Under-promise. Over-deliver?

A friend of mine recently embarked on a new relationship. Which means she has prepared more organic, home-cooked meals in the last three weeks than she has all year, her apartment is spectacularly clean, and her underwear, spectacularly slutty.

There is an old adage when dealing with clients that says, "Under-promise. Over deliver."

However, when it comes to relationships, it seems like the exact opposite is true. Almost every woman I know begins a new relationship trying to over-please, turning into some Martha Stewart/Lara Croft combination that makes wonderful home-cooked meals while simultaneously giving the impress ion that she can wield a whip as capably as a wooden spoon. We laugh at jokes that are only mildly funny. We wear lace underwear that resembles dental floss. We go back to having a first-name relationship with our Brazilian waxer. We wear strapless mini-dresses despite the snow outside because hey, it’s early days and the words ‘practical, comfortable or plausible’ have no place in those first few moments of a relationship.

Yes, first dates are like interviews, so naturally, we are all on our best behaviour. We want to get the job—the girlfriend job, the wife job or just a blow job. But are we setting ourselves up for disappointment?

The reality is that no-one can keep up that kind of perfection for very long. In fact one can age a relationship in the same way one can age a tree. Less rings around the eyes? More sleep and less sex. Bigger underwear? Yeah, that makes sense. After all, no-one’s seeing that underwear anyway. And if he is seeing it, he’s just so grateful for the sex that he’s not complaining. And everyone knows that you put on weight in a relationship. After all, when you have someone to love you unconditionally, what’s the point of saying no to that last piece of chocolate cake?

However, men never seem to over-promise. And I suspect it’s partly because they don’t have the accessories. The make-up to give you flawless skin. The bra to give you cleavage like Pamela Anderson despite the fact that you have little more than mosquito bites for a chest. The heels to give you height, the underwear to give suck in your dumpling-binge belly and the hair dye to disguise the fact that you haven’t been blonde since the late 80s.

Over delivering is hard work. But then again, client satisfaction is the key to any successful partnership and whoever said being on top is easy?

Lesbian Is The New Black

A friend of mine recently kissed a girl. And she liked it.

"I'm not a lesbian, and I'm not bi," she explained, sipping her Belvedere.

"So why'd you do it?" I asked.

"Well, everyone's doing it and I thought I should at least TRY it," she answered.

It turn out that lipstick lesbianism is the new black. From Katy Perry's hit single to celebrities like Britney and Madonna or Sandra Bullock and Scarlett, everyone seems to have a bit of girl-on-girl action happening. And whether it's to sell singles or celebrate single-dom, (temporary) lesbianism has hit the mainstream in a big way.

I know very few women who haven't had a same-sex kiss. We are bombarded with images of it in both porn and pop-culture, and it has become such an essential rite of passage that it's even got a name--LUGS, which stands for 'Lesbians Until Graduation.'

For some, it's a way to turn guys on, while for others it's about exploring their own sexual power, because there is something exhilarating about doing what is taboo.

For me, it wasn't about sex. It was about having something beautiful. She was stunning and exotic, and I wanted her the same way I wanted the new, limited-edition Louboutins. I knew they weren't practical, comfortable or even long-lasting, but that wasn't the point. They were so gorgeous I had to have them. In short, it was desire...but it wasn't erotic.
However pashing another woman doesn't make a girl bi-sexual or a lesbian. Rather, it's like ice-cream.

Imagine you really, really want some ice-cream. Actually, what you really, really want is chocolate ice-cream. But when you go to the fridge, there isn't any chocolate ice-cream. There's only strawberry ice-cream.

You have a choice: you can either go without ice-cream at all, or you can go for a flavor you didn't really want but hey, ice-cream is ice-cream.

Some of us will go without, while others will be brave enough to try a new flavor they wouldn't normally go for. In my friend's case, there was chocolate ice-cream, but it had had so many spoons it it already that she decided it was safer to try a new flavor.

For those willing to explore the option, let me give you one word of warning: changing flavors is fine as long as you keep in mind that the after-taste will definitely be different.

Justice is for the bitter

A friend of mine recently directed me to the 'RIP Raoul Moat--you legend' Facebook fan page. For those of you who don't know Raoul Moat, he shot his ex-girlfriend Samantha Stobbart twice in the stomach, killed her new boyfriend and then went on the run where, a week later, he finally shot himself in a police stand-off.

During the course of their six year relationship, he split her head open, threw her against a wall and jumped on her stomach and threatened her with a gun. His former partner, Marissa Reid, has said he beat her with his fists and a baseball bat, and raped her while she was tied to a bed. When he was jailed for hitting a child, Stobbart took the opportunity to leave her abusive relationship. Moat considered it cheating and went after her as soon as he was released on bail.

The saddest, sickest part of this whole tragedy is the aftermath. The Facebook fan page (which has 37 000 fans) is filled with comments like, "You legend. Giving whores what they deserve. She pushed you to it huni," "Moat is a true British hero, he done what he thought was right by taking revenge on his cheating ex-girlfriend," and my personal favorite, "Maybe if she kept her legs closed none of this would of happened. Maybe Moaty had good reason to be angry." There is a YouTube channel set up by his 'supporters', countless blogs lauding his actions, and at a recent Newcastle football game, 2000 fans started a chant honoring him.

It's not just men who are coming out in support either. The Facebook page was started by a woman, and many of the comments (aside from being grammatically incorrect) are from women, claiming to have sympathy for the man. Moat's declaration, that 'if I can't have you, no-one can', seems to have struck a chord. When did we, not just as women, but as human beings accept that it's ok for one person to treat another like this? When did we re-accept the idea that men can 'own' women?

But there is another issue here. Earlier this year, billboards went up in Times Square, San Francisco and Atlanta, showing loved-up couple Charles and YaVaugnie. The problem was, he was married...but not to her. They'd been together 8 1/2 years when YaVaughnie found out that Charles (head of software giant, Oracle) had a wife, and this was her response. The billboards directed people to an online photo album of their relationship, including scanned in Valentine cards and notes attached to delivered flowers.

The result? YaVaugnie was mauled by both press and bloggers, whose descriptions ranged from 'sad and pathetic' to 'deranged and unbalanced.' The billboards were pulled down after one day, although she'd paid to have them up for longer, with the media agency claiming to have been misled. (Nike, who lied about using child labour, frequently advertise on these same billboards, but that's a whole another story.)

Before I go any further, I want to make a distinction between Raoul Moat and YaVaugnie Wilkins. What Moat did was revenge, but what YaVaugnie did was justice. There is a clear distinction between righting a wrong, and simply getting even. Raoul Moat's actions were clearly the result of a very sick man. YaVaughnie's, on the other hand, seems to be a clever and amusing way to expose a scumbag. I am not comparing the actions, merely the responses to them.

Then there's the website www.dontdatehimgirl.com where spurned American women can expose the scumbags and dropkicks they've dated. It has hundreds of entries, from cheating men (complete with wives and STDs) to fraudsters and thieves. Yet discussing this with my girlfriends, they all agreed that this was 'a site for sad, single women.' This seems to be the prevailing sentiment; that women who expose the men who treat them badly are somehow shameful and to be scorned. Is this a reflection of our social values--that it's 'ok' for a man to hit back, but not for a woman? That when men do it, they're lauded and told 'she deserved it' but when women do it, they're lambasted and labelled 'desperate and bitter'?

It seems ok if female revenge is confined to private encounters and small circles of like-minded women, but the second we expose these men for what they are on a large scale, we're the ones tarred and feathered. Considering that 22% of married men have cheated on their wives according to an MSNBC/iVillage survey, where was YaVaughnie's Facebook fan page? Surely thousands of women have been exactly where she is--where is her outpouring of support?

What are your thoughts? Ever taken revenge? Ever wanted to?

Postscript: YaVaughnie does have a Fan Page, started by Victoria's Secret model Karolina Kurkova. It has 9 fans.

Arranged marriage

A cousin of mine recently got married. People are always surprised when I mention that arranged marriage is still a vital part of Indian culture, and that smart, attractive young people, raised and educated in the West, still choose an arranged marriage when trying to find a mate.

To give some background, India is a nation obsessed with weddings. As a young person, when people meet you they will ask you two questions: your name, quickly followed by “Are you married?” If the answer is No, then they immediately offer to set you up with someone they know who's looking (usually a neighbour's friend's second cousin), and if you remain unmarried past a certain age, you relegate yourself to the status of Social Pariah.

Arranged marriages have been occurring since the dawn of Marriage itself. They have been used to unite families, broker diplomatic relationships between nations and ensure pure bloodlines in matters of inheritance. Today, they occur for far more simple, human reasons--to find a mate that's compatible.

To me, it makes perfect sense. Arranged marriages are founded on those things that help a relationship last: similar family backgrounds, shared values and goals, common ideas on what you want from your family and how you wish to raise your children, a shared cultural heritage, mutual respect, and a completely realistic view of what a marriage is. Moreover with the support of both sides of the family, and the ongoing help of a community around you, it's much harder for those marriages to fail because there is a network to rely on when the going gets tough, as it inevitably will for all relationships.

The idea that love is more important that any of those things strikes me as not just ridiculous, but naive in the extreme. When one in three marriages ends in divorce in Australia (higher in other Western countries), its staggers me that we still believe this is the best way to find a life-partner. Anyone that's ever been in love can attest to the volatility of its character, the swiftness with which it can appear and evaporate and the effect it can have on one's ability to make intelligent choices regarding a mate.

In modern-day India, arranged marriages are still about choice. Like parents everywhere else in the world, Indian parents want what's best for their children. They attempt to choose mates they think their son or daughter would like and be able to build a life with, and of course, the final decision lies with the children. And yes, love has no place in that initial foray, but most people will tell you that after a time, founded on qualities like trust, mutual respect and the building of a shared life, love grows. A lovely idea when you think that often, it's the other way around.

The Chuck Bass Effect

A friend of mine recently announced her undying love for Chuck Bass. For those of you unfamiliar with Gossip Girl’s resident Bad Boy, Chuck Bass sleeps with hookers, deflowers virgins, conspires against his enemies and repeatedly breaks the heart of our favorite frenemy, Blair Waldorf. In short, Chuck Bass is Bad News.

What is it about Bad News Bad Boys that makes us want them so much? Every girl I know at some stage has lusted after a boy who treats her badly and converts her into a Clingerella—that needy, emotionally unstable, schizophrenic version of ourselves that sends too many text messages, angsts over the lack of reply, and ends up with the 1AM drink-dial crying, “Whhhyyyy? Whhhyyy don’t you caalllll meeeee?” which, to be fair, sounds very empowered and confident when one is inebriated.

I went through a whole phase of dating Bad Boys. Aside from being desperately good-looking, they have an air about them that suggests they’ll pull your hair and call you filthy names as you do it in an alley somewhere. They’re the guys that will drag you back to their cave and know you mean ‘Yes’ when you’re actually saying ‘No’. They don’t have feelings, they just have desires. They can nail a shelf to a wall and they can nail you to well, just about anything.

They exude so much self-confidence that their arrogance is a turn-on, because you suspect that there’s nothing they can’t do in bed. Maybe it’s the way they straddle that purring motorcycle, or, at the other end of the scale, the knowing way they order champagne while discreetly handing over the credit card. Any man with such deftness and abilty to multi-task must be a natural in the sack.

And the fact that they’ve slept with a gazillion women? It’s always nice to have the toy that everyone else wants to play with.

But the problem with Bad Boys is that it always ends in tears. All the things that attracted you to him in the first place—the inability to commit, the serial whoring, the fact that he’s an emotional cripple—are all the things that end up being your downfall. And the reason we persist is that sick conviction inside us that makes us think, “I’m The One. I’m going to be The One to change him, to make him commit, to heal the emotional scars left by his disturbed childhood, his crazy ex-girlfriend and that brief stint in jail which wasn’t assault, he was just misunderstood.” You believe that you can kiss it better, but sadly, this isn’t the solution. Because the only thing that can reform a Bad Boy is a Badder Girl.

I suspect it’s evolution. Men, who are natural hunters, understand that the easiest meat to catch is usually the weakest member of the herd. The best, most delicious meat is the one that requires a chase. The prize gazelle is the one a hunter has to work the hardest to catch. For women, who are the gatherers, we understand that the low-hanging fruit is definitely not the juiciest. And no girl wants a man whose plums hang low. Experience has taught that when it comes to collecting our nuts, it’s best to climb higher.

Which is why Badder Girl, who doesn’t appear to fall for the honey trap of their charm, becomes the one they want to catch. So unless you are Badder Girl, that leather-clad lothario is always going to be The One That Got Away.

As for me, I’m done with dating the Chuck Bass’ of this world. Because apparently, there are plenty of fish in the sea, and that fish no longer gets this girl wet.

Out There

A friend of mine was recently told that she needed to “put herself Out There.”

“What does that even mean?” she fumed at me. “Put myself 'Out There'?! Where IS that even?”

I don’t know, but wherever it is, I am sure that ‘Out There’ is a very crowded place. It seems like there are a lot of people Out There. And like my friend, they are doing all the things that one is supposed to do when one is single—go to parties, take a class, find a hobby, meet new people, say 'yes' to invitations and ‘Be Open.’

‘Being Open’ is a big one, the apparent entrée to this mysterious Wonderland, populated by fabulous singles just waiting like herded sheep for others who have found their way. So the good news is that wherever Out There is, it’s definitely ‘Open.’

The truth is, I’ve no desire to be Out There. I can barely find the energy to make it to yoga, and I at least know where that is and what I’m going to find there (a hot room, lots of sweat, a gay man telling me what to do flat on my back.)

As for what one has to do to be Out There...well, I don’t plan to join an evening class—after my 60 hour work week I don’t have the time. I already have hobbies, I volunteer and I don’t want to pash a random to see where it leads. I don’t want to waste an evening having dinner with someone I’m blasé about in case it ‘goes Somewhere’ (which I’m guessing is a place similar to, but not the same as, Out There.) In my head, Out There somewhat resembles The Ivy, which somewhat resembles my version of Hell, each successive VIP area being another circle of Dante's Inferno. Oh, but at least The Ivy has vodka cocktails.

So yeah, I’m not ‘Out There.’ I’m Right Here. And Right Here is a pretty cool place. It’s filled with people I love, and activities I actually enjoy doing, like Saturday night dinners around my dining room table with people I’ve known for a decade. I can hang out in pjs Right Here. I can tell bad jokes Right Here. Sure, the weather’s not ideal (there’s a Man Drought in Right Here) but still, I like it here. And anyone that wants to date me has got to like Right Here too, just as much as I’m going to have to like Right There, which is where, I’m guessing, he is.

Either way, if he’s Out There, I fear our paths are never going to cross because, well, I’m not at a TAFE course learning Swahili as my hobby, I’m not at a bar pretending my sky-high stilettoes aren’t cutting into my feet, and for those guys who just want a fling, I’m not Open and I don’t take Amex.

So to all the Singletons out there, the next time someone gives you the useless, unsolicited advice to “put yourself Out There” I suggest you tell them exactly Where To Go. And if you can do it in Swahili, even better.

The Sydney Dating Scene

A friend of mine recently wrote this guest post on dating in the Sydney scene. Like most Europeans, he's surprised by this idea of dating several people at once, which isn't very common over in the continent. I have several thoughts on this, but it's his post, so I'll let him explain:


Just what is it in us (me) that is driving us to fuel this never-ending game of love and it's associates; sex, dating, f-buddies and the like?

I guess an obvious answer can be found in Darwinian literature, but we sure endure a lot of pain hunting for the benefits Love supposedly brings, bravely taking on all the fuss and gossip and tears and anguish and heartbreaks and rejection that usually follow in the tracks of the able dater/dateress. All for what? The possibility of finding 'The One'? Or at the very least some casual appreciation of our personality or looks, some external stimuli for our narcissist selves?

For quite some time now (counted in years) I have found myself watching the socialite orgy I dwell in and have been thrilled, disgusted, horny and bored, usually all at the same time. I have also loved, rejected and intrigued people around me, and been equally so by them. In hindsight, and with happiness as my primary goal in life, I can but acknowledge that the bulk of my sadness, pain and worries have stemmed from this quest for Love, cooked up by myself and a girl I have fallen for, with all of the above mentioned agonies as ingredients. It’s like I’m becoming a master-chef of agony, but maybe I just need to find better recipes, or maybe different ingredients.

To tell the truth, I can't bring myself to care much about the game out there, even though I usually fail at not getting pulled in by it. I don't like one-night stands (don't mind a 12-night-stand though), I am more likely to laugh at a girl who's playing hard to get than to get intrigued (occasional fail here too), and I love buying someone a drink - but my reason for doing so has never been to get into her pants (that goes for all you guys who I’ve bought drinks too). I have this idea that directing my mindset the other way might save me from an eternal imprisonment in the short-term dating game, and seriously; have anyone ever thought they would find true love at a nightclub in the Cross? Not really, no.

I have an issue with dating cultures like the one in our beloved city, which is: when I love, I love fully. This is somewhat a fundamental opposite to parallel dating, 'keeping doors open', holding back a little to see if anyone else might have a better offer than the current aficionado, or playing games to keep the other party chasing. It feels like this sort of behaviour is a fundamental part of the Sydney dating scene. What is this thing about constantly keeping a lookout for something else? Maybe we have become so good at finding (or creating?) those Fatal Flaws in people that we manage to keep ourselves on a never-ending quest for that perfect match, like a holy grail we put on a pedestal and make damn sure we can't reach.

My questions to you, dear fellow readers of this blog, are these: Do Sydney ladies have males chasing them without having the ability or the will to ever be truly caught (with subsequent potential surrender)? (see Elephant Theory) And correspondingly, have Sydney gentlemen forgotten that the chase isn't supposed to be the goal, the prize is? (Someone should write a piece on 'chase-junkies' both the male and female variant).
I must admit that I love being chased myself—my ego thrives on it—but is it only my experience (as a life-long serial monogamist), that Love (the real deal) always comes with a total lack of any chasing, gaming or maintaining of other options? It just stares you in the face and is there, no work needed, no chase necessary, the grass seems utterly green where you're standing and it straight up disarms you, doesn't it? How do you game someone you’re in love with? And by being in love I mean that place where you can’t get enough of someone and catch yourself walking down the street with a massive smile on your face for no other reason than the scent of her hair being stuck in your memory from the moment you kissed her goodbye this morning. When you're there, there really is no reason to run, is there? Problem is, we all seem to be running so fast we fail to stop long enough and see those moments that would take us there. And when you do find such a moment in the constant blur of the social scene, I'm afraid the object of your desire is likely to be long gone from it, chasing the next one.

For now, I'll have to rely on coincidence to put me in my next moment of disarming love, it's worked well for me so far and I am sure it will again, but someone should suggest a better solution. Meanwhile, it's Friday; the game is on; see you in the blur, maybe we’ll meet in one of those moments, or for a shag.

Is it true? Is the thrill of the chase better than the capture itself? Is it more fun to tease than be taken? Or is the game-playing a vital part of the endless quest for love?

You can follow Rasmus on Twitter here and check out his blog here.

Heartbreak

A friend of mine was recently heartbroken. As she sobbed on my couch and I plied her with Ben & Jerry’s and mouthed comforting platitudes, I wished there was something I could do to make it better. I wanted to wrap her up and fix this, because I knew how much she was hurting. We’ve all been there—the horrible, gut-wrenching ache of lost love. I wished there was a pill I could give her to heal this, or at the very least, to numb the pain. I wished I could go through it instead of her, because it is easier to endure agony yourself than watch someone you love suffer.

The truth is, there was nothing I could do to make it better except hold her hand, remind her how much she’s loved, and promise her that it will hurt less eventually.

“When?” she wailed at me. “When will it hurt less? And why does it hurt so much now?”

I’ve often wondered myself. I’ve thought a lot about why we become heartbroken, and why so much of love is pain.

A doctor friend of mine pointed out that in the human body, pain is a sign that something is wrong. It is a message to the brain that something needs to be fixed. When you break your arm and are waiting for it to heal, pain is a reminder of what limits your broken bones can handle, and diminishing pain is a measure of recovery.

The human heart is no different. When we lose a lover, we are not merely losing another person. We are also losing a part of ourselves; the part that we invested in them, the part of us that grew and transformed while we were together and the part of us that they take with them when they leave our lives.

We lose the hopes and dreams that we built with each other and we lose the future that we imagined together. The subsequent pain is a reminder that we are emotionally broken, and it prevents us from falling in love with someone else as we allow our hearts to heal.

When we go to the gym and work out, what we are actually doing is ripping our muscles apart and forcing them to re-form. They do so bigger and stronger every time. Ultimately, the human heart is also a muscle. The painful aftermath of a failed relationship is a signal that our heart is ripped apart, but also a promise that it will heal, bigger and stronger the next time.

Real Life Is Not A Movie

A friend of mine recently reminded me that real-life does not resemble a movie. We'd just seen a romantic comedy and I should confess, I have a huge thing for rom-coms. I adore Sandra Bullock's shiny hair, Hugh Grant's dithering charm and even though I've seen Notting Hill a thousand times and can mouth the lines with Julia Roberts, I still cry before the final credits are up. Every. Single. Time.

But if life is not a romantic comedy, then it's certainly not a porno either. And yet, more and more, my girlfriends are telling me that their bedroom lives are vaguely resembling a category of Pornhub.

"It's like I don't even need to be there," one friend revealed about her last few encounters with the opposite sex. "He was attacking me like I was going out of fashion, and I could have been passed out or even dead for all he knew. Or cared."

"Better than my experience," chipped in another friend. "He kept wanting me to moan and talk dirty. And when I didn't, he started doing the talking. He kept asking, 'Do you like this baby? Do you?"

Ummm, what? You should be able to tell from her face whether she likes it or not. And if you can't, then you're doing it wrong. Very, very wrong. But as I investigated this further, I kept hearing the same thing: men seem to think that all women are porn stars.

So gentlemen, let me clear up some myths about women in the bedroom:

1. If you're asking me if I like it, I assure you, the answer is No. If I liked it, you'd know.
Hell, if I really liked it, your flatmates/neighbours/mama would know too.

2. I am not a piece of meat. The only women that want you to "Fuck me harder baby, oooh, yes" are the ones getting paid for it. They're called 'actors' for a reason.

3. No woman likes you to finish on her face. It tastes foul and is really hard to get out of your hair. (Plus, adding water only seems to increase its power.) Again, only women who are paid for it pretend to like it.

4. You know how when you were a kid and your mom fed you, except she put the spoon in before you're ready? (See where this is going?)
Most women actually don't mind you directing her head downwards. It's nice to be wanted. We also don't mind you changing the rhythm of our head--again, direction isn't so bad. What we bauk at isn't speed, it's depth. Forcing it down her throat is like bulimia: it's only going to result in vomit where you don't want it. (And before you go ewwww, look at No. 3 and tell me it's not worse.)

5. Lapping. I know porn kings do this all the time, and the girls moan like they're lovin' it, but honestly, it's not a water bowl, and this isn't what doing it doggy-style means. Use your tongue like you mean it for God's sake.

6. Changing positions a thousand times. Look, I get it, you're very athletic. But that's not why I'm with you. That's why I'm with Bikram yoga, but that's not why I'm with you. Besides, it shows a lack of commitment to keep changing, don't you think?

Anyone else experiencing this? Do your bedroom antics resemble a porn film?

Man Drought

Summer in Sydney usually signals Drought Season. But while farmers in the country worry about plunging dam levels, us city dwellers have our own limited fishing waters causing concern. Yes, I’m talking about The Man Drought. And it has reached critical proportions.

A friend of mine recently joined an online dating site in order to find a man. Before you jump to conclusions about her resemblance to Susan Boyle, she’s often mistaken for Sienna Miller, and to add to her blonde highlights, perky breasts and endless legs, she’s also bright, down-to-earth and laughs at my jokes. Which makes her an all-round catch.

Surprisingly, she’s not alone. Thousands of women across the country are going online in a desperate search to meet a man, and everywhere I turn, I hear stories of fabulous girls unable to meet a decent guy simply because there aren't enough to go around. And anyone who's been on RSVP, Oasis or any other online dating site can assure you that the calibre of the women is a lot higher than that of the guys. But this goes beyond just hot women unable to get laid. The socio-economic consequences of a Man Drought can be as devastating as The Black Plague or the GFC.

Aside from the basic population growth issues it presents, a Man Drought also goes against the natural order of things. Men are supposed to be hunters, and yet, women, driven to desperation by famine, are forced to go hunting, competing against each other and fighting for what are essentially dregs (see “down-dating”). The urban jungle has become a dangerous place, populated by cougars and their younger, more nimble counterpart, the puma.

Because men aren't being pushed to hunt for the best mate, they become complacent and lazy, which means they aren't honing their skills and evolving. Natural selection no longer occurs because of the shortage, so 'ugly' and 'ginger' keep perpetuating as a gene. You want to find the real cause of rising childhood obesity in Australia? I suggest you look to the Man Drought. Even Fatties are gettin' some in this climate.

The flip side is that attractive, intelligent men aren't that compelled to settle down, choosing instead to play the field rather than sow their oats. The Man Drought has led to a Commitment Crisis as these guys know that supply is always going exceed demand. In Russia, the situation is so severe (war and famine have left a population that is majority female) that women tolerate alcoholism, domestic violence and even polygamy to snare a man. No wonder there are so many mail order brides...these women are desperate.

And Eau de Sperate is not a pleasant odour. I smell it on the bleached, fake-tanned 20-and-30-somethings every Friday at Ivy, and it overpowers the smell of sleaze, making it harder for a girl to pick out the jerks from the good guys. Because the most dangerous animal stalking the urban jungle is not any of the big cats, but the love rats.

For those of you that deny the Man-Drought, think of the single guys you know. Any of them date-able? I don't mean just nice blokes, but good-looking, nice blokes without a beer belly, personal hygiene problems or annoying twitches. Now think of the single girls...I bet everyone knows at least one super-hot, nice, inexplicably single girl.

If I do happen to meet a seemingly cool, single guy in Sydney, I have to question whether it's a mirage, a figment of my drought-addled brain. I know there is a Man Drought, so chances are, about 100 thirsty women rejected him prior to us meeting. I've come to the conclusion that if he's single, he's single for a reason--something so massive that many good women decided he was simply Undateable, his fatal flaw too large (or small) to be overlooked.

I'd like to know exactly where the Weather Girls were when they sang, "Hallelujah! It's raining men," because right now, we're a long way from a mansoon (as in, we'd like a man, soon please.) In the meantime, ladies, don't lower your standards. We can ride out this little side-effect of global warming. But if you can't, as one man said to me last Friday, "Hey baby, no-one's ugly after 2AM."

The only thing that left me thirsty for was more vodka. And as I later found out, no-one's ugly after 20 vodka martinis either.

The Why-Not Relationship

A friend of mine recently started dating a very lovely boy. He’s attractive, attentive and thoughtful, and they have a great time whenever they’re together.
“So, what’s the problem?” I asked her over cocktails.
“It’s been five weeks, and I have no idea what we are or where this is going,” she fretted. “It’s not like we only meet to hook up either. We go to the movies, he organized a picnic in the park for me, and last night, we made dinner together. Like seriously domestic, right? I was even wearing my faux-daggy outfit.”

Note: A faux-daggy outfit is one that looks so effortlessly casual that you can pretend you just chucked it on, when in fact, you know it makes your boobs look fab and your legs look endless. In this case, the faux-daggy outfit was a colourful beach caftan that was just transparent enough to leave one wondering if that was a thong underneath or a figment of the imagination.

“Have you talked to him about it?” I asked her.
“Yep. And maybe its just because he’s foreign, and English isn’t his first language, but I’m getting nothing from him. It’s like, he likes me, but not enough to have a conversation about it.”
“Ouch,” I replied. “Honey, you’re Why-Not Girl.”

Why-Not Girl is the next level up from a Fuck Buddy. You don’t simply hook up when you’re drunk, or horny, or both. Instead, you do stuff together, but only if it’s convenient for both of you. It’s more that, “It’s Sunday evening, I have nothing else on, I need to eat, so why not? I’ll have dinner and/or sex with you.”

Why-Not Relationships can last for ages, and have all the trappings of a real dating relationship, but without the discussion or the official title. Which can be fine...even better than fine. After all, it’s nice to have someone to do that stuff with—dinner, movies, picnics and yes, sex.

But in my experience, I don’t play Why-Not Girl very well. Firstly, if I’m in an almost relationship with someone, I want the title. I like to know that it’s official, that we belong to one another. I hate the idea that it's not all me, all the time because I really don't like sharing my toys. Plus, I’m so goal-orientated that I just feel like if this isn’t going anywhere, then what’s the point?

And finally, it’s Man On A Bridge all over again. I want to be wanted, I want to be chosen, and I don’t just want to be the filler because there’s nothing good on TV. I may not know what I want, but I know I want him to want me.

Has anyone else been Why-Not Girl (or Guy)? Ever dished it out? And if so, how did it work out for you?

Fatal Flaw

A friend of mine recently started dating a new guy, who is gorgeous. I mean, he is a really desperately good-looking man. He’s also funny, nice, well-mannered and doesn’t wear jeans that are too tight or skinny. All very good news.
“So, what’s his fatal flaw?” I asked her over dinner.
“He doesn’t have one!” she said excitedly, her eyes glowing with fanatical joy.
“Honey,” I said as gently as I could. “All men have a fatal flaw.”

A fatal flaw is the one thing that turns out to be a deal-breaker, unless you are so hooked on the sex/so deluded you think you’re in love/accidentally pregnant that you decide to try and keep brokering the deal.

Usually, the hotter and more perfect the guy appears, the more fatal the flaw. As examples let me cite Two-Fifty Dave, who seemed cute, interesting and successful. He was, except that on our first date at a very average coffee shop, he asked me for $2.50 to cover the cost of the coffee I’d just had.
“It’s actually $2.80, but $2.50’s fine,” he said, magnanimously.
Or Third-Date-Steve, who suggested that my refusal to have sex with him on our third date made me ‘a cock tease who expected him to buy before he tried.’

There was Alcoholic Andy, who threw up on my Agent Provocateur lingerie and filled the water glass on his bedside table with vodka, Energizer Jeff whose cocaine habit become apparent on a weekend away at a remote farmhouse and Pee-On-Me-Matt who...well, the name speaks for itself really.

My girlfriends have dated “That’s-Not-Herpes-I-Promise Tom”, “You-Look-Just-Like-My-Ex-Will-You-Dye-Your-Hair Jonathan” and “I-Will-Never-Love-You-More-Than-Jesus Richard.” Then there’s “Married Sam” although we now refer to him as “Married Mr. X” because turns out he lied about his name too.

It may sound jaded but these days, when I meet a boy, I’m immediately wondering what his fatal flaw is. And the more perfect he is, the bigger the bomb.

As for my friend who’s dating Mr. Perfect, turns out he has a fatal flaw too.
“What is it?” I asked her. “He’s pretty great, so it must be big. Is it sex with animals? Does he molest his dog? Or is it more that he can’t live within 50 metres of a school?”
“Well...” she replied. “You know how you said it must be big?"
Uh-oh.
"It’s not.”

Turns out, it’s so tiny she can give him a blow-job and still have enough room to suck on a lollipop and talk about Barack Obama’s foreign policies with anyone caring to listen.

Yikes. The only thing I can do is hand over some tissues and remind her that Pee-On-Me Matt is, surprisingly, still available. (On the plus side, he has the good manners to always sleep on the wet patch.)

How to dump somebody before you actually get together

A friend of mine recently wrote this guest post on the Faux Dump. We've all been there, but I'll let her explain:

There's a certain grey area during those early stages of a relationship (before a relationship really becomes a relationship) where things often dwindle and die on one side. Perhaps you're two dates in, you've gotten to know each other better, and now you've realised that your date has all the charm of a used condom. Maybe they made a really bad joke about menstruation while you were out for coffee and you both ended up in Awkward Town. Or maybe there's simply no sexual chemistry. Whatever your beef is, ending things at this point can be difficult. If you'd made up your mind one date earlier, you could have just given them the flick by ignoring them altogether, but now you find yourself too involved to be able to simply break things off by ceasing contact and avoiding the other party. However, you're not quite involved enough to warrant a traditional break-up including an explanation of what went wrong and vague promises of friendship. In this situation, one needs to execute a Faux Dump. This is where you say, quite simply, "I'm just not feeling it."

To claim you're "not feeling it" is by far the most humane, ego-preserving way to end a relationship. It doesn't point the finger, but rather blames the failure of the union on some abstract, uncontrollable issue - a chemical imbalance or point of fate or whatever. Something is simply missing, but it's nobody's fault. (Of course, in reality, it's their fault. It's always their fault. You have probably fantasised about them being hit by a truck because they are so irritating you wish they would die a million times, but it is inappropriate to mention this during the Faux Dump. Overall, your objective is to get it over with as quickly as possible and then forget about the whole thing, not unlike an episode of Two and a Half Men.)

But be warned: despite all its padded corners, the Faux Dump will not often be received calmly. This is because when you claim that you are not feeling an interest in pursuing things, you are implying that the other party did feel an interest. And this is humiliating for those with fragile egos and passive-aggressive conflict resolution skills (aka most people currently alive). For this reason, the other party will still get defensive and feel the need to make bitchy, vindictive comments illustrating the various ways in which they too were "not feeling it." Don't take the bait - the best way to deal with this little outburst is to swallow your pride, smile, and say, "Well I'm glad we're on the same page." And then, get the fuck out.

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If only I'd read this before last weekend, where I accidentally said the words, "It's a pity you chose brains when God was handing out large penises," I'd have handled that break up a lot more gracefully.

You can follow Annik at @neekatron, or read more on her sex life, conversations with her mom, and her amusing friends at http://annikskelton.com/

Jennifer Aniston Theory

A friend of mine who was recently broken up with discovered that her ex has a new girlfriend. A hot new girlfriend. And a new job. A great new job. “Oh my goooodddddd........” she wailed on my couch. “How is this justice?! He cheats on me, he breaks up with me, and he gets to move on and move up while I get fatter and older and more single by the day? Whhyyyyyyyyy??”
“It’s Jennifer Aniston theory,” I say sagely, passing her the Baskin Robbins.

Everyone knows that Brad Pitt cheated on Jen with Angelina Jolie. When they broke up, she got all the bad press, while he went on to father a rainbow family and become one half of the most powerful couple in Hollywood—that scary entity known as Brangelina.

While Brangelina were photographed in glamorous locations doing glamorous things with their multi-coloured babies, Jen’s career took a post-Friends nosedive and she dated a series of dropkicks and love-rats. The media have become obsessed with her single status, with headlines ranging from “Lonely Jen can’t find love” to “Jen’s biological clock is ticking, she’s never going to have babies, and she’ll die single and alone,” which, let’s be honest, is the headline we all fear.

And it just doesn’t seem fair. Jen is hot and rumor is, she’s nice too. Oprah Winfrey calls her one of the most charitable celebs ever, but Angelina cornered that market with her UN ambassador badge. The sad part is, so many of my girlfriends (and me too) have been Jennifer Aniston. And there doesn’t seem to be anything we can do about.

I don’t have a solution to this, but I ask you all out there....have you been Jen? And how did you deal with it?

"Faux-gasm"

Every girl has faked it. Every. Single. One. Boys are always so outraged when I say this--I’m usually greeted with a host of rebuttals from “It’s never happened to me” (yep, and you were the biggest she’s ever been with right?) to “I can always tell when it’s fake” (as long as you’re talking about her hair extensions, I believe you).

There’s this old joke that always makes me laugh:
Why did Moses wander the desert for 40 years? Because even then, men wouldn’t stop and ask for directions.

It’s true though, men have a real terror of appearing like they don’t know what they’re doing or where they’re going. And I don’t just mean on the road. Navigating the female form is a complicated process, and more importantly, a delicate one. It requires a certain degree of knowledge and know-how to successfully bring a woman to the end of the journey and yet, most guys seem to think that it’s merely a matter of turning up and sticking their key in the ignition.

A girlfriend of mine dated a doctor once who is the worst offender to date. They went away for the weekend and it got so bad, she took to faking her orgasms just to end the torture. At one point, just to check whether he was even paying any attention, she faked it as he was humping her hip bone. As I later commented, “Dude, if he couldn’t find your clitoris and his face was right up in it, I doubt he’s a very good surgeon.” Needless to say, the relationship didn’t last past the weekend.

The last date-pash I had, the guy went in with his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth. I, being normal, kept my mouth firmly closed. His tongue ended up ramming into my lips, and when I opened my mouth to go “WTF?!” it ended up falling in, where it then proceeded to flop around like a dying fish before I pulled away and put us all out of our misery.

The problem was, I took one look at his face and realized the misery wasn't mutual. He had that proud, self-satisfied look on his face and I just couldn't, couldn't tell him that my moans were a desperate plea for air rather than a product of my desire for him.

Yes, hundreds of girls are experiencing the 'faux-gasm', faking their orgasms in order to avoid an awkward conversation. And the older we get, the more unbelievable it seems that guys don't know they're playing in the wrong postcode. For a woman, it's a no-win situation: point out that he's licking your inner thigh rather than anything relevant, and he's going to get offended, but tell him you faked it and boys tend to flip out.

So guys, the next time you get offended that a girl has faked it, I suggest you remember two things:

1. She took one for the team. It's not like she got anything out of faking it (except a brief moment of respite) and

2. Don't wait 40 years to ask for directions. Women may not be able to read a map, but we do know when it's time to tell him to get lost.

The Man Diet

A friend of mine recently announced that, as New Years are all about New Resolutions, her 2010 was no different. She had resolved, like many others, to kick old habits, begin a new diet, and lose dead weight. She planned to achieve all of the above with one simple solution: A Man Diet.

Buddhist philosophy teaches that the human body requires one day off every week to purify itself. Devout Buddhists fast in order to give their digestive systems a break and recover from the constant overuse. Hindus often fast on religious holidays, suggesting that our preoccupation with food—the sourcing of it, the preparation and consumption of it—occupies so much of our time that by removing food entirely as an issue, our minds are free focus on higher thoughts.

In the same way, the Dating Detox is intended to give her body and mind a break by removing a need and replacing it with higher thoughts. And the results are immediate. By not putting herself through the torture of wondering if he likes her, if he’ll call her, if he’ll return her text, she can step back and stop treating every man like a potential shag and pay attention to what he’s actually saying. Sadly most of the men she knows have fallen in her estimation because of these new standards, but hey, you win some, you lose some.

And there is no longer the pressure of going out on the weekend and feeling like she needs to compete with 18 year olds whose bodies don’t feel the cold and whose tits don’t feel gravity (although, as I watch them teetering in their tiny dresses in the middle of winter, their tic-tac nipples suggest they DO in fact, feel the cold). Instead, she can dress weather-and-mood appropriate, secure in the knowledge that she’s judged on the content of her character rather than the context of her crotch. She no longer has to be vigilant about waxing or contraception. She can wear comfy panties 24/7, instead of pretending that having a g-string riding up her ass makes her feel sexy. She’s unaffected by the Man Drought.

There's just one downside. Turns out, you deny your body of one thing, and it craves something else. As she herself admitted, “I’m glad I’m on a Man Fast, because if I wasn’t, I’m not sure I’d get lucky. Because now, I’m fat. Happy, but fat.” And when I think about myself, thin but exhausted by maintaining de-forestation in Brazil and denying myself that last slice of chocolate cake, I wonder if the pursuit of happiness is in fact, making me unhappy.

So, I guess if the trade-off is getting fat or getting laid, I know which one I’m choosing. Hello Double-Choc Cookie Dough Ice-Cream. Mama’s home and wondering if you want to come to bed with me, bad boy.

"Down-Dating"

A friend of mine recently introduced us to her new boyfriend. She'd been raving about him for weeks, and I'd been expecting a cross between Chace Crawford and Hugh Jackman, so imagine my disappointment to find him....well, to put it delicately...fugly.

While my friend is a gorgeous blonde with an impeccable sense of style and a dry sense of humor, her chosen beau was well past chubby (ok, he was so far into obese he couldn't even see the signpost to Chubby Town. If Obese-City was on 4square, he'd be the freaking MAYOR) and I'm pretty sure his hairline hasn't seen any actual hair since the late 90s. He wasn't funny, interesting or particularly bright, and his resulting inferiority complex made him downright rude to her friends, despite our best efforts.

This wouldn't be a big deal if it was an isolated incident, but everywhere I turn, all over this fabulous city and indeed all over the globe, women are indulging in a phemonenon I'm dubbing "Down-Dating." Really gorgeous girls are shacking up with duds and drop-kicks who, in a normal world, shouldn't even get a first date. I'm not talking about the vacuous or the ditzy either; bright, cool, talented, beautiful women are hooking up with men who have nothing to show for themselves except their ability to snag afore-mentioned hottie.

Don't believe me? Explain this:

The gorgeous Kate Moss with the gungy Pete Doherty


Hot Sienna Miller, not-so-hot Rhys Ifans

And the stunning Jen Aniston with scrag John Mayer

Interestingly, Down-Dating is only limited to women--hot guys are certainly not going for their visually disturbing counterparts. So why is this happening? Is it just the Man Drought driving us to desperation, or something more sinister?

It's common knowledge that ugly guys have to work harder. Just like small men are better in bed (they know they have something to make up for), ugly men need to be nice guys and good human beings in order to get the girl. And so, hot women date them thinking they've made a fair trade-off, which is "Ugly guy, but he'll be great to me."

Well girls, I'm smashing the urban myth that gross guys are nice people. You know what the above three couples have in common? They're no longer together. In every case, love-rat guy cheated on super-hot female.

The thing is, these guys are perfectly normal until they hook up with their significantly-hotter other. And it's a Law of Dating Nature that other women are interested in any guy that can get a hot girl, because they're all wondering what secret weapon he has. And so, like moths to a flame, we're drawn in, trying to discover whether it's his scintillating wit, his vast wealth or just his willy that got him the girl.

It's easy to confuse all this female attention with sexual interest, but the truth is, as soon as these guys dump their hot girlfriends, they lose the only thing that made other women interested to begin with. And yes, it's true that while some love-rats go on to make a career out of Dating-Up, it never ends well for the girl.

So ladies, if you're going to date a guy for his personality, make it a hot guy. Because the only thing that you get by "Down-Dating" is an ugly Facebook album, and in Kate Moss' case, a crack addiction, which I imagine she needed to bring herself to have sex with Pete Doherty.