Monday, July 23, 2012

The Sound and the First-Date Fury



 An at-a-glance observation of one first date in the City of Brotherly Love.

Flushed red and flashing a nervous smile, he approached his date with an overeager, high-pitched greeting before she had time to even take in her surroundings. Instantly realizing the awkwardness of the first encounter, he whipped out his wallet to spot her cup of coffee as a sort of first-date reboot attempt, appearing to have temporarily breathed life back into the already endangered first-time gathering.

Standing by the shop’s counter and ordering her coffee with him gasping uncomfortably heavy breaths just behind her, he handed the barista a wad of one-dollar-bills and tossed an extra George Washington in a duct-tape-labeled “tip cup” so as to – as can be said almost for certain – impress his new debutante by demonstrating not just his chivalry on first dates, but his super-savvy skills as a coffee customer.

Five minutes later, the two had settled into a table by the window – a wise choice for anyone looking for extra opportunities to make conversation – and began the to-be-expected first date conversation fodder. Talks of hometowns, how they like their neighborhoods, and what their jobs are like ensued for a solid five-to-ten minutes before getting into the real nitty-gritty of the meeting.

To be sure, the guy was a more experienced dater than his black sundress-donning, wavy-haired, hot mess female companion, having clearly mastered the “interview process” of coffee dates and the appropriate tones for asking personal questions. His voice fluctuated almost poetically, as if he intended to mesmerize her not with what was coming out of his mouth, but how it was coming out. He rarely offered-up information about himself willingly, but when he did, it was noteworthy and prompted a response. A bigger pro than his initial nervousness would have implied.

The girl, meanwhile, did a wonderful job of flaunting her strong points – namely her face, hair, and chest. As she moved through conversation, she waved her hands artfully as if conducting an orchestra, before pulling them back behind her head yawn-style, simultaneously perking up her breasts to eye level with her date. As she finished her sentences, her hands brushed through her hair in slow motion, which indicated either a nervous tick or an impressive, conscious attempt to allow herself to be perceived as enchanting or – possibly – sexy.

Sadly, her language skills and overall substance were not nearly as eloquent or endearing as her date’s. Every other word involved the word “like,” and her counter-response questions were lightweight and less enthusiastic than her body language would otherwise have her date believe. It wasn't entirely unlike watching Sarah Palin in a debate. She touched vaguely on what could be viewed as endless topics of family and post-college life, insecurely leaving conversation topics just when they were supposed to get interesting.

This continued for thirty minutes or so, which in the moment might translate to an hour or more depending on how much (or if) either of them actually enjoyed the date. Not much of topical significance had occurred in the meantime, minus a strangely brief and seemingly blasee mention of sadism and masochism that left more than a little something to be desired.

And then, at last signaling his disinterest, he tossed out the “It was nice meeting you” line that effectively draws the line in the sand. The two barely spent ten seconds walking away from the table and scurrying out of the shop, going their separate ways and effectively re-instating their status as strangers evermore.

Do you have tips for a successful first date? Have an experience you'd like to share? Connect with 'Brotherly Love' by following @BrotherlyLover on Twitter.

Monday, July 16, 2012

Five Surefire Signs Your Date is a 'Phlake'


On my on-going hunt for the perfect stud, I've encountered many a flake in this fair city of ours, indicating that I either attract all of the wrong people, or that -- as is more likely the case -- you are in eminent danger of being approached by one of these malignant, yet strangely seductive creatures.

The Philly flake.

But no worries, consider me your Spider-Man (or Batman, depending on which summer blockbuster you're currently stanning for), ready to shoot-out my white, sticky string and take down your flake with one shot. (That sounds much more sexual than actually intended, I promise.)

Or, perhaps more realistically, I can offer you a few tips on identifying this elusive being and picking a guy or gal who won't leave you standing at the altar or, just as bad, sitting alone in the coffee shop with two already-bought iced coffees and damaged spirits.

  1. He/she leaves out the specifics. All too commonly, people make plans for a date, but fail to rein-in the specifics. Going for coffee? Great, now find out where. Going for a walk in the park with some ice cream? Sounds fantastically corny, but which park? Which ice cream joint? These are simple questions that somehow are frequently left unanswered for one reason or another, but if you notice the other person becoming particularly hesitant when asked to provide details or offer recommendations, odds are the person is more attracted to the chase of scoring a date than actually fulfilling the dating obligations. Ambiguity is the enemy.
  2. An inconsistent rate of texting. Texting is one of the biggest (and easiest) ways to uncover a flake. If the person you've planned a date with fails to respond to your text message within an hour (particularly during the morning or early evening), their level of commitment is probably fairly low. It might sound harsh, but if someone is excited about a date with you, it will show in their language and willingness to respond to your messages. Don't lie to yourself and believe his/her phone died and your text hasn't been read, or that they've just been too busy to respond. Typing a response takes all of ten seconds even with the most irksome of phones; they know you're there, they just don't care.
  3. Unusual circumstances of meeting. I'm constantly baffled by those who meet someone at a bar on a Tuesday afternoon and are shocked when they finally realize they're either a flake or, frankly, a loser. Add context to how your date came to be; if the person bailed on friends to come talk to you, that probably doesn't bode well for when you're out on your date and suddenly find yourself drinking alone as he/she mingles with other people.
  4. "Yeah, maybe." The M-word: "Maybe." My advice for this one is simple and straightforward: Avoid this person at all costs. You don't want to date a "maybe" kind of person, you want someone self-assured and able to provide you with definitive answers that don't leave you feeling insecure or confused. In this sense, their uncertainty should work to your benefit.
  5. They have a demanding job. Although understandable, those with time-intensive and unconventional jobs are common, unfortunate criminals of flaking. To their defense, it can't be helped -- being a worker-bee isn't a crime, but consciously leading people on and squeezing them into a daily schedule right after their morning meeting with their boss and immediately before a flight to Tokyo is.
Have some of your own tips for identifying a "phlake"? Send them to @BrotherlyLover on Twitter or to brandon.baker@temple.edu


Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Flying to dangerous heights

Let me preface the oncoming story with these thoughts: I like a guy with bravura, a guy who can take life by the balls and translate that bad-boy moxie into a rush of sexual chemistry. It's dangerous, it's adventurous, it's sexy. But what isn't sexy, is a bloke who puts on the facade of "daring" while holding his inner bat-shit hostage until sex.

This, ladies and gentleman, is a tale of great journeys. A tale of finding yourself, and discovering your inner courage. It's a tale of love, lust, loss, and an all-consuming heartbreak devastating enough to last a lifetime.

...Just kidding, it's actually about the worst sex I've ever had.

***

There are moments in life when I find myself in-between dating cycles and solidly staking my turf in the land of cat ladies. For the most part, these moments are my favorite - I'm not "hung up" on any particular person, there's no one I'm desperately (and pathetically) yearning for, and I feel confident in solely existing with me, myself, and my iPad.

But that don't mean a boy doesn't dream.

In these moments, I fantasize about the types of men that "could be," but never seem to become a reality. The typical fare come to mind - the erotic heroism of police officers and firemen, the "come meet my parents and propose right in front of them" doctors and lawyers, and the hip club-owners everyone wants to bang when they're out and about but don't because it seems dangerous in the "I don't want Chlamydia" kind of way. Now, I generally accept that most of these dream men won't walk into my life and move on with my rom-com marathon accordingly; but when one does, you'd better bet that I'm all over him like a gay fem-bot on Beyonce.

Thus, when I stumbled upon an airline pilot - the profession that ranks pretty low on my list, but is there nonetheless - I wasted very little time before throwing on my best undies and attempting to make a landing even Cap'n Sully would be envious of.

Sadly, aside from holding a profession I found sexually alluring, Pilot Guy wasn't the dream man I had anticipated. His apartment, while quaint, was subject to an annoying beeping sound from an alarm setup that consumed me with "Tell-Tale Heart"-esque neurotic annoyance. The apartment itself, meanwhile, was disappointingly decorated with predictable airplane memorabilia and plain furniture that would make Martha Stewart cringe and Beaver Cleaver's mom jump for joy.

And sitting next to him on the couch, striking conversation and trying to compete by exuding the best "I'm interesting too" persona I could muster, I could suddenly see tumbleweed roll by as he delved into soporific discussion about an insurance plan with his new airline and a rant about his former writing ambitions. Out of all the stories that could have been told by a pilot who soars the skies every day and travels to faraway places as frequently as the average American orders a Big Mac, I got stories about insurance plans and his failed attempt as a writer. The Fates have a catty sense of humor.

And, most horrific of all, the man served me coconut-flavored beer. Coconut. He could have been boasting a burly lumberjack outfit and chest hair that would make any "Bike Stop" frequent drool, and he still would have seemed emasculated to me in that moment.

But even as his pilot charm was slowly wearing off, I was determined to fulfill at least one fantasy.

I don't generally kiss and tell (erotic details), but the short-lived experience that came next was one that still makes me queasy when I happen to pass by the building. A pilot is supposed to be good at steering to a destination, but this guy was off by miles. I might also add that I'll never understand the appeal of shouting random derogatory comments during sex as if you've just been diagnosed with a crippling case of turrets - but perhaps, like coconut, it's just not my flavor.

My walk of shame home moments later was just that: a walk of shame. "Two hours of my life I'll never get back," I thought, recounting the night's events.

But all the same, I learned an invaluable lesson about fantasies I won't soon forget and hope to pass on: The journey really is better than the destination.

Monday, May 28, 2012

In Memoriam: The Ghosts of Dating Past

Someday, somehow, I envision there being a giant, stone tablet memorial located in the heart of Philadelphia with the names of all the duds I’ve dated etched into the wall. There will be flowers sitting below the names commemorating their painful existence, and attendees will treat the wall’s presence like that of a funeral, donning black attire and holding calla lilies in mourning of my love life. Princess Diana’s memorial would look like a road-side car accident shrine by comparison.

And then I hit reality.

The truth of it all, is that my dating life isn’t really that horrid. In fact, just last week I experienced a pleasant date full of good conversation and coffee – the "double-C" combo that makes my heart continue to swoon and makes my dating life worth living. But alas, that third "C" – “chemistry” – was distinctly lacking from the event, landing me back to square-one as if I’d just stepped onto the “pass go” space on Monopoly.

And so the dating ferris wheel spins ‘round and ‘round.

I don’t actually have many friends or family members who served in the military, so my logical conclusion for honoring the battle-weary men and women of the world on Memorial Day is to reflect on the worn but honorable men and women who really deal with the biggest bombs and stabs to the chest in life: Philadelphia singles.

Strolling down the rugged terrain of my own dating memory lane, I’m confronted with visions of the guy who had the nerve to refer to Carrie Bradshaw only as a “horse” on our first date (poor thing clearly hadn’t read my blog to know that was a taboo move), the young man from out of town who looked around his uncharted Philadelphian surroundings and said with disdain, “They call this a city?” and, most depressingly, the dandruff-laden fellow who chain-smoked five cigarettes on a park bench during our first date and proceeded to gleefully tell the tale of when he shouted “cunt” at his Swedish university’s dean of students and, oh-so-shockingly, got expelled for it. Charming, truly.

But the date that takes the wedding cake, and continues to deepen my cynical wounds, happened just last week when I did something so unthinkable, so naïve, that even I had to sit back and smoke a cigarette afterward to take it all in.

I let someone sleep over on the first date.

Sometimes, when I feel really pessimistic about dating, I decide to break my own rules. Occasionally that means meeting someone somewhere other than a coffee shop or a park, or opening the ex-file prematurely for the sake of “transparency.” But this particular rule I had yet to break, and now know will never be broken again.

It's like buying a mystery bag of goods on the Internet and hoping it will arrive with a million dollars inside. Nice in theory, but disastrous when the bag comes and all you have is a box of Goobers and a shoddy pair of faded jeans to show for it.

For starters, this man thought 777 was the ideal place to live. I apologize in advance for the off-topic rant, but my idea of a luxury condominium does not involve overpriced, smoke-free apartments across from a McDonald’s and a Popeye’s in the middle of Philthadelphia. It’s Boca Raton or nothing at all for me, folks. And when I offered my opinion, I got a smile and a nod in return.

But that leads into the primary problem I had with this person and most dates in general: What in the hell is wrong with dates who are capable of nothing more than nodding their head in agreement and phony-laughing at every bad joke I make? Perhaps it’s a matter of taste, but I don’t want to date someone who wants to appease and agree with everything that comes out of my mouth – if I wanted that, I’d date a Furby.

Allow me to be perfectly clear and succinct about this particular ghost of dating past, and all of those like him who I'm sure you all have encountered at one point or another:

1. If you ask someone on a date, expect to pay for them. Male, female, trans, alien from Mars in stilettos – I don’t care what or who you are, come prepared with cold-hard cash when you ask someone on a date, specifically when you ask them to dinner. I don’t care that your roommate didn’t give you his half of the rent today like you’d expected, or that you had a slow week at work; credit cards exist for a reason. At least plan to pay your own way, even if it means going all Tony Soprano on someone to make that happen.

2. “Oh, I’ll cover it next time.” Jumping off of the preceding point, don’t be so presumptuous as to safely assume there will be a “next time.” I’m sad to say that, as much as it pains my wallet to pay for a pizza, it’s not worth it to go on another date for the sake of making up the difference. I’ll take my pizza and go, thanks.

3. Make a f**king decision. I like that someone wants to give me the freedom to choose something, but not all of the time. I spent way too much time trying to decide on a pizza place for the two of us, and by the time we’d decided to just settle for Domino’s take-out, he pulled the, “Oh, I’ll eat anything – get whatever you want!” card when asked what pizza he wanted. That’s not an answer, that’s a cop-out.

4. Don’t be surprised when you get sent to the futon to sleep. Cuddling is not a consolation prize for a bad date– if I don’t like you, you’re getting sent to the futon. It’s as plain and simple as the pizza we chose. Cuddling is great when you’re with someone you actually like, but otherwise it’s like snuggling with a Tickle-Me-Elmo that won’t shut up when you’re really craving your soft, quiet and gentle teddy bear. To quote Kelly Clarkson, “You know the bed feels warmer sleeping here alone.”

5. Talking about your ex implies there’s something wrong with you. I don’t care how nicely you say the relationship ended, the fact that you’re talking about it at all sends a pretty strong message on a first date. What’s worse? This bloke still lives with his ex. No wonder he didn’t pay the rent.

They say the best way to get rid of a ghost is to release it. I say the best way to get rid of a ghost is to tell him you’ll text him and then block his number.

Whatever gets the job done, really.

Saturday, April 28, 2012

The Rules of Party Attraction

Anyone who's anyone knows the game of party-hopping on a Saturday night, and anyone with a condom in their pocket or a yearning heart has their sights set on the night's crowd, seeking the time of their life. Lights, camera, dry hump on the dancefloor: Don't let your perfectly groomed hair and snazzy clubbin' get-up go to waste.

To the dismay of single folk everywhere, making the most of a party is a multi-step process more laborious than your mind might realize as you click "Attend" to RSVP on Facebook for the shindig you've been obsessing over. Beyond the surprisingly hefty amount of time spent preparing for a party (hair, outfits, make-up, cocktail hour beforehand - the whole sixty-nine yards), the checklist of matters to take care of upon walking into a party seems almost endless: Greet your gracious host, say a brief hello to those few people you recognize ("Oh, it's simply been too long!"), check your things in, and then assimilate into the crowd to get your groove on before you're quickly branded as the loser standing alone in a corner grinding against the wall.

From there, it's a matter of sex smarts and plastering enough smiles and sultry eye glances on your face to permanently fixate your expressions in one position for the entire night.

The simple goal here? Don't look like a goober.

What I've recently come to realize, is that there's a legitimate reason why the popular phrase "catch of the day" exists in the [gay] dating world. At some point in your party experience - and it's normally very early on in your time at the party - you're going to inevitably find yourself escaping into a corner that gives you a panoramic view of the selections of the night, and you're going to scout the lake for the biggest fish, the smelliest one, the ugliest one and, if you're fortunate enough, the tasty, mouth-watering one.

And at this point, it's a matter of casting your line, and reeling it in.

As a result of some fruitful, enlightening discussion with one of my fellow party-goers, I've come to a (somewhat) life-changing realization that there are, in fact, four types of people you will encounter during your "fishing trip":

1. The guy who's just not that into you. Sadly, you will be incredibly and inexplicably attracted to this person, but their sights are set on someone else. Perhaps it's the lighting, or perhaps you just look like shit that night, but it's not going to happen - no matter how many drinks you grab for them or how many buttons you unhook down the line of your shirt. It's best to realize who this person is early on, so as to not waste valuable time on those who you don't actually stand a chance with. Get over it.

2. The second guy who's just not that into you. It shouldn't come as a surprise that there are more than one of these characters in existence at a party. If you run into this person twice in a row, your stroke of luck has probably ditched you for another party. But if you happen to casually stumble upon this person and acknowledge that they're going after another person fairly quickly, there might still be a chance for your sexual fortune.

3. The guy who's really into you, but makes you want to projectile vomit your cosmo. No, it's not a bad batch of cosmos or spoiled lime juice, it's that guy who won't stop staring at you while you're drunkenly grinding on your best friend. The easy way to tackle this, is to run to the other side of the crowd in hopes that they won't follow suit or will stumble upon a different dud stud to be infatuated with. Otherwise, you might try to hook them up yourself; or if you're suave enough, intentionally talk to them and make yourself seem about as appealing as Charlie Sheen on Twitter.

4. The guy who is "just right." OK, so it's not quite as romantic or ideal as the tale of Goldie Locks, but spotting this catch is the moment you should really whip out the net and dive it into the water. And contrary to what some might advise, "playing it safe" with this person is the absolute worst tactic you can employ. Instead of striking up conversation about what they do, talk about who they do. Instead of discussion about their day, talk about the events of the party. That doesn't mean appeasing them, per se, but do be politically affluent enough to know when you're being a kiss-ass. Just like a job interview, emphasize your skills.

As you strut your way into your next party, do try to be conscious of the four-person rule, and for the love of God, don't stand in a corner by yourself the entire night. Bring your fishing rod, and be prepared to get in the game - no matter how long you may end up waiting for a bite.

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Mind over Matter, Love over Logic

I've spent enough time and energy on dating to know how the long-winded search for love works. You trudge through the first date, working your charm and presenting yourself as if interviewing for a job - if you want the job badly enough, your mind nervously goes into overdrive and exaggerates everything you do and say. If you don't really want the job, but you feel like you still might want it as a fallback, you still state your best qualities, but take on a demeanor that is relaxed and relatively uninvested, leaving the person on the other end of the "interview" either thoroughly impressed by your attitude or completely turned off. Afterward, you follow through with the text treatment - or the "follow-up" - for a few short weeks, and continue dating until one person either takes a step forward or waves their white flag and runs in the opposite direction.

As it turns out, I'm normally the one waving the white flag in surrender.

Relationships, to the dismay of many delusional hopeful, optimistic rom-com lovers, take work. It's a process that begins to feel like a second job (or perhaps a third or fourth, depending on your lifestyle), leading to a more disillusioned perspective on love than your 5-year-old, Cinderella-watching self would know what to do with. And as a result, we're utterly dumbfounded when we finally encounter a person who accomplishes something so mind-boggling, so absolutely unthinkable that we're stopped in our tracks: the realization of finally feeling "the zsa zsa zsu."

The saying goes that "opposites attract," and if that is in fact the case, then why are so many people surprised when they go through date after date seeking a manufactured connection with someone? The feeling of love is, inherently, an inexplicable emotional phenomenon. So vague, so ambiguous a concept, that the world's greatest creators of fine literature have spent their entire lives deciphering its meaning and its role in life and its everyday events. Such an intriguing thought, that bloggers like myself dedicate a wall in their bedroom to post-it notes questioning how relationships work (or perhaps that's just me?).

Finding myself in a head-scratching situation of my own, I can't help but question one thought-provoking idea about our lovers: Can you love someone you have nothing in common with?

Like any other chronic dater, I have a checklist of sorts laid out for when I meet someone. By my fantastical standard, they need to be effortlessly charming, alluring in the way that they speak, headed in a forward-moving direction in their life, and they need to have a grasp on my admittedly dry sense of humor. It's human nature - especially today - to put on the table all of your romantic requirements. Otherwise, by contemporary logic, it's like trying to run a brand-new, high-tech video game on a 1995 Macintosh computer: it just won't work.

But what happens, when you find someone who catches you by surprise; what happens when you discover a person who manages to make you smile and laugh, while all-at-once failing the system performance test you've put every other prospect through with the utmost caution? Is it possible, with all of today's neurotic dating tendencies, to leave your head in the dust, and act with your heart?

We've become so consumed by the idea of flawlessness in today's world that we sometimes forget to stop and consider what happiness really means to us; moreover, what it means to "settle" versus what it means to accept what we actually want. Does a person really fail to meet our ideals, or do they fail to meet the standards of the other players in your game of life? Sometimes, embracing love and all of its joys, means tossing your checklist in the trash with the rest of the waste.

Don't let others - or the pessimistic voices in your mind - tell you that you can't love someone. More often than not, those that walk through life alone are the same people who try to take control of love as if it is a horse that can be taken by the reins.

The next time your stomach flips and your heart races, consider one crucial thing: "Do I love this person based on my criteria, or someone elses'?"

If the answer is the former, then hold on tight, and for the sake of your own happiness, never let go.

Questions? Comments? Post below or send a tweet to @BrotherlyLover

Saturday, March 31, 2012

Cybersex and the City


A racing heartbeat, throbbing loins, and a thoroughly flushed face forced onto the strong shoulder of your partner as their lips massage the contoured nook on the side of your neck. Blood rushes through your body, your eyes roll to the back of your head uncontrollably, and a pulsating sense of pleasure overcomes your body from head to toe, leaving you satisfied like a dog having finally snatched an out-of-reach bag of treats.


These are all experiences you don't get with cybersex.

When the inventors of Skype and Google Chat were concocting the blueprints of their services, I can only wonder whether they realized the trends they were about to start. No doubt, their envisioned experiences by the average person involved army wives interacting with their hubbies while on deployment, or mothers and fathers greeting their child that had just left the nest to begin anew in college. But did the vision of lusty touching and seductive stares cross their minds when they tested their video chat programs?

The world may never know.

It goes without saying that cybersex is akin to being the new phone sex: everyone does it, but no one wants to talk about it. When you're chatting with your friends about "getting laid" last night, you're more than likely alluding to physically "getting it in" after a wild night out or a late-night rendezvous with a Grindr whore guy. But recall the last time you had an in-depth conversation over martinis about having an orgasmic sexual encounter via Web cam? If you can muster up an actual recollection, you're far more progressive (or hopeless) than you probably realize.

My intentions as a sexual being are never to achieve sexual gratification through an indirect manner, but then again, my sights are so rarely set on just sex, that the cyber phenomenon only recently occurred to me. My recent travels took me to a Web chat with a student from the University of Pennsylvania (yes, one of those) who, like anyone else scouring the Web at 2 a.m., was looking for a little gratification of his own.

As I have the rotten habit of doing, I indulged in his bad flirting and creepiness for the sake of curing my boredom and embarking on my version of the "research" process. But curiously, his intentions for the evening went right to the Web cam - no mention of "coming over to watch a movie," no implication that he wanted to hop in bed with me, just a Skype invite from some loser with what could be the least sexy screen name on Earth. In the end, the "cyber" experience wasn't necessarily damaging, but it did leave a bit of a sour taste in my mouth. And my general rule, is that if I'm going to leave an encounter with a sour taste in my mouth, it's going to be a literal one - not a metaphorical one.

After experiencing a little more of the online dating scene than I care to admit, and reading through this particular person's messages, I've come to realize that the Web has completely redefined sex and - more alarmingly - the flirting cliche. Responses to simple, innocent introductory questions predictably draw forth the ever-popular, "Oh, I'm just laying in bed" answer, which in a modern day context translates to, "Oh, I'm just hard, horny and looking to have sex." The "Is that a gun in your pocket?" line would, sadly, come as a breath of fresh air put next to the brilliant lines some of the men in Philadelphia have come up with. Somehow, the world has become too half-hearted and sex-oriented to even attempt placing wit and humor into hook-up scenarios. And now, even more devastatingly and mind-bogglingly, we've managed to take the physical contact out of sex.

Yeah, try imagining that one.

It is my opinion that the journey is almost always more sense-heightening and satisfying than the destination, and for that reason, analyzing cybersex only leaves me confounded. By no means is it unhealthy by nature, and it can be enjoyable if enacted with the right person under the right pretense, but I can't help but wonder if it has left the sexual world lagging like dial-up in the 90s. After all, this act of glorified masturbation puts forth no sense of incentive: why work hard for something you can do yourself, anyway?

As fun as cybersex may (sometimes) be, I don't appreciate its social inept interactions spilling into real life scenarios. Allowing cyber hook-ups as a temporary substitute for sex is one thing, but using such a sloppy method of "sex" as a new sexual go-to? If approaching someone in a public setting for sex donning PJs, messy hair and a piss-poor attitude doesn't make you attractive, why would it make you studly during a video chat?

Please, folks, take my advice and try to aim for the "birds and the bees" and not the "nerd and the cyber sleaze."

Friday, March 16, 2012

How to have discreet sex while living with a roommate


No matter how comfortable your roommate may claim to be with the animalistic, hot ‘n heavy moans coming from your room, the likely reality is that few people are truly at home with the idea of hearing the not-so-subtle “bump in the night” at 2 a.m. After all, there’s a reason sleep machines don’t have “sex grunts” as a bedside lullaby option – the very thought of the noise is immediately either eye-rolling or envy-provoking.

To be considerate of the person in slumber just across the hallway, consider these three tips to abide by:

1. Keep it simple, stupid. Having sex with your roommate’s presence is automatically going to throw some inhibitions into the equation, so it may be more productive to skip some of the noisier, thrust-heavy motions that might rock the building. That isn’t to say you can’t enjoy a mind-blowing orgasm with your partner, but try to keep it short and simple. And please, refrain from obnoxiously knocking your partner’s head into the headboard like a paddle ball.

2. Embrace your iTunes library. Mind you, playing music during sex to subdue any noise does not mean whipping out your Marvin Gaye collection; play tasteful music that doesn’t distract from the feel of the moment but still gives your roomie the impression that it’s just another night in the neighborhood. Try checking out something with a little rhythm and groove, with enough pep to boost your libido and enough of a bass to drown out your partner’s climax.

3. Clean it up. The second-most obvious giveaway that you’re having or have had sex is the post-orgasm clean-up process. Prepare beforehand by piling some towels in your room (one of which you might want to shove under the crack of your door), or by simply locating your sexual activities to the shower where water will quell loud noises and simultaneously eliminate the ensuing mess. “The running water from the shower drowns out noise – that’s really important,” says local sexpert Jill “The Sexologist” McDevitt. “Investing in a waterproof vibrator and lubricant is also key.” Be prepared for a wet-and-wild adventure when sneaking in with your beau for a late night rendezvous.

Quiet sex doesn't have to equate to "bad sex" with the right contingency plan and a certain degree of tact in the bedroom. With any luck, you'll be able to avoid the awkward moment of encountering your roommate in the hallway with your bare bottom exposed and your partner blushing behind you.

Monday, March 5, 2012

Words you never said, in a text you never sent


Left alone in a dark room with nothing but your thoughts, you recount the things you might have done differently, and debate all of those unsaid words swirling through your mind like a tornado that never touched ground. One moment, you tell yourself you made the right decision, and that moving forward without the baggage is the best route. In another moment, you ponder whether that last text you sent – or rather, didn’t send, may have made the difference.

It’s a funny, funny world of communication we now live in.

Never has it been easier to interact with someone than it is today, and yet more and more, those words that we can feel slipping off the tip of our tongue still slide back into the back of our throat, thrust into an abyss of no return. Perhaps it’s because the choice to express emotion has been simplified to a text box and a “send” button, or perhaps it’s just because we don’t feel the need to take chances in the way we used to.

Finding myself in a bit of a predicament with my own texting experience, I received an out-of-the-blue message that left my eyebrow raised but my heart churning with excitement. It was the kind of text message you envision getting, but realistically convince yourself won’t happen. The text’s surface message was simple, but as most texts also are, complex in its hidden meaning. It goes without saying that no one judges a text based on its content as much as they do its context, and this was especially true of this case. My id dared me to indulge in the opportunity, but my ego saw me playing it safe and responding with words that I knew held no meaning, regardless of their context. The latter has left me contemplating how my love life might be different with a more ambitious response, with this case as well as the countless others that remain untold.

All of which begs the question of what you do with these texts that result in a racing heart and an apprehensive pair of thumbs; what you do with these hidden messages that lurk behind an actual message like a panther eager to pounce but suppressed by long-term tactics.

Our love lives are full of roads we’ve either bypassed or completely blockaded with “caution” signs and police sirens screeching with sounds of warning to steer you away from a desperate scenario. There are texts we ignore that could have developed into something more with a little more risk-taking, and conversations full of potential we intentionally lead down the path of simplicity out of basic anxiety. They’re all interactions with variables, with unrealized outcomes we may always be left to wonder about.

I once wrote a love letter to a person I was involved with, and found myself tempted to send it, knowing that the particular person appreciated handcrafted and heartfelt materials. I had the letter written, folded, and ready to go in an envelope, before something shouting deep within me sprang to consciousness and stopped my hand from slipping it into the mailbox. Sometimes, I wonder how that relationship would have evolved had I actually sent that letter. More recently, I consider how many more of these heart-protecting actions I’ve unknowingly taken, and particularly whether those words I’ve left unsaid in text messages have actually changed my life in ways I may never understand. Never has mankind had more opportunity to take a chance on someone, to put themselves out there with a few pecks from a twiddling thumb, and yet so infrequently do we take advantage of these opportunities to truly become close with someone.

It’s hard to determine whether an unsent text message (letter, email, whatever it may be) represents the life-altering scenario you envision in your mind, but it is nonetheless true that these represent chances not taken, and roads left unmapped. In some cases, it’s understandably just not worth it to take the chance, but as you’re driving down your road of mind-boggling love and infatuation, consider for a moment that your life is not limited to the roads laid out before you. As you drive yourself past these exits and pit stops, remind yourself that the road is your own creation, with a boundless array of unpaved roads left ahead of you that remain a mystery but hold the potential to be the most fruitful. Consider it a Columbus state of mind.

In the end, I beg this one thing of you: don’t leave yourself drowning in the words you’ve never said.

Have a question you want answered by Brotherly Lover? Send an email to brandon.baker@temple.edu or a tweet to @BrotherlyLover.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Five Reasons to Not Look Like Shit While in Public



I don't mean to channel the same uptight, prissy gay man stereotype you'd likely see in a Hollywood movie with a sass quota, but it would be great if some of Philadelphia's populace could do the city the great favor of not looking like shit all the time.

I get it: some of you are college students who wear sweatpants to class for convenience sake, some of you haven't done laundry in three weeks because you don't feel like journeying to the bank to get quarters, and some of you say you just don't have the money to invest in looking bang-able on a daily basis.

But get this: if the welfare girl on the street can afford maintenance of her weave, the SEPTA change machines can still spit out quarters, and your jeans can still button, you too can accomplish the great task of not looking like you walked out of a tornado. Even Dorothy managed to keep her hair in place after enduring a wind storm and crushing a gross-looking bitch witch with her hinterland house.

But I also get that looking good for your peers requires some incentive, so let's take a stroll down Alluring Avenue, where you just might find the cross street leading to Copulation Corner if you play your fashion-savvy cards right.

1. Walk it like you've got it. Newsflash: even if you don't look like Enrique Iglesias or Heidi Klum, that doesn't mean you can't fool the world into perceiving you that way. Feeling as good as you look is an essential part to changing the mood in the air. If you just rolled out of bed, don't walk with a hunch that conveys to the world that very fact; hold your head up high and walk with a strut. Mind you, "strut" does not equal "gay limp"; march down the street with confidence in your body and your known assets. Even if you don't find yourself all that desirable, someone else inevitably will - no matter how terrible you might look.

2. Don't be afraid to dress up for no reason. There's nothing shameful about wanting to look good. Take notes from Ryan Gosling's character in "Crazy, Stupid, Love"; he's a guy that knows what he wants, knows how to get what he wants, and also knows where to get it. Sprinkle in some conviction with your good-looking self. And if that's not enough motivation to get you to slap on that sweater you normally reserve for really nice events or tight pair of jeans you're embarrassed to squeeze into, think to yourself this: "What would Carson Kressley do?"

3. Even fate can't save a frumpy fool. If you're one of those "closet faters" who believes in the cosmos eventually leading you to your soulmate, consider that even your predestined beau may not want to "tap dat" if you're donning over-sized bluejeans and a coffee-stained t-shirt that screams "my backwoods mommy on crack dressed me this morning."

4. You never know where your libido will take you. Don't assume your hoo-has or your dark side are going unnoticed today. At any moment, you may find yourself in a promising encounter, which means you need to be prepared. Your sex drive is about as predictable as the boom-bust stock market; invest some time and effort into your body in case opportunity presents itself. It's like sticking cash under your mattress in case of an emergency.

5. Don't let the weeds cover the soil. Just because you're a pathetic loser in a dry spell and haven't had sex in more than a year, the world doesn't need to know that. Let Philadelphia - or whatever area you live in - know that your sexually radiant glow has not evacuated your body. You alone have the unique ability to control your aesthetic image communicated to those around you.

Or, basically, just don't look like shit.

Questions? Comments? Email Brandon Baker at brandon.baker@temple.edu or send a tweet to @BrotherlyLover.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

'Why so single?'


There aren't many questions I get asked by people that throw me for a loop or irritate the hell out of me, but there is one that continues to swerve into my consciousness and circulate an endless loop of question marks around my brain.

"Why are you still single?" he asks as his eyebrows curve downward with puzzlement and his eyes meet mine.

From my point-of-view, there are a million questions I could ask in response. "Why do you care?" is the first bold rebuttal that comes to mind, though even I can't tell you why my first instinct is to take offense.

My actual response could either be viewed as much kinder or much more passive aggressive, depending on how you look at things. I answer with a smile and a glance to the side, 'You're not the first person to ask that question, and you surely won't be the last.'

And while he took the hint and backed off the subject of relationship statuses, I got the sense that he assumed I was somehow repressing some deep character flaw or erecting a wall of defense against insecurity with my vague answer. As it turns out, a person's not allowed to be single without a reason.

I never cease to be amazed by the men I meet who manage to do a complete 180 on their feelings about relationships after only one date or a briefly engaging conversation. The date starts with, "Well, I'm not really looking for anything long-term," and transforms into "I'm looking for the love of my life" within a few hours of "clicking" after only a semi-decent coffee outing.

Apparently, the key to finding a partner is to lie and claim to not want one at all. Are single people really just lying to themselves to feel better about their lifestyles, or are we genuinely comfortable with our status - societal stigmas and all?

A close friend of mine, who I will refer to as "Julie" for the sake of this blog entry, has a habit of saying one thing and doing another. She will declare in conversation that she has "written off" men, and by the time we next meet, have a plethora of dating stories to divulge with the eagerness of a hyena hunting down Simba.

It's not necessarily that Julie is a hypocrite or a fragile human being, it's more that it makes the idea of 'single and fabulous' that much less legitimate to the reigning members of the world. If you're single and happy, draw a line and stay on that side until the cosmos commands otherwise. If you're a dating addict that breathes new life upon indulging in a flowing stream of encounters, stick with it and hope for the best. There's no shame in wanting love, but don't pretend that you're a Miranda when you're actually a Charlotte. (Forgive me for the Sex and the City reference - I was bound to make one eventually.)

I don't know why I'm still single, and at some point it's better to realize that it just doesn't matter. I would rather endure the awkward moment of being asked the question on a date and loftily dodge the entire conversation than bother wasting time analyzing the details of why I can't find a person that sticks. Finding a "reason" for being single is nothing more than a scapegoat for the veiled insecurities you hide behind your hardened exterior - or at least that's how any vocalized explanation is destined to be perceived.

Live and learn, single people of the world: you don't need a reason to be single, and the closer you come to embracing your own identity as a singular being, the closer you may even come to never having to face the "single question" ever again.

Questions? Comments? Want to share your own calculated response to "the single question"? Brandon Baker can be reached at brandon.baker@temple.edu

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Trouncing the trollop treatment


The definition of what makes you promiscuous seems to be distinctly different depending on where you travel in the glory hole that is the Keystone State. If you're a south-central Pennsylvania inhabitant, being on the prowl at Wal-Mart with a muffin top and a box of condoms lazily tossed into your diaper bag (sans baby daddy, of course) stand as strong indicators that - most likely - you're a bit of a hoe-bag. Traveling a little bit northward into the heartland of Central Pennsylvania will see a similar story being told - minus the baby and the diaper bag, and plus an eye-rolling "oh, you really think I'm cute?" ditsy attitude proudly boasted through a weekend bar crawl in the faux-urban depths of Harrisburg.

But Philly - well, anyone who lives in Philadelphia can tell you one thing about Philadelphian standards when it comes to sex: there aren't any.

At the very least, what level of sexual engagement is acceptable in our fair city varies between its different sections and numerous, wildly contrasting social groups. And while the latter is true almost anywhere you may find yourself, it's found to be especially true in the case of a city whose basic social identity is best defined as not having one at all.

Is it the "City of Brotherly Love"? Or, perhaps, the "City of Brotherly Sluts"? Who can tell.

I had a passing conversation with an Italian man from Long Island recently, who claimed to be looking for apartments in South Philly and attempting to take in the scene of the city in the process. Unsurprisingly, he didn't seem to understand the social breakdown of Philadelphia, but commented that he hopes Philadelphians prove to be less "slutty" than New Yorkers.

The poor, clueless bastard.

The word choice of "slutty," which immediately takes me back to my grade school gossip days of pointing to the bimbo in the back of the classroom who would intentionally leave her training bra at home, is what caught me off-guard. Why is it that, like our preceding high school years of whispering about the town whore, we still use sex-negative terms like "slut" to define the guy or gal that partakes in a fun and friendly one-nighter?

Granted, this guy struck me as immediately strange to begin with, particularly following his mid-conversation, out-of-left-field comments about wanting to "transfer his masculine energy" to his partner during sex. (Right, because a gay "bottom" must be in dire need of his partner's macho-man "energy" - OK.) Nevertheless, I'm baffled that even a New Yorker would treat the sexually active with a finger wag and a "tsk tsk."

Once upon a time, I would have told you how much I resented Philadelphia's hypersexual and notoriously non-committal batch of singles, but today I write as a Philadelphian who has seen the light. Living in Philadelphia and having a sex life doesn't make you a "slut" - it makes you human. Pretending sexual desires don't exist and ignoring impulses for the sake of avoiding being called "the S word"? That makes you naive.

Now, I'm not advocating hopping on the first guy that buys you a drink (there are diseases to be concerned about, after all), but I am declaring that sexual positivity is nothing to be ashamed of, and certainly is not something to be described with those dirty words our parents would formerly wash away with soap. (Perhaps our parents had the right idea for the wrong reasons?)

Modern studiers of sex and relationships consider "the hook-up" to be the new "first date," only turning into something deeper after the sexual test has been passed. In that case, Mr. Italian Man may find himself alone with his hand for longer than his libido desires, as the brotherly lovers of this fair city are loud, proud and ready to pounce.

Saturday, February 4, 2012

PROFILE: Talkin' smack with the brain behind 'Gossip Gay'


Crying in the bathroom of the club over a broken heart? He's lurking in the stall next to you. Selling your body on the streets for a quick buck? He's around the corner with a camera. Posting a changed Facebook relationship status with your sugar daddy? You'd better bet it'll be on his blog within the hour.

Philly's now infamous gay "celebrity" blogger Kyle Shemelia has become somewhat of an anomaly in Philly's gay scene. He's the first of the city's gossipy gays to actually lay the hidden cards of the rumor-prone on the table with absolutely no desire to apologize for any harsh criticisms, public exposes, or Facebook creeping that some might consider borderline disturbing.

Shemelia's popular blog "Gossip Gay," which began as an experiment last June, has garnered more than 157,000 page views since its virtual conception and amassed a whopping 232 individual blog posts, some of which have been written by a selection of guest writers, but have mostly been written by Shemelia himself. To say it has been a runaway success might be an understatement.

"The night that I posted [my first post], I woke up to 8,000 views the next day," Shemelia says.

The blogger, who isn't afraid to label Lindsay Lohan as his role model and names television cult hit "Gossip Girl" and the trash-tastic "Burn Book" from the movie "Mean Girls" as his inspiration for the blog, seems to find success with the exact things critics pan his blog for.

A quick chat with some of the blog's readers instantly draws forth harsh descriptors like "filth" and "despicable," but Shemelia remains unfazed by his so-called "haters."

"They secretly want to be on there; they just want to make a big deal about it," he says. "They like the attention."

Shemelia says he receives as many as 25 to 30 emails per day, some of which provide "scoops" and others which (as might be expected) provide commentary on the ethics of the blog.

"I find insults about me to be... I mean, I don't like them, but I don't cry or get upset about them," Shemelia says. "I guess The Burn Book was pretty mean about me, at first."

The Burn Book, a copycat blog which arose as Gossip Gay's direct competitor and has since been removed, notoriously crossed a controversial ethical line that, to date, Shemelia has not: the posting of nude photos of local gay men intended to be private.

"I didn't like it," says Shemelia, declaring his own set of moral boundaries. "I asked him to take them down; I don't like to use naked pictures of people."



All the same, Shemelia admits to having his own set of favorite gays to pick at with scandalous pictures and write verse-like posts about, likening his blog to an ongoing local soap opera.

"I love posting about Tyler [Michael]," he says. "Gossip Gay, at this point, kind of has characters... everyone else in the show is an extra."

Shemelia cites his Facebook news feed as his primary source of information, expressing frustration in response to critics who condemn his posts as invasive.

"Everyone talks about everyone anyway; sometimes you just see something on your news feed and think it's funny," he says. "Quotes that I use... I don't just make this stuff up."

Despite negative feedback, Shemelia wears his blogger identity with pride, but not without the occasional hesitance of moving forward.

"I've shut it down [before], and I've gone through times where I haven't posted about anything," Shemelia says, additionally confirming that the blog is currently on hiatus. "I've thought about getting rid of it, but I like having it; it's my baby."

To be sure, Shemelia is a thick-skinned blogger not unlike the Web's reigning "gossip queen" Perez Hilton, who has faced similar attempts to have his blog fumigated by those discontent with his site's material. He posts with not only the same Mean Girl malice he references as his inspiration, but with the same amount of tactful calculation that keeps him on top as Philadelphia's own Regina George.

"It's hot," Shemelia says of his blog, in an attempt to sum it up in one word. "It's all what I see, hear, and what people [say when] they call in to me."

And asked whether he would expand his creeper-turned-researcher blog to a Perez Hilton-level platform given the opportunity, Shemelia had only one word to say:

"Definitely."

Have questions or feedback? Brotherly Lover Brandon Baker can be reached at brandon.baker@temple.edu

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Confessions of a Grind-a-holic


You're laying in bed, bored to tears and ready to press "play" on your iTunes copy of "All By Myself," when you hear a distinctive "bloop" emote from your phone and/or tablet. Suddenly, things are turning around. The bloops keep on coming, your screen lights up with red circles in the corner of multiple scandalous (and sometimes comical) profile pictures, and you're left not only feeling great about yourself, but enamored and somewhat addicted to the alluring game of flirtation.

Yes, folks, we're talking about Grindr.

It hasn't taken long for dating dynamics to evolve with technology; the Western world has gone from participating in the relationship/dating-oriented online realms of OkCupid and Match.com, to becoming even more self-indulgent with casual mobile apps like Grindr and Blendr, which bypass the reading of profiles (which, admittedly, most people don't read anyway) and get right to the point. Within three back-and-forth messages with a person, it has typically already been decided what will happen. You will a) have sex, b) go on a date, or c) continue to flirt, but never actually engage in any in-person activities. The first is the most likely, the second is exceptional but possible and the last is probably the most entertaining aspect of the application(s).

Admittedly, I've quickly become a bit of a Grind-a-holic myself. It isn't very often that I actually meet people I interact with, but I continue to be fascinated and drawn-in by the unknown factors presented by a person whose identity is a complete mystery beyond their "stats" and profile picture. More unpopular, my curiosity is strangely piqued by those creepy, picture-less folk who typically are revealed as 50-year-old men who opt to skip the process of uploading a picture and instead fish for younger men in hopes that they will, essentially, be their self-esteem building tools. Note that I find these people worth mentioning because of the strange number of picture-less people I find that are closeted or discreet rather than sugar daddies - they're the "catch of the day" when they actually turn out to be good-looking, interesting individuals who happen to be on the down-low. Aloof, nonetheless... but intriguing.

Allow me to share one risk-taking experience I found myself involved in on a slow-moving Independence Day eve last summer, an experience that may make you rethink getting together with that curious person who continues to channel messages into your phone:

***

I sat at my desk on an unseasonably cool summer night, browsing through YouTube videos in an attempt to distract myself from a seemingly endless feeling of boredom. Hearing the hub-bub outside of my window didn't help, and I was left with an urge to do something - anything. "Anything" translated to creating a Grindr account, which I hesitantly did with no real intention of pursuing a get-together, but with every intention of using the app to keep my mind entertained.

An hour later, however, I found myself engrossed in conversation with an archetypical South Philly Italian who could be likened to - judging by the profile picture - the bulky "guido" appearance of Ronnie from Jersey Shore. Not exactly my type, but enough to keep my attention. By this time, he was already interested in meeting, which immediately struck me as sudden and, to a degree, sketchy. However, his nonchalance about seeing me that night mitigated much of my uneasiness, causing me to give in to his pleas and march my curious self south of Snyder.

Passing by a sea of Italian-style barbeques and parties, I safely knew I was no longer in the Philly territory I was familiar with. If it was a preview of what was to come, I was unsure of whether my adventure was actually one worth continuing. But pressing on, I finally found his home, stepping onto his dimly lit porch and reaching to press the door bell. Before my forefinger could mark the button, he opened the door, beckoning me inside.

Unfortunately, with the lighting minimal and my not-so-sensible self already a little buzzed, I didn't catch a glimpse of what he looked like until I crossed the threshold. Before me was a man whose spiked hair had been replaced with a dyed-black, receding hairline; a man whose pearly-white smile had turned into a set of chompers that might be better suited for an 80-year-old smoker; an elder whose smooth face had transformed into a wrinkly, contoured surface that made him look less like a lover and more like a father.

But he had beer, and I had time.

I sat down on the couch across from where he looked to have been sitting before I'd arrived, surveying my surroundings, which consisted of a dusty living room full of aged furniture, a kitchen that was loaded with empty beer bottles and boxes and a putrid smell of dogs that I still can't exorcise from my sensual memory.

But still, he had beer, and I had time.

He quickly grabbed me a drink and sat down, embarking on a Q&A session that promptly turned into the beginning of his memoirs. He expressed his life regrets and continued hopes within less than an hour of conversation, delving into the details of his rebellious teenage years (he claimed to have fathered two children and have lived on his own by age 16), and spending a careful amount of time on exploring the troubles of his many failed relationships. One such relationship, which he elaborated on with a special focus on his general willingness to "give," was with a former Temple student whom he gave plentiful amounts of money to and "supported through school." Naturally, the guy dumped him the second after he graduated. All the while I sat, a Temple student myself, understanding his intentions but - surprising even myself - not particularly caring. Why?

He had beer, and I had time.

Or at least I didn't care until the fifth beer came around and his lips took aim at mine. As I turned my cheek and his kiss landed to the left of my nose, he immediately inquired why I was so "guarded." Humored, slightly embarrassed, and becoming increasingly uncomfortable, I shrugged it off and excused myself to the restroom. I was becoming irritated with his tactics of deception and, finally, had decided to further excuse myself from his restroom back to my boring old bedroom.

I'd had enough beer, and had wasted enough of my time.

I bolted down the stairs, rushed to grab my things, and wished him a good night while narrowly avoiding another awkward sexual advance. Sobering up and beginning to feel anger swirl in my stomach like butterflies-turned-dragonflies, I went home and wasted no time deleting my account, continuing into a deep sleep to eliminate my stewing frustration.

I still receive messages from him every holiday.

***

This isn't to say that Grindr is a useless tool; the app serves its purpose for those seeking no-strings-attached encounters that are entirely and blissfully superficial. But for the innocent, naive user who believes in their ability to score a romantic date from the app, kindly turn off your phone when you find your trigger-happy finger an inch away from the "download" button.

I promise you, the free beer isn't worth it.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Why a New Year Should Never Mean a 'New You'


When the glitter and the Dick Clark stutters settle from the glamorous festivities of New Year's Eve, party-goers are left hungover, bummed about their inevitable return to work, and - for whatever reason - more self-conscious than ever. I'm here to shout it loud and clear: never develop a new you for a new year.

Our culture makes bank on the idea that we're not only (abruptly and dejectedly) imperfect beings when January 1st rolls around, but it counts on us admitting to being fat slobs, having the mind of a bumpkin and being more willing to sleep with the next thing that walks around the corner than Lindsay Lohan is to show her vagina to the world. The reality, is that new years should never be about starting anew; they should be about continuing all of those good things otherwise left behind in the prior year. What you need is not a new you, what you need is a better you.

Mind you, when I say a "better you," I don't mean that you should pick up the phone and order a Total Gym; I mean that you would be better off focusing on the things you know you already do well and nurturing those things rather than pretending you're interested in having Chuck Norris abs or making yourself "more organized." (Let's be honest, those folders are going in the trash the very second February rolls around.)

What's worse, is no one seems to be encouraging the "new you" for any of the right reasons. QVC is not selling you its workout machines and magic diet plans to make you feel better about yourself, they're selling it to you with the promise that your husband will love you more, or that you might finally pick up that guy at the bar who may have thought your muffin top wasn't quite as cute as your face. At the end of the day, like just about everything else in the world, it's about sex.

Similarly, the idea of you changing your entire physical appearance and emotional framework in a month's time is about as likely as any SEPTA platform evolving into King's Cross Station in the next ten years. It's not going to happen, and it's going to lead you through a disheartening loop...only when you make it full circle, you're going to be faced with a lonely Valentine's Day and an unopened box of Godiva's leftover from Christmas.

I am instead going to embolden the "better you" part of my theory: it's much easier and certainly more productive to challenge yourself to better the aspects of your personality and skill set you already know you're proficient with. In some cases, it may mean merely reevaluating how you view certain angles of yourself, and looking at those angles in a sharpened light.

For example, I have never claimed to be the most put together or systematic individual. My room is often a disaster zone, with clothes spread across my floor and an uncleaned wine glass sitting on my desk (admittedly sometimes for more than a week). Surely, I could opt to clean the glass and hang my clothes in the closet, but doing so isn't something that necessarily satisfies what I want, it just satisfies an imaginary person who I might envision criticizing me for maintaining a different lifestyle than what they lead. Lately, I look at my empty wine glass (or martini glass - I've been in a cosmo mood as of late), and approach it with a different mindset - a smile, even. The little bit of wine hunkered toward the bottom of the glass reminds me of my quirky unwillingness to finish much of what I start, and at the same time, the red "legs" left on the sides of the glass leading to the small liquid pool settled at the bottom call attention to how every unorganized, incomplete, batshit thought I have running through my mind eventually leads me to a pool of something.

My point, as ambiguous and untailored as it may seem, is that these small things are representative of who we are; they're reminders that we have our own primmed facets to our personalities that separate us from that archetypical hunk of "perfect" man meat displayed on that new treadmill. Don't succumb to superficial pressures under the idea that it will "help you get laid" or lure in your dream man. Uncovering the things you want from a date, a sex partner or relationship will mean equipping yourself with the qualities you want others to see in you, not the traits you're told others want to see in you.

And if your gentleman caller isn't happy with your flabs or your messy room, there is one simple and effective solution: throw your one-week-old glass of wine in their face.