, nod at her and smile, and look back at the waiter and state simply that your companion is having X, and you’ll be having Y. There are reasons she would decline you ordering for her, particularly if she’s a Meg Ryan type from When Harry Met Sally. I’ll have the dressing on the side, and your face in my lap, thank you.
7. Don’t order your drinks without asking the woman what she wants, either. Women know more about wine and drinks than they ever have, and you need to respect that. Ask her what she’d like. When the waiter comes over with a wine that you’ve mutually selected and you know your date knows wine, if the waiter extends the cork for you to inspect and pours a taster’s sample, tell him you’re deferring to the lady. Let her make the call. It’s sexy and shows you’re confident in yourself, and that you trust her judgment, and you don’t feel threatened. Hold her gaze as she sniffs the wine, tastes, and gives her verdict. Nod in agreement to whatever she says. Taste the wine, and hopefully you agree with her verdict. If you don’t, just keep quiet. Taste is subjective, and if you disagree, such is life. Next time, you can just make the move to order some for yourself. Or, you can cover your ass and ask the waiter to recommend something that complements both your meals. (Obviously, if the wine’s turned bad, it goes back.) And, DUDE, sniff your wine, not the cork. You sniff the cork, you’re smelling cork, not wine. Duh.
8. If you’re pouring the wine, never, ever pour it more than one-third to a half full, depending on glass type/size. Wine drinking is a subtle art, and science proves that 40% of our taste experience comes from our sense of smell. By filling a glass too full, you reduce the amount of aroma that “cups” in the wine, since it’s in swilling the wine around the glass that you cause the smell to rise & improve the taste. You’re throwing out flavour if you have a full glass. It’s uncouth. What’s more, it flies in the face of science!
9. When drinking, always hold your glass by the stem, particularly with white wines (less important with red). The more of your hand to cup the glass, the more heat transfers to the glass, thus elevating the temperature of the wine, thus doing bad things to taste. Common perception is that “room temperature” means whatever the hell the yuppies have their thermostats set to. Um, no, kids. “Room temperature” speaks to an era before central heating, to hundreds of years ago, to the temperature of natural caves and cellars. Somewhere around 14-16 Celsius, maybe 55-65 Fahrenheit. (Bad wine form irks me.)
More tomorrow. Sounds snobby? Hey, I come from relatively low-income heritage — farmers, fishermen, that kind of thing. We never had a lot of money growing up, but my mother taught me that just because I didn’t have money didn’t mean I couldn’t behave like I did. So, yes, class and etiquette instilled from a young age, and I’m grateful for it. It’s taken me far, in some regards, from my roots. Not an entirely bad thing, so long as your memory’s good. 😉
The Modern Man (& Woman) & Manners
A reader wrote me recently to say that I need to comment more about the modern man’s condition. We both agree that men are caught between what they want to be and what they think they have to be, so they’re essentially lost.
In not so many words, I’ve recently alluded in an email with him that I feel the modern man is some kind of throwback to a troubled Winslow Homer painting, a boat being tossed about a churning sea, straight out of Good Will Hunting. Any port in the storm, boy.
Let it be said: I hate the divide between the sexes as it presently exists. I hate what this so-called “feminism” has done to the modern guy, but I wouldn’t give up any of the advances my sex has made, and I feel there is more for us to achieve, too, but without continuing to erode masculinity. That’s a bigger topic, that’s a fucking book, for god’s sake. We’re not going there. Yet.
That said, there’s absolutely no reason we can’t have old style manners and charm and etiquette make a comeback while we’re striving to find both genders’ new identities.
I hate that etiquette is a thing of the past. I hate that chivalry is practiced almost apologetically. I hate that the black-and-white movies seem to be more an anthropological reminiscence than a cultural record.
“And exhibited here in this celluloid document is the now-extinct Homo Erectus, a classical beast with style and grace not seen in today’s beaten, confused specimens. Note the confidence in the gaze, the subtle mannerisms of gesture, the attentiveness shown with a slight tone of deference yet dominance toward the female of the species. See the strength and prowess he exhibits in stride. The species was noted to have danced precipitously on the edge of extinction in about 1965, as seeming collateral damage in the Battle of the Sexes. Fortunately, the species has held on, if even barely so. Scientists today are working with remnant DNA in an attempt to create a hybrid of the Homo Erectus Pastus and the Homo Erectus Presentus for a species to be dubbed Homo Erectus Potentius.”
Someone somewhere got everyone drinkin’ the Kool-Aid that somehow being polite to women meant you were disrespecting them. This is the most ludicrous bit of irony to ever be swallowed by the masses. By demonstrating respect, you are disrespecting. Say what?
And the funny thing, chivalry went out the window, and since then, everyone’s forgotten what the hell manners are. Look around you! We’re ruder than we’ve ever been. Road rage, aggression, never looking passers-by in the eye, never saying hello, yammering on your fucking cellphone as some person assists you at a counter, not reserving in advance for parties – fewer people than ever understand basic manners at all.
Being well-mannered isn’t just for patsies, man. It’s necessary for the human condition.
We’re a tribe, people. We need to get along. We need respect. We need a code. It gets us through.
I’ll tell you one thing, I’ve declined dates based on manners. I don’t associate with people who lack them. It’s unpleasant and uncouth. Behaviour is the best bit of evidence anyone has as to the kind of person you are. What does yours say about you? Your body language, the way you carry yourself, the way you defer to others, speaks volumes louder than your words. How’s your posture? Do you speak clearly? Do you make eye contact? Do you know the proper way to shake hands?
Men and women today both need to learn better manners. Women need to be gracious and accept a door being held open for them, and they need to return the favour. The only way men will feel welcomed to begin being gracious to us like in the old days is if we reciprocate and we say thank you. There’s no damned reason we ought to feel threatened by chivalry. If so, what the hell does that say about the woman? She’s too insecure to allow for assistance? Pfft.
I practice what I preach. I thank men for holding the door open, I smile. I’ll pick something up for a guy if he drops it. What’s the problem? When did it become a competition? It’s like we’re waiting to see who’ll crack first.
My manners make my life more pleasant. Sure, when I say thank you or have a nice day or make small talk, half the time I get looked at like I’m some homeless bitch begging for a crack fix, and the rest of the time I get these warm, grateful smiles that I’m bringing some old-style charm back into the mix. I make a friend for two minutes and I wander on.
And I don’t care what the world expects, I know what I expect, and furthermore, what I demand. I don’t compromise my standards just because the world’s too fucking stupid to adopt them. And you know what? I’m part of a growing minority. But where do you stand?
So, here’s the deal. This stuff may seem mundane and stupid, but manners count. If you’re on the rise professionally, if you work with the public, if you’re trying to woo a woman just outside of your class, what have you, then you need to know this.
This is my introduction to what’ll be a truncated guide on basic etiquette for dinner dates and such. Some of this is perceived as old-fashioned, out-of-style, and that pisses me off! Gah! That’s so stupid I can’t even see straight, man!
It’s like these people who go to expensive restaurants wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Can’t some things be left exclusive? Sigh. Nothing is special anymore. Jesus.
These will be the kinda things I want my men doing. I’ve been turned off just by a guy who left his napkin on the table during a meal. I’m a hard-ass, but then you’re learning from the right chick, aren’t you? And you know I’m more fun to party with than Miss Manners, so, don’t think this makes you out-of-date.
This will make you retro cool. It’ll give you a classy mystique the other dicks you know don’t have. In the future, I’ll be returning to this topic of the modern man and how he can better find his place in today’s world with today’s woman. The sensitivity post of last Saturday was only the tip of this large iceberg.
Oh, and if you’re thinking, “What’s this got to do with sex?” Well, it’ll teach you how to say pretty-please, for starters, and it’ll get you to the end of the date in one piece. We’ll get to that part another time. It’s a big fucking topic.
Those tips start tomorrow. It may be two more postings. (On restaurant etiquette for men, primarily, with some tips for women thrown in.)
Rant: The Kid and the Long, Long Night
Ed. Note: This is a classic “me” post — starts one place, ends miles away. It’s a bit of a trip, but it’s a fun one. Hang tight.
I should go back to bed. It’s a raining Tuesday morning and I have a few minor goals today. One, I want to write my goals. (Ironic, isn’t that?) Two, I want to brainstorm a few ideas. Three, I want to have a nice breakfast, take a soggy walk up to the video store, come home, and write for a couple hours. The reward? Episodes five and six of the second season of The Wire.
(If you like intelligence, you admire a well-written, complex criminal story, and you like good acting, editing, and directing (and I mentioned the writing) and you’ve not yet seen The Wire, then what, pray tell, are you waiting for? Brilliance. Really.)
So, I sound like I’ve got it together. Plans for a low-key day, chilling. A day without men. Full-stop.
Let’s face it, there’s a certain point where we each get tired of the opposite sex’s bullshit in dating. One of the luxuries of being single is that when it all gets exacerbating, we can pull up the stakes and say, “Nah, man, party of one this week.” Yeah, don’t think I ain’t considering it.
Okay, I try to keep things relatively benign here. You don’t need to know my business. You probably want to know (filthy pervs) but you don’t need to know. Let’s break the rules this morning. A special exception.
So, a week or so ago, I hooked up with this kid. I was going through this two week period where my hormones raged like some political coup d’etat in South America. It was excruciating. I needed relief. I lowered the standards a bit, let’s say. Sorry, but it’s true. Yes, I let one slip by me.
This kid. I really, really, really hate to admit this, but I literally forget his name. I think I blocked it all out. I know I knew it earlier in the evening, but I remember thinking, at about 11, “What the fuck is his name?” and I’ve never since found out. So, I think it starts with a J, but it might be a D, and either way, I just don’t care enough to look the damned name up. I wrote it. Somewhere. But he’s The Kid.
I’m 32, he’s 26, not a big age difference. The thing is, I realized right then that all the men I’ve been seeing have been 34-36 of late. It’s been wonderful. I’d always toyed more with younger guys, since I do have a pretty young disposition when I want to, given my music and culture tastes and love of rebellion and so forth. But these guys I’ve been seeing have all kind of had it a bit more together, and certainly were far better lovers overall, with patience and dedication and openness being factored in, than I’d had in the past.
(You know, I got to say, there’s something much more attractive about divorced men now that I’ve had the privilege. They’ve had sex, regularly, and sorta know what they’re doing. Usually, even a sexless marriage means he gets out and gets free, then gets laid and gets open about it. Not an entirely bad set of circumstances, girls, if you’re looking for someone who has the geographical prowess to find your damned g-spot.)
So, he’s 26. One of these kids into Anime and punk and foreign flicks and art-house indies and classical music on Sundays. You know how it is. “I am artist, hear you roar.”
We hooked up for a coffee and had basically already said we’d watch a foreign flick, cuddle up with blankets and some wine, watch the movie, and play with each other the whole night. Given it was snowing outside, it sounded like brilliance. We ordered Chinese in, laid about, and got pretty damned intimate.
The great thing about the couch-and-movie thing with someone you’re interested in, at the very beginning of an encounter or relationship, is that virgin groping of each others’ bodies. It lasts for a couple hours running time, and then things heat up exponentially. When you’re already in a relationship, you just press pause. I like delay.
So, here’s where you need to know that I’ve gone from being a steamed milk lover to a vanilla lover to a malted milk lover. I ain’t chocolate yet, daddy. You don’t really know much about those aspects of me, but yeah, the only thing I don’t do, really, is pain or humiliation. Maybe one day I might get interested with the right person, and I don’t rule it out at all, but this is not that day. Suffice to say, I’m certainly beyond “you show me yours, I’ll show you mine” and other basics that may well reside in another galaxy. I obviously feel no fear about speaking out about sex, and certainly not while doing it. I’m very helpful. Older guys seem to enjoy this. Most of the time, younger guys did, too. Again, this was not that day.
Necking, kissing, groping, ooh. Nice. Of course, someone always needs to go to the bathroom, and it was him. Naturally, we decided the bedroom a more fitting place to play the extra innings. Onto the bed we went.
Things escalated to all-over kissing and using fingers in orifices and all those fun things. Now, for me, I have to say the experience was a headtrip. Longtime or thorough readers will have heard tell of a certain sexual encounter I retold that I’ve long since made private — a guy we’ll call M I really fell for and was devastated by in my youth.
I was cutting The Kid extra leeway because I knew the body type, the personality type, and for me, he was very much a throwback to that great guy who introduced me to my sexuality and gave me a glimpse at the lifestyle I now lead. Absolutely, the eyes, everything sort of reminded me of that sexy irreverent man of the past.
But make no mistake, regardless of where the “inspiration” came from, I was absolutely turned on. It didn’t matter how he fumbled or did whatever the hell he did, I was into the moment because I was making it happen for me.
We rested later, and then after an hour or two of sleeping, I rolled over and snaked down his body and gave him a blowjob, thinking of M the entire fucking time. (Hence the post about oral last week.) It was hot, probably last an hour or slightly longer, with a couple cuddle breaks for five, but yeah. The lights out, my mind was elsewhere. That part of the night went over very, very well.
But when he left, I knew I’d never be interested again. If you can’t get someone’s face out of your head when you’re playing with someone else, it just ain’t fair to do it again.
He left, though, because I finally rolled over, turned his face towards mine, and said simply, “You need to leave now” at 7:30am. I mean, fuck. 7:30? I think there should be a law about inquiring in 90-minute intervals from 4:30 on about departures for first-night sleepovers. Jesus. Then I won’t have to come shy of muttering “get the fuck out” when I need my sleep before work in the afternoon.
So, he left. We exchanged kisses. “Another movie next time,” he said/I said. Nod. Smooch. Buh-bye, and thanks for flying Indoor Air.
So, yesterday I encountered the kid. “So, that’s that,” I commented.
“Yeah, well, that was no fun, you were way too aggressive,” the Kid says.
I honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I mean, if they’re rubbing something like a clit and it’s not a clit, it bears mentioning, yes? If they haven’t got a clue where the g-spot is, it’s kind of nice to give them the keys to the future, n’est ce pas? And rolling over for an un-asked, un-told blowjob in the dead of the night, definitely a bad kind of aggression, I know, but I can’t help myself. I’m a monster. I should be locked up. Or tied up, at the very least. Please?
Yes. You heard it here first, readers. I’m too aggressive.
God, shoot me if I ever have to have feather sex again.** I’m implementing an “extraordinary cases only” rule about fucking guys under 30 now. Yes, one bad apple spoiled the barrel, but shit, I’ve only heard rumours about the bad lovers thing before now. I just hate having evidence thrown in my bed. I tell you.
And on top of all that, he was the kind of guy who doesn’t pick up the condom after. Learn this, men: It pisses us off when you do that. Toilet seat up? Not half as bad. Take your fucking condom with you. Please, and thank you. That concludes this public service announcement.
End rant. Thank you for listening. Now, which coffee shall I brew?
How Sensitive is Too Sensitive?
The modern guy is caught in a weird, weird dichotomy. One where he’s told every day he needs to be sensitive to the plight of others, and at the same time, he’s told to be a “real man.”
So, which is it? What do women really want?
I can’t speak for all women, but I can certainly speak for myself, and don’t kid yourself. I don’t think I’m too far off from the masses on this one. But because I sometimes find it easier to write in the collective voice, I shall do that for this piece. Thus, the royal “we” shall be affected throughout much of this, but it really means “me, the prima donna, I think this.”
First, this question was asked in earnest by both Albion and Mad Coyote this morning. But it’s been on my mind for two or three weeks now. I’ve tried writing before now, but I’m having a hard time. It’s hard to put a finger on all the gender problems we’re currently afflicted with, because man, they’re a-plenty.
I’m a feminist with a twist. I love ze men. I love masculinity. I don’t want equality, I just want to do what I want to do. I think my gender’s in my favour, especially given that this writing’s something I love to do. But there’re a lot of fucking problems between men and women in this day and age, and the definitions of “feminine” and “masculine” are a great place to start.
Tackling both is too much in one post, so let’s talk about the boys, then, and just this issue of sensitivity.
A reader recently asked me what women think of men who cry in sad movies and the like. I flat-out said it was sissy. And it is. A guy who gets a sniffle, okay. Maybe he gulps, you know, that’s sexy. That’s hot. He’s affected. A guy who breaks down with some tears coming down his cheek, I’m sorry, but it’s perceived as weakness.
“Sensitive” means acutely affected, easily affected, so the word itself is actually the wrong word, and it’s part of the problem. It’s grown past being a mere issue of semantics. It’s simply the wrong word. We don’t want sensitive men. We want empathetic men. We want open men. Men who can understand where we’re coming from, who can be of support, who can express their sentiments about any manner of topic.
If you crumble, you are of no use to us. If you crumble, you defeat the purpose for us to pairbond with you.
As a woman, I am well aware of a few things. I am strong, I am creative, I am resourceful, I am sometimes indefatigable. And sometimes, I am emotional. Sometimes it’s nice to have a man around who is empathetic, but not overwhelmed. Then he becomes a pillar for me. His stoic aspects influence me, and I remember to look at things more objectively. It’s a yin to my yang.
It’s no secret, men and women tend to deal with problems and such in slightly different manners. Sometimes it’s nice to have that juxtaposition there. But if you get overly affected, overly emotional, you are of no use. Period. It’s that simple.
There are times when a man can cry and it would be understandable. The death of a parent or a friend, that sort of thing. At that moment, I’d be moved for him. I’d want to be his world, to help make it all better. I’d never forsake a guy at that moment. Three weeks later and the mood’s still there? It’s hard to deal with as a chick. When a man’s crumbled, it’s just a hard thing to see sometimes. To have that state maintain, it can begin to affect us on some pretty deep levels, too, and that’s hard to sometimes handle.
Remember 9/11, the horrible fucking footage of that day from the streets of New York? It was unthinkable to see the Towers, but devastating when the cameras took in the faces of the aghast men in the street. The women, crying, that was almost typical – tragic, but typical.
I can remember the face of this one burly man, though.
A big broad man in his 40s of Irish or Scottish heritage, a ruddy complexion, piercing blue eyes, and he was staring up at that soon-to-topple tower, with people running in fear and panic all around him, dust filling the streets, screams and sirens raging in the background. His eyes were turning violently red, tears streaming down his face, and his body heaving with his gasps and sobs, his cries muffling in his throat, as he stood there fucking horrified at all this tragedy coming down around him, fully aware his life was changing then and there, and nothing would ever, ever be the same.
And that broke my fucking heart.
I cried like a little girl, my body wracked with sobs as it hit me, too, just how bad that day was becoming, how etched it would be.
That look, the posture, said, “This is the most horrible thing I’ve ever endured,” and anyone who saw it, we knew. We felt it, too. And that’s the thing, when a man cries, it should be for something that would break the heart of any person, any where. Men are our measure of how bad things get. When it’s times like Hurricane Katrina or 9/11 or the Tsunami, it’s always the stricken fathers that leave us knowing how bad things have become.
So, how do you empathize just enough? It’s in the eyes, the way you listen to us. It’s in the way that you reach out to softly stroke our hands when you hear something that’s upsetting us, the timing of the squeeze after we tell you the worst of it. Don’t respond every time we tell you something sad with a hug – it makes you look a little too soft. Stroking our hands, an arm over our shoulders – be there, but have a little distance from time to time, too. It’s really about listening, or really sharing your opinions. Not being afraid to tell us you’re scared, but also not letting too much of it show.
But that should be true for everyone.
A woman who lets all her fear show is less attractive than a woman who reveals just a glimpse of that terror. A woman who’s strong tends to have more sex appeal than the fluffy kitten girl you know is gonna be high maintenance. It all correlates from one sex to the other, but masculinity ups the values of those traits, that’s all.
Be open about how you feel, but be a little reserved about showing too much of it, I guess.
I suspect there are some women who think I’m full of shit and way off base on this one? Lemme have it. If you agree, I’d love to know that, too. Thanks.
I Done Sprung, Baby
I’m a sexually peaking 32-year-old woman who’s just been hit with her first full dose of spring fever. I need sex, and I want it now.
Tonight I hung out with my first sex blogger for some cool conversation, some Guinness, a stroll, and a bus ride. A nice night. I noticed then as we wandered to the waterfront that it was warmer than I’d have expected. Seasonal. Nice. A little damp, a little chilly, but there it was. Warmer than it oughta be, fresher than dawn on a mountain. A spring night. The first real one.
We hit the bus, he got off at his stop for the hotel, and I carried on my merry way. Two folks quickly sat down opposite me, in a portion of the bus where the aisle expanse is at its narrowest. They were inches from my knees and the sexual energy was just incredible. Wow. You could tell they were on the verge, and they’ve been lodged on that precipice for some time. They’ve clearly known each other for a little, and they’ve connected on a different level. Now, it’s averted gazes, bashful smiles, and too much self-touching.
(You know what I mean, you smooth out your jeans, adjust a pocket, straighten your sleeve – but it’s really just nervous tension, and you know it. These two were popping.)
She was this geeky-chic alt-edge white girlie with these naughty librarian specs, a beret, tapered velvet pants that snaked down her mile-high legs. She used to be a redhead, partially dyed black. In her lap, a wood-mounted freshly sculpted clay statuette (yet to be baked) of a nubile goddess. Her smile was that of a sexy affected intellectual.
Hell, I wanted her.
He was this sexy alternative Middle Eastern guy with chiseled features, smoky eyes, this birthmark on his forehead that looked like a smudge of ash, and this oh-so-perfect little soulpatch (mm) under his tender full lips. His jeans were loose in all the right places, but snug in the better ones. He had a nervous twitch in his left leg and kept bouncing his knee an inch or two up in a fidgety manner that said he really didn’t want to be looking at the floor as she spoke about whatever it was that was moving her then, but would rather be on the floor on top of her.
Hell, I wanted him.
Yet there was this great connection on the level of friends. These shy recognitions exchanged in glances, furtive moments of silence and awkward chuckles. So fucking sexy, so hot.
They each went home alone, to my surprise. He disembarked at my stop, and I hung back to watch those sweet half-moon cheeks swaggering up the drag. “Hate to see you leave, love to watch you go.”
And then I realized it. I’m just full of lust, morning, noon, and night these days. I find when I’m able to shut it off for a few hours for work or platonic socializing or whatever, whammo. Girl’s back to raging. God damned peaking.
The sexual peak is the age at which your frequency of sexual arousal reaches an all-time high. It has nothing to do with skill or frequency of being laid. It’s hormones ripening. Men, 16-18, women, 32-35. I’m 32. Wham. I’m on, 24-7. Bulges in jeans on the street are targeted in my sights from a two-block distance. I watch them approach. The shifting side-to-side. I watch asses, always. Shoulders, nice broad and strong ones. I feel dysfunctional. I’m a voyeur every waking moment. Raging. Sigh.
But it was also at that moment that it hit me: It’s spring.
I began to pass nearly sprung apple blossoms, exposed fluffy cherry blossoms. I smelled honeysuckle. I walked my 10 blocks home with my suede jacket dangling open and only my embroidered cotton shirt protecting me. Blissful. Stars glimmering overhead. That freshness that tells you winter’s on the outs. I breathed deeply. Stopped to stare at the stars, smell the air. Shuffled my feet in a lazy amble on home, savouring the walk as long as I could. I even paused to hang in the school playground. Leaning back on the swing, checking the stars.
God, I love the laziness of spring. The easy pace, the affable air. Mm. A very, very happy Steff.
And now, I want sex even more. Actually, no, you know what I want tonight? Intimacy.
The casual heat of just knowing someone well enough to toy endlessly with their bits and pieces as you lie stretched out, soaking in a classic movie or an intelligent foreign flick, sipping wine, candles flickering, naked, skin-on-skin, a blanket draped loosely over you both, a breast hanging out, toes protruding, legs interlocked, occasionally emitting single lines of commentary to each other, getting only a nibble or a bite in response. Just an easy night in.
That’s what I want. That says spring to me. Spring is seasonal foreplay. It’s suggestive of the heat to come. A delicate tease meant to stoke you and ready you for all to come. It’s so fitting, doing prolonged tease and toy sessions, just getting intimate with all they have to offer. Yep. Spring.
Then there’s outdoor sex, the sport of the season… fucking on the grass near the beach, but that’s another story for another time. Yes, do remind me to tackle the subject of public sex sometime. Ahh, how do I love it. Let me count the ways. Oh, my. Yes, that is also what this season says to me. “Get out and play.” Just dew it, baby.
So, my wish to you all: A fine and fair spring, with plenty of fun fucking and frolicking of all kinds. God knows I’ve got one on order. Let’s hope the season delivers.
Love Will Conquer All, Baby
I was reading something just before bed, stated by the venerable clothing designer Karl Lagerfeld, in answer to the soon-to-come fashion onslaught of heavy, dark clothing that’s to be replacing the light, fun, and airy lines we’ve been enjoying of late. Lagerfeld said, “If you read the daily papers, you are not in the mood for pink and green.”
If you are what you wear, are we as a society becoming depressed? Valium and Lithium and Prozac, oh my.
I’d lay my cash on a big, fat yes, but hey, what do I know? I’m just a formerly depressed not-even-yuppie who’s an observer, not a player.
Depression’s out there. Hell, even the upcoming ankle-length hemlines are screaming it. We’re depressed. As a people, we need to get happy. This war shit’s bringing us all down. We got Vice Presidents running around shooting good citizens. Gas prices are nuts. The Canadian economy’s strong enough to be a steamroller. Clearly, it is the end of times, and our nerves are a tad frazzled.
Me, I say the cure is sex.
Okay, let’s look at this, then. Stress and self-esteem issues, as well as external factors (thus the stress) cause depression, as do biochemical issues. Right? Sex is good for the nerves, great for the self-esteem — (especially if you can get ‘em to scream your name. Hmm. I really have to stop falling for the strong, silent types. My ego’s taking a hit.) – and releases endorphins.
In all seriousness, studies have shown we’re all at an all-time touch deficit. I’ve been hooking up with some guys of late, lots of great dates, no seconds, but I’ve kissed (uh, to coin a phrase) every one of ‘em. Life’s too short not to share a kiss (or something) or stretch it out over three or four hours. Sex? Nice but not needed. Making out does wonders for the self-esteem. Gets the juices flowing, the pulse racing. It’s the very definition of alive. No one should have to go without. I’m going into withdrawal, days without a kiss. A necking session would hit the spot, but I know what else would, too.
In a world where there’s famine and war and natural disasters and poverty and stupid religious extremism and pettiness… shouldn’t you at least be getting laid?
I for one applaud the relatively recent revival of the “Make Love, Not War” campaign. I need to get me a button, man. I’m willing to sacrifice myself to the cause. I will have sex in the name of peace, and soon. Afterwards, we’ll spoon, smoke a joint, drink some absinthe, and listen to Imagine, followed by White Rabbit, and some Dark Side of the Moon. Is there anybody out there?
Maybe this whole Iraq thing was just what the Sexuality Movement needed. Drop some bombs, shed some innocent lives, get the tempers flaring back home, have the pacifists realize they’re really pissed off but since they’re pacifists, they can’t go out back and shoot beer cans off the fence, so, instead, they smoke fatties and fuck.
Who knows. Maybe Bush did the right thing after all. I don’t fucking know. I do know that everyone getting a little more action would probably be not such a bad thing. Me, I always liked the fact that Clinton was getting head in the Oval Office. I figured he’d at least be relaxed enough to make the rational choice in any scenario that unfolded.
I think anyone in power with lives in their hands should absolutely be on a sex quota. They must be gone down on once every eight days, minimum, and are entitled to sex twice per week, minimum, with no less than 28 minutes foreplay each time. Sure. As a start. With time on the job, age, and increased responsibility, the sex allotment increases. Like a health plan or any other benefit.
Yeah, I don’t know what the hell the problem is, but I know sex is the solution.
Pity the new fashion scene’ll be here soon and skin will be a thing of the past. But, brothers and sisters, we shall overcome. Right?
*Yeah, I’m a pinko lefty with a loathing for the war and a disdain for both the American and new Canadian regimes. I mean, does it sound like I have conservative sex? C’mon! Get real. You knew this. You like me anyway. I’m the good kinda libertarianish type.
The Delicate Art of… Face-Sitting?
David E. Kelly starts off with these brilliant shows that eventually get weird and schticky, but so far, Boston Legal is keeping consistently watchable and even loveable.
In a recent episode, William Shatner’s effervescent Alzheimer’s victim-warrior lawyer, Denny Crane, states that when his mind rots to the state of a two-year-old child’s, his bride-to-be has been instructed to euthanize him by way of face-sitting.
Yes, he wants to be killed by snatch.
I’ve written before that the whole face-sitting thing, I can go there, that’s part of the job, I guess, but it does little for me, really. I don’t dislike it, it’s just not a reason to cancel going to the movies, y’know?
That said, I would absolutely feel compelled to give a guy what he asks for from time to time, particularly knowing how wildly fetishistic this love of face can be for guys. If you’re a chick and you don’t get it, try to be a guy for a second:
You’re obsessed with pussy and tits. You have been for a really, really long time. Ass, it’s nice, too. Especially bouncy ass. Very nice, you think. You’ll take two, and don’t call in you in the morning.
Now, you’re a guy who’s in his favourite position – on his back – and not only has this woman come to you, but you don’t even need to sit up to see her. Nope. You’re reclining, life is good, and oh, my God – she’s sitting on you. That nice bouncy round ass is on top of your chest, her twat – that Mecca, that daily fantasy, that height of all things good in your life – is resting on your lowly lips. And, dear god, when she bounces this way or that, presto (or, the gods have smiled, and she’s leaning over and using the headboard for support, and there they are, front and centre – dangling, even). Looming overhead like giants in the Amazon, her breasts. Oh. Oh, ho, ho. Yes. That, there, don’t move – never, ever move – stay right THERE.
Welcome to Male Psychology 101.
Of course, they won’t tell you this. They’ll just say, “I like it. It feels good. You look good up there.” Articulate much, guys?
But maybe it’s hard to quantify. There’s this old Canadian rock song from the late ‘80s by The Northern Pikes, and the song lyrics go, “She ain’t pretty, she just looks that way.”
And it’s kinda how I feel about sex. You may have noticed, I’m an enthusiast. Been known to dabble a tad from time to time in the carnal arts.
But sex looks wack sometimes, man. Face-sitting’s just one of many somewhat amusing scenarios we find ourselves in. Blowjobs, they look kinda silly. Toe-sucking, yes, weird. (Feels great though. Really.) Bondage, well… S&M? Oh, my. It’s a regular freakshow, isn’t it?
Or is it? I mean, every now and then the writer me steps outside and becomes the comedian observer me. He’s doing what to me, where? With what? A kitchen utensil? Shit, that’s weird, I’d think.
But I probably enjoyed myself.
And that’s part of the thing about sex. You sometimes just need to suspend your judgment. Yes, weird things go down. Yes, you have preconceived notions. Yes, you’re a little mystified at how that could possibly be a good thing. But do it anyway.
It’s like sushi. Who knew?
Can't Orgasm?
A word of advice?
If you’re a woman, and you’re unable to orgasm,
and you have photos of your family
anywhere near
a place you regularly like to have sex?
Move them. Seriously.
Why? Because psychology is important in sex, and so is shame. If you feel shame, you won’t orgasm. If your mommy or daddy or little nephew Joey have eyes on you with your legs spread and a guy controlling you?
Yeah, good luck with finding your happy spot.