I have two closet addictions right now.

The first is only a problem on Sunday nights. Because you see, on Sunday nights, Bravo shows Law and Order: Criminal Intent starting at 6pm and ending when I’m too paranoid to get up from the couch for fear of the murderer I’d never suspect waiting to gag and rape me in the bedroom.

I’ve never been a huge Law and Order fan. I’d watch if it was on, but I was never waiting for new episodes. When I did watch I was always coming in midway through when the detectives are talking to the Witness Who Changes Everything. But unlike most people in the free world, I don’t have cable. I only get the channels that happen to come in when my roommate and I plugged the cable in. One of these channels happens to be Bravo.

I watch A LOT of Bravo.

The Law and Order thing has been going on with me for about a month now. Sundays roll around and even if I’m doing something, at some point I am sucked into an episode and I can’t stop watching. They are constantly keeping me guessing. I would be the world’s worst detective and it’s because I watch this show that I would never dare commit a major crime in New York City. Those detectives will find you. Last Sunday I was up until 2 with the show and do you know I cannot remember a single detective’s name? I just love a good mystery though.

Addiction number two is…..Harry Potter. There, I said it. I am SO INTO HARRY POTTER. I had the last book in hand the morning and by Sunday night my journey with Harry and friends had come to an end and I was having some serious emotional expressing going on. I got into the books the summer when I was 20 or so. Two of my friends were really into them. I was sure I’d hate the story because I am never into sci fi or fantasy and books like Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia were never my thing.

I was hooked at book 1. As a rule, I have never been into the fantasy genre. I liked funny. I liked scary. But I drew the line when it came to fantastical worlds that housed trolls and witches and elves and magic. I also wrote anything to do with science fiction off my list. I was only afraid of the tangible, I didn’t blink an eye at space robots or ogres. I was afraid of serial killers and maniacal clowns. But here I was, a year away from drinking legally and totally engrossed in the story of a boy wizard who communes with fairy tale creatures on a regular basis.

I shouldn’t try to explain. I’m into the books and I was sad to see the story come to a close.

So it’s out there. I read children’s books and I spend my Sunday nights watching re-runs. There are worse things right?

Most of us at some point in our lives have gone against our better judgment and gotten involved with someone for all the wrong reasons, which can include but not be limited to:

1. Because they’re more fun and charismatic than Johnny Depp in Blow
2. Because you like hanging out / partying like an animal with their friends
3. Because they offer your really nice dinners / long talks on the phone / sex / a TV watching companion / tables at clubs / whatever it is you seem to be inexplicably lacking at the time
4. Because they’re so good-looking it hurts / disintegrates your brain

Relationships that bloom out of any reason similar to these are usually doomed before the fateful first kiss. You embark on what I like to call, “pathetically using a guy to fulfill whatever given emptiness you have at that time,” whether it be a need for a cooking partner or a need for a partner in crime at New York clubs. An underlying, universal cause for why this happens usually has something to do with you as a woman just needing feel sexy or validated. Men are aware of this annoying and damaging gene we posses, and most strive to take advantage of it at all times. Women let their guard down and allow the male specimen of their desire to fulfill whatever’s making their days just good instead of great, and embark on what I like to call the “grey relationship.”

Instead of being based on love and mutual respect, a grey relationship allows you and your partner to essentially use each other as a quick fix to much deeper-rooted emotional problems. And it makes sense. Why would anyone, male or female, want to really wallow in the fact that they feel depressed when instead of processing disappointment or pain, they can cover it with a nifty and distracting band aid in the form of a fellow human being. If you’re an excitement junkie like me, this kind of self-manipulation is especially pleasing because you never have any idea what’s really going on. The conveniently using one another grey relationship has no rules. What you and your partner share can’t be defined in the world of reality. It can only be rationalized in the smoke and mirrors emotional world that justified you using one another in the first place. You’re not exclusive, although all your friends know you’re intimately involved. You both know the relationship’s not going anywhere, but choose to mutually ignore this fact. In public you feign close friendship, in private you revel in the warped intimacy you provide each other. And this intimacy is like a spoonful of Robitussin. It’s medicine. A quick fix. There’s no danger of embarking on the frighteningly feverish ride that is real intimacy and dependency and the heinous sore throat that results from when real true love goes sour. All these heavier concerns don’t exist. You live in a seemingly safe playground with this person. You work as each other’s friendly medicine, ultimately undermining your deepest genuine wants.

This is not to say that you and your grey relationship partner can’t truly care for one another. Often times you do. And everything feels genuine at the beginning because they’re helping you fulfill your very real impulses. You get attached. Then the environment goes from grey to industrial strength fog machine, because now you’re also one another’s guilty pleasure habit. The reasons you’re even together get more blurred because now you’re just following through on preset motions. And the longer you manage to make this work, the genuine feelings that felt so throbbingly good while you were ‘getting to know each other’ subtly vanish and backfire, until you see the person across a dinner table or dance floor and realize you don’t even know them at all. How they feel about you is just as perplexing an enigma as how you truly feel about them. There’s just a huge question mark and pangs of a familiar craving.

In my experience, this progresses to the point that when you speak, you’re almost talking in code. Your initial carnal connection boils away until you’re left with a surface relationship. You talk like you’re conversing with an anonymous disgruntled stranger you’re forced into conversation with at a wedding. All the unspoken, non existent rules that generously allowed for your feelings at the beginning, now serve only to seal both of your lips shut like duck tape. No longer being able to actually communicate is an initial symptom of the grey relationship break up.

One would think that because you never fully trusted this person and were essentially using them for emotional and entertainment purposes that the grey relationship break up wouldn’t be difficult or heart wrenching. In my experience: WRONG. I’ve found grey relationship break ups to be a rare and excruciating form of hell. Because no rules were established at the beginning about how much you saw each other and how much you meant to one another, no one needs to speak up and alter these statements as is necessary in a formal relationship. Your partner is free to just subtly drift away with no required explanation. You can’t talk about it, because it’s theoretically not a ‘big deal’ that you’re going separate ways. And while rationally you don’t care, emotionally your quick fix medicine is being ominously pulled away from you. Then your ego kicks in and you begin wondering: Why does he want to change things? Why is he pulling away? Wasn’t this relationship mutually convenient for the both of us? Why now? Have I suddenly started to smell? God dammit I’m going to make this work! The sad reality is that what you’re craving to ‘make work’ never actually existed, and the only reason you want your faux relationship to endure is to avoid feeling those initial emotional holes that got you into this mess in the first place. Before, the holes were present and seeking to be filled up. Now as you move away from your grey partner, they’re actually being drained out – a really not fun feeling. Before, you had some subconscious strategies to ignore the holes. Now having embarked on your grey relationship, the holes have gotten a ton of attention. They’ve become the spoiled super brats of your emotional solar plexus. And now that your grey relationship over, you have huge red arrows pointing to the spots that you’ve long since forgotten how to ignore. Your deepest emotional shortcomings are now miserably flashing on display. And that usually doesn’t feel so hot.

The solution? Besides ice cream and bad TV I don’t have one. In my humble opinion, grey relationships should be avoided from the get-go. Sure they take your on a roller-rocket space trip where you feel totally lucky and complete for three or four months, but the crash back down to reality doesn’t always make that super human space voyage worthwhile. We’re humans; we’re supposed to feel full of holes most of the time. My current project involves just accepting that that’s normal, and trying to do the plug work myself.

Just a couple of days away from vacay and I can’t stop smiling! I admit that I was starting to dread the trip a bit until my friend FINALLY confirmed that she was indeed coming along. Now I can really get my funk on!!

She and I are painfully aware of what this trip means; with us being women of a certain age and all. We kinda’ see this trip as our last chance at having any fun until we are officially considered too old to act like goats as we troll the streets of a foreign country. This is our last call on wearing things like: platform sandals, camouflage shorts to the beach and juicy lip gloss. Fuck – who are we kidding?? We’re already pushin’ it now!

When you get to be our age, vacations with the girls are replaced by trips to visit the family in Buffalo on holidays or even worse—Disneyland with the kids! Eek!!

Oh! That reminds me:Thank you to my friend’s hubby for understanding how badly his wife’s spinster of a pal needs this trip!!

That’s right; it’s getting to be that time where finding a weeks worth of girls-nights-out is nearly impossible and we must accept that these types of trips will have to be tucked away on a shelf until our husbands die. After that, it still won’t be quite the same, with us being in our twilight years and dealing with things like hip pain and menopause.

Anyhow, I will be away in Portugal; trolling for cute men who speak no English and enjoying the freedom of being able to expose my almost D-cup ta-tas without a line up of gawkers forming! (Going topless may be legal here in Canada, but the men just can’t handle it yet)

I will continue to post while away unless busy wriggling on the face of a man named Joao-Pedro Ferreira or Jose-Manuel Faustino Carvalho. Hopefully I’ll be able to add a couple of pics from my ho-fest — oops — I mean vacation.

In the meantime, I will continue to thank my lucky stars for this fabulous opportunity and hopefully milk it so that the fuzzy memories can keep me warm until my seventies when my newly widowed (or 3x divorced) friends and I can head to Florida and spread our droopy, overly tanned asses across the sands of the Keys while sporting black and gold lamé bathing suits, big hats over our blue hair and way too much jewelry, while we fight to win the affections of the young cabana boys.

Ciao for now my lovelies.

xo

Yesterday morning was spent at the hospital doing a lot of waiting and worrying and more waiting. I had a follow up to check on the mess that is my uterus and admit that I have never been this worried for my own health before – very scary.

While I was waiting alongside about 10 other cranky patients; this couple made their way down the corridor and took a seat next to me. They really did wanna make us all hurl with their lovey-dovey kisses and nauseating acts of kindness towards one another, but there was something about it all that got to me.

I watched as he doted on her, and while I don’t particularly care for quite that much attention and feel that they should have toned it down given the time and place; something about seeing him there, supporting her as she waited for her test results made me want to cry.

I must mention that my lovely cousin Nat did offer to drop everything to come with me, but I tend to prefer to do these things alone — or at least thought I did. Sitting there next to that couple made me painfully aware of the fact that I was indeed quite alone. Not all of the patients with their droopy asses peeking through the hospital gowns could console me. I felt more alone than I ever had and had no one to blame but myself.

While this woman awaited some potentially devastating news; her partner did all he could to make her smile and keep her calm. From holding her hand, to kissing her forehead and telling her how beautiful she was even though she was wearing a hideous purple hospital gown; he was clear on how he felt about her and made us all clearly aware of how nice it is to be with someone who genuinely cares.

Worse than sitting alone with no more than a cup of coffee to console me was realizing that the men that I have a penchant for are the ones incapable of this kind of love—at least towards me. Her partner: by her side every step of the way. My closest thing to a partner—who isn’t really a partner at all but merely someone I hoped would be a partner: didn’t even ask how my appointment went.

How is it that a loving girl with some truly great examples of what a union should be, ends up settling for less than what she has always wanted? Is this payback for not wanting kids? The uterus issues and that mushy couple seemed to be some sort of spear to the heart from God, possibly punishing me for being so upfront about not liking children. I guess much like all the old ladies in my family; God also doesn’t think that a good marriage should be in the cards for a woman who doesn’t plan to have kids anyway! Or was this some slap across the face/wake up call from the universe reminding me of what I really do want in a man? Either way, it got my attention.

And for those that are wondering: I’m going to be fine.

One of the doormen at my office building died over the weekend. I came in half a day late on Monday (no worries–it was approved) to see a sign in the lobby saying that he died unexpectedly on Saturday and that his funeral would be the following day.

As I looked at the little 2X2 ID pic someone had tacked on top of the sign, I almost lost it. He was just always so nice to me. And not in the “you’re a hot piece of ass and I love tits” kind of way. I love bright colors and whenever I would show up during the winter sporting my yellow coat and striped rainboots, he had a smile and a compliment waiting when I came in.

Until I saw the sign in the lobby saying he was dead, I’d never even known his name.

I heard that he had an asthma attack that proved fatal. He was 33 and his mother was listed as his next of kin. I saw him everyday for the past year almost and I never knew his name. This makes me very upset inside because I always think of myself in glowing phrases that proclaim: “GOOD PERSON,” “LOVES TO SMILE,” and “TREATS OTHERS AS SHE WANTS TO BE TREATED.”

Yet I never really looked at our doorman, our doorman whose name was Steven Rodriguez, as a person who had a life and a dream outside of this danky midtown west office building that affords panoramic views of the Port Authority. All I saw is that he was a doorman. It was his job to make sure there was an open elevator waiting for me when I came in out of the rain. And now he’s dead and his mother is never going to see him again.

In other news (and so I don’t start bawling at my desk): Transformers is just okay. The robots are awesome but come on–why don’t any of the Autobots fly too?

I’ve been trying to figure out whether or not a woman can sleep with man that she is attracted to on many levels without getting too attached and setting herself up for disappointment.

I’ll be the first to admit (confirm) that you can enjoy a purely sexual relationship with someone no matter how ol’ school you may be when it comes to dating and relationships. There is this chemical thing that can happen upon meeting someone that just sets your loins a blazin’ and cannot be denied. These are the men who stir something in you on a very primitive, animal level making you not care about details such as interests, marital status or even name. You can’t really explain it and there is little time to try because the clothes are flying off and legs are being thrust up over his shoulders too quickly for you to say or even think anything.

Purely sexual relationships can be amazing if both people are totally upfront from day one. There’s something to be said about enjoying each others bodies and not worrying about where things will go. You’re free to truly enjoy the sex when you know and accept that things won’t go beyond the toe-curling, sheet-dampening, screaming like a banshee good time — and that’s ok. You know that you’re extremely attracted to each other on a physical level, but that’s it. No fuss. No muss.

What about when you’re dealing with someone who you actually do care (at least a little) about? Someone whom you admire on certain levels, who peaks your curiosity? Someone who you once wished you could have more with but are painfully aware that it is not in the cards, yet are so aroused by physically that you can barely concentrate at times? Is it worth it to give in to the all-consuming lust? Or is this a disaster waiting to happen?

There are those back up guys that you can call for sex, who leave you feeling a little… empty? I’m not talkin’ small penis here, but instead, someone who comes over when you’re in the mood for something more than a vibrator, who you can no longer stand the sight of once you’re done. Let’s face it; guys aren’t the only ones who have it in them to kick someone out the moment they relieve their tension and get what they want! It’s those guys and those times that make me wonder if maybe it wouldn’t be more gratifying to have a booty-call that you actually do care a little more about so that you can enjoy the afterglow for a few minutes without dreading the inevitable onset of repulsion.

Boy, it is hard bein’ a woman in this day and age. Years ago it was clear that sex was not an option till marriage and I for one still see the romance in that–to an extent.

What to do, what to do…

When you can’t seem to keep your panties dry for more than a minute at a time and your lips, breasts and clit are swellling to troublesome proportions; isn’t it worth the risk to be able to get what you want from someone that you know without a doubt will satisfy you like no other?? Even if it could mean a little heartbreak down the road?

I love all your comments as it is, but this time I’m really counting on you all to have a say and tell me what you think: can a woman really have NSA sex with someone that she is VERY sexually attracted to, but also admires and cares for on a deeper level? And when I say “VERY physically attracted to”, I mean in an all-consuming, walking around in a permanent state of damp arousal, attracted to.

Tell me what ya’ think. Please.

We’re always hearing that men are able to lose weight at a faster rate and more easily than women which is incredibly infuriating seeing as how men tend to care less about being thin than we do. I can’t speak for all ladies, but I myself don’t mind a little bit of a gut on a guy and think it’s kinda’ hot. (Would you kick Matthew McConaughey out of bed if he got a little mushy?? I think not.)

Anyway, I just came across an article with the headline: Whacking Off The Pounds and of course was overjoyed! I make no secret of the fact that I enjoy a little—okay, a lot of self-lovin’ while watching amateur porn on YouPorn, so it’s no surprise that this headline would get my attention. As I waited for the full article to load I started to wonder: if masturbating can make you lose weight, then why the hell do I still look like a potato on stilettos?? Seriously, it’s a fucking miracle I have time to write some days!! But alas, it turns out that this jerk-off-for-weight-loss theory only applies to men—of course.

Japanese Dr. Yamanalka, claims that a man can lose a considerable amount of weight if he spanks his monkey between 3 to 5 times per day. Apparently a man can lose up to 4 kilos per week following this ‘regime’! Four f’n kilos!! How unfair is that considering I clock at least double that playin’ with my nub?!

This exercise program, which is called Onanobics, also includes different combinations you can try in order to mix it up and burn more calories. For instance, if you do it while on your knees you burn more calories than you would doing it while sitting or standing. And if you’re a true pro, (as I consider myself to be) you can burn an astounding amount of calories if you beat your meat while jogging! I jog EVERY morning!! I am sure I could easily incorporate the two, yet these benefits only apply to men! Men who are known to be incapable of multi-tasking!! Why dear God? Why?????

Maybe this is what the term ‘penis envy’ really means, cuz’ I now find myself feelin’ quite green over men and their ability to lose weight by simply playing with their winkies. Then again, going back to the men being incapable of multi-tasking thing; its kind of a wasted discovery, isn’t it?

Whether you’ve entered into the ominous ‘live-in’ relationship or on what I call ‘the cheater’s live-in relationship’ i.e. the long distance relationship, where you cohabitate during prescheduled visiting hours, you and your significant other will inevitably be forced to partake in some kindergarten-spirited sharing. Since you’re most likely fantasizing about how yummy your significant other will look lathered up in whip cream while packing your suitcase, it’s no real surprise that you usually forget stuff on visits (face creams, razors, cell phone chargers and toothpaste for example, never make it into your bag). Upon arrival, you turn to your partner to supply these missing items. For me, here’s what constitutes Barney-approved sharing versus crossing the line creepy.

Okay to Share:

1. Hairbrushes and Combs: You love each other’s hair; you’re constantly caressing it, smelling it, tugging on it. And what’s the danger? If one of you has lice, you’d have already infested each other by now to the point where your lice families are celebrating the birth of great grandchildren. Communal use of the hairbrush is OK by me.

2. Socks: I’m prefacing this by clarifying that I mean ‘clean socks.’ When packing for conjugal visits, I often focus so much on lingerie and skimpy dresses that practical items like socks get overlooked entirely. When I want to hit up the gym and realize there are critical gaps in my working out wardrobe, my significant other’s oversize socks work just fine.

3. Hairdryer: Who needs to be possessive over a hairdryer? I like guys with longish hair (see definition here) and the practical side of such a preference is that they often need to mechanically dry their thick, manly locks before hurrying off to work in the morning. I’m always happy to sit back and watch this fascinating male grooming ritual. If they use hair products such as gel the entertainment level increases considerably.

4. Beverages: You’re lip-locked twenty percent of your time together anyway – so what’s a little mixed saliva on a straw? Granted, at restaurants or out with other people, it’s not so classy. But when enjoying a slurpie at the beach, I vote share.

5. Sun block: He never carries any and squints in confusion at the concept of ‘a sunburn’ or ‘skin cancer.’ So unless you want a boyfriend that looks like a boiled lobster, I say sharing is the way to go. (On a side note: Has anyone ever seen a man buy sun block, EVER? I’m asking my local Duane Reade employee – I doubt such a purchase has ever occurred.)

6. His Clothes: We love wearing his boxers and oversize t-shirts. They smell like him and unlike our corset-tight tank tops, are so roomy we actually feel comfortable pigging out on the various boy junk food in his fridge. If he can fit into your comfortable clothes…that’s just weird.

7. Sunglasses: A friend of mine has a stolen pair of shades from every man she’s ever dated. It’s like a reduced, one time alimony payment / a fashion scrapbook of past loves. Whenever she puts on a pair we’ll be like, “Oh, love those Armani. They were Alex’s, right?” Besides, dark man glasses only make a woman look more powerful and mysterious.

So now that we’ve explored some of the items that it’s okay for lovers to commune-style share, let’s examine the flip side of the coin.

NOT Okay to Share

1. Toothpaste: Even men who seem harmless and refuse to kill bugs menacingly destroy the life of your toothpaste tube. First off, they throttle the thing instead of politely squeezing from the established corner of your choice. Secondly, they force enough toothpaste out of the tube for an army of dentists and their assistants. They then use a fraction of this amount, and then irritatingly attempt to close the toothpaste lid, which is now flooded in a thick, chunk-like substance stickier than a four-year-olds’ hands. I cringe, shudder, then scream at the sight of such a toothpaste corpse in my bathroom and refuse to touch it without the aid of latex gloves.

2. Toothbrush: The ‘You’re lip-locked twenty percent of your time together anyway’ excuse does NOT apply to toothbrushes as it does to straws. Toothbrushes are a serious oral hygiene tool that have ONE designated user. They promote fresh breath and sanitary behavior. For me, if you’re sharing such a private tool you might as well lick each other’s teeth clean. No thank you.

3. My Favorite Pillow: I’ve made it clear which pillow it is; it’s the absurdly expensive fluffy one I splurged on during a weak moment at Mattress World. I compensate for the whacked amount of money I spent on the thing with unrelenting adoration and emotional dependency for its downy texture. It’s become the adult equivalent of my childhood ‘blankie’ and sleeping doesn’t feel satisfying without it. Sharing is not going to happen.

4. My Delicious Entrée: Let’s joyfully pick at each other’s appetizers and desserts – desserts were created to be shared. But my main course is MINE. I should not be punished for my partner’s inability to choose his own eatable entrée. The fact that I’m smart enough to LISTEN to the waiter’s specials announcement and order accordingly while my significant other is honed in on the football match in the background, doesn’t imply that I should share my delectable main course with the less competent chooser. Take your fork and back off.

5. Expensive Hair Products: Stuff purchased at CVS or Duane Reade is fine for my guy to lather up in. Pantene Pro V, Frieda’s Blonde collection and L’Oreal are all in my shower for him. Take a silver dollar size of product and wash away. Anything salon purchased however, i.e. products with names you can’t pronounce (Biolage, Kerestase, Keihls), products with French on them, and products that are the international-sounding names of gay man (Frederic Fekkai, Ted Gibson, Louis Licari), are OFF limits. Using fist-size glops of these products is the financial equivalent of burning twenty dollar bills with a set of matches. Don’t do it unless you want us to cry.

6. My Bathroom in General: Sharing the bathroom area during visits is understandable and inevitable, especially because let’s face it – who can afford a two bathroom apartment in Manhattan? If pursuing a ‘live-in’ relationship however, I’m overtly certain it would fail if I shared my bathroom area with a man for an extended amount of time. I think separate watering holes are in fact, one of the foundational keys to all successful relationships.

Maybe that’s why so many couples move to Brooklyn …

These last few weeks have been trying on my patience, my faith in people and my soul. You almost managed to rob me of that little voice in me that tells me that most people are good. You made me momentarily regret that I am as trusting as I am and even made me look at people in a whole new light — one that isn’t quite so rose-colored. But before you start to rejoice in your office chair, you should know what that means for you.

You expressed some insecurity over some aspects of my life recently and it really surprised me. Truth be told; it made me like you more because it made you seem a little more human and was somehow endearing. If you had meant all of the sweet things that you said that day and actually called back as promised, then you would have heard all kinds of things that you’d never expect from me as well.

You claimed to be worried about all of the “hot guys” that I am in contact with and said that you felt that you could never compete with them. Already being skeptical after your previous behaviour; I wondered if that was just your kind way of trying to bow out gracefully and spare me any more confusion, but you assured me that was not at all the case. If you had bothered to deal with things like a man and follow through with your promises, then maybe you would have been able to really get how I saw you.

Just for fun, let me tell you: I thought you were magnificent.

It started with thinking that I saw something sweet in your dark little eyes. From there, it grew as I got to know you—or what I thought was you. When I learned about what you do and as you expressed your passion for it; I was completely and utterly in awe and truly felt that I was in the presence of a gem at Starbucks that day. Hearing you speak of your love and admiration for your mother really touched me, and sadly, made me believe that your great love for her automatically meant that you were respectful of women. Silly me. As things moved on and I learned more about your naughty side; it seemed to bring out mine in a way that I had NEVER thought possible (even writing about sex for a living). I can’t begin to express how incredibly sexy and intoxicating I found you or the way my body reacted to simply hearing your voice or thinking of you. All of those things, coupled with your calm nature made me foolishly fall hard and want to do things with you and to you that would have left you cross-eyed and satisfied for a LONG time—and I don’t just mean sexually.

You see, there was no need to compete. Not that you deserve to know any of this, but when there was another “hot guy” that I was contemplating when we first met; you won out by a long shot. Kudos — the illusion that you created made you appear to be the hottest man on Earth.

This post originally started out to be a series of much deserved cheap shots at you for the way you misled me. A few wise cracks about your extra-curricular interests that you blatantly lied to me about and ending with something along the lines of: “go cuck yourself”. It would have made for a far more entertaining post than this one, but in the end, I am still too good a person to do that to anyone—even you—you lying little man, too busy with your quest to find the ultimate cuckold experience to see the amazing things that are right in front of you. Be grateful that this is all that I can be bothered to do in retaliation for the way you fucked with me. Had it been someone else, I would guess that those special pics of you would have been plastered allover your work website by now.

My rose-colored glasses are back on.

NEXT!!!

“Basically smart women should always be dating three guys at a time.”

HUH? I precariously leaned back in my chair, gripping my espresso with excitement for what my petite, spindly pal Max (MaxMara to friends) had just announced to me.

“Not only will it make you happier,” he continued, “but it will help you marry the man of your dreams.”

Excuse me? Had Max suffered one too many bitter breakups and gone haywire? Or was he actually onto something?

Max was essentially my Milanese father. He performed the paternal duties of listening to, driving home, and socially promoting many foreign girls in the city, and no, this isn’t as creepy as it sounds. A long-divorced sweetheart now living twenty minutes outside Milan with his parents, Max socialized with the Milanese glitterati while being distinctly more soulful than your average Italian shmuck. He also knew literally EVERYBODY. His cell phone contact list made my bursting Rolodex look pathetic. Not only that, but he had everyone in the city coded in his cell phone with special figures next to their names like Marco$#%^*. Let me explain:

# For example, meant men who had spare apartments in the city they’d let him use to fuck women (should the opportunity arise).
$ meant the contact had money.
* meant they were single.
^ meant they had a house in Sardinia
% meant a hot woman

I initially found this system appalling and clinically insane. Yet since Max was the cupid of all Northern Italy, this kind of categorization actually made sense. It helped him remember who people were (cause let’s face it, when you’re pushing six hundred plus contacts it can be easy to forget) and it was extremely useful if you were Max’s friend. Say you wanted to date someone who was a lawyer, under forty, and the owner of boat. Max could quickly pick out five candidates for you from his phone based merely on his system of symbols. GENIUS.

Let me preface Method 3 X 1 and Max’s system by stating that the dating scene in Milan is harsh in a horrific way. Take all the crazy, faced-paced, big city issues you have in Manhattan, add twice the amount of crazy fashion people, six times the amount of drugs, a half a cup of Italian sketchiness, another three tablespoons of superficiality, and then keep in mind that Italy has a negative birth rate – THAT’S how much people AREN’T settling down – and you’ve basically got the social scene in Milan. You can’t just blubber around in that kind of world looking for true love. You needed a game plan.

With this back-story it’s really no surprise that everyone knew Max and Max knew everyone. The tragedy is that I don’t think Max ever scored ass ever, and I often wondered if the real reason he’d become a social diva of sorts was to get himself a girlfriend. So while acting as the agent, social coordinator, and unpaid therapist of every female model he deemed worthy in Milan (a job I wouldn’t wish upon ANYONE) Max came up with this tri-pronged dating system, which, lucky ladies, I will now divulge to you.

THE THREE MEN YOU SHOULD BE DATING:

Man Number 1: The Sex.

This man exists solely to serve your carnal pleasures. It’s blissfully uncomplicated. It’s wrong. It’s scorching hot. It’s usually at 5 a.m. Since there are two men still to come, you don’t need to search for qualities in this person like “soul mate” and “career oriented” that they don’t posses. You can enjoy man number 1 for what he is – fun. I mean, sex with someone you don’t like on practical, real-life level has always been hotter for me. Just make sure there’s mutual respect going on and you’re good to get all sweaty with each other.

Man Number 2: The Friend.

This is the guy all of your female friends adore. He’s polite, charming, and always clean-shaven. He’s impeccably dressed and on time. You can take him anywhere from a dive bar birthday party to a black tie wedding. Even better if he has an accent and car. Most importantly however, you’re best friends. You sleep in the same bed and non sexually cuddle on lonely nights. You look like the perfect couple, and allow everyone to think that you are, but your relationship actually functions around the fact that you DON’T screw each other brains out. It allows you to idealize each other in a magnificent way, and depend on each other because sex never makes anything weird. Man number 2 is your in-public male sidekick who’s faithfully by your side for all work, social, and brunch-like functions.

Man Number 3: The Love of Your Life.

This is the “it” guy. The man you actually want to marry. Now here’s where I asked Max: “If you have him, why are the other two necessary?” He patted my head and called me naive under his breath. See, this method assumes you haven’t fully conquered or found the love of your life (a situation I imagine many of us are in). In order to make him fall in love with you, you need to be cool, calm, together and unavailable. Men like to chase things. That’s why they play sports, and that’s why as cavemen they chased women and wild boars with clubs. It’s just the way they are. By having all your social and sexual needs satisfied via the sex and the friend, you’re in a position where you can take your good old fashion time and made him work hard to earn you. We all value something the more difficult it was to procure. That’s just basic psychology 101.

So does it work?

Well, I tried out my own version of Max’s method years ago and scored one of the most eligible bachelors in Milan, a longtime crush and close friend of mine – a feat I literally never thought possible. And I do believe, that it had to do with the fact that I held out on him for so long, and didn’t necessarily to take him to every party or event for which I needed an escort. When we finally got together, after what was months of courtship, it was a real relationship – and he respected me tremendously (if he only knew, right!?).

Sadly, he didn’t end up being the love of my life, a fact we never had to say out loud because I had to move back to New York from Milan and we let the whole thing politely fizzle out.

I still like to think that true love doesn’t involve playing games. But if you live in a large metropolis and can’t seem to score anyone serious, I’d play method 3 X 1. Might as well roll the dice.