So I talked to this kid named Justin Bieber for The Wall Street Journal. Maybe you’ve heard of him.
The other day I was talking to a friend of mine about the perfect time for a booty call. It sprang from a discussion on the difficulty of negotiating a good time for the booty call and how in the hell it came to be between 11:30 and 2 a.m.? When did that law pass and who voted on it?
One of the main problems with these late night arrangements is they encourage sleep overs and I hate booty calls that turn into sleep overs.
The other issue is there’s no flexibility in the late night creep. A person has to either come over, do their thing and be out, or come over, do their thing, and stay for breakfast. Not only that, but who is truly at their best at 2 a.m.? I know I’m not. The best thing I do at 2 a.m. is either sleep or drink.
Why must something so good be done so late? Booty call hours need to be rearranged and put in a totally different part of the day, one where sleep-overs can be avoided and the room to do whatever we want do afterward is permitted. This is why I propose a national movement to restore booty call hours to a new time of day. Here it is.
When my ex and I moved in together, it was more than just gathering her things and putting them at my place. She moved clear across the country for me. Her whole life, about to mix up with my own, and we had to find room for it all in my moderately-sized one-bedroom apartment.
Most of it was easy. She had her own closet, I had mine. We shared dresser space. I think, to help get her a proof of address we even changed my name on the gas and electric bill to hers.
Yeah, there were a lot of things we did to merge our lives together because I think for both of us, we wanted to fully immerse ourselves in this idea of being a team, a unit. But one of the most pivotal steps we made towards embodying the idea of being one unit is when she put me down on a form as her Emergency Contact.
My ex-girlfriend wasn’t the first and only time I lived with a woman. About six years ago, when I first moved to New York City, I had a female roommate.
The thing about living with a person of the opposite sex you’re not sleeping with (but would sleep with if given the chance, only you don’t because one does not use the bathroom in the exact same place they eat) is both parties must be true to themselves.
The two of us were roommates, not each others father or mother, so this idea that certain behavior was unacceptable on the grounds that it was unbecoming of a man or woman to act or speak a certain way was done away with almost immediately. The only way either of us were going to last in what at the time felt like a most unusual arrangement, was if she let me be a man and I let her be a woman.
This philosophy helped us stay the path of harmony. The two of us got along well, and I’m proud to say we never crossed that mythical line. For two years we were remarkably patient with one another, and as I recall, we had only three or four genuine disagreements. But awkward moments? Oh yeah, there were probably more of those.
How is it that two people agree to sleep with each other, only to agree they will never sleep together again?
I’m not talking about two people who have said beforehand, “Hey, this is a one night thing.” Or two people who say afterwards, “Yeah, we’re not doing that again.” They could be one night stands, they could be long-standing trysts. It really doesn’t matter. What I’m talking about is two people who had sex, perhaps enjoyed it, and then without saying a word to one another, agreed they weren’t going to do it again.
Well sometimes, the answer lies not in the overt, but rather in the subtle. Here are five of those signs that the person we slept with will never sleep with us again.
This week’s installment on The Eldrick Woods Relationship Blog is about who else? Eldrick Woods, playa.
What I’m about to say is going to shock many of my female readers, so let me be blunt.
Men fake orgasms.
Now I’m sure some women have heard of this phenomenon that is the fake male orgasm, while others are surely rolling their eyes and would also like to sell me a piece of property called The Statue of Liberty for cheap. Those women think I’m lying, while the rest of the women are upset I have just reminded them of a very sad truth. Meanwhile, my male readers are probably hoping and praying I don’t reveal the methods we utilize to fake an orgasm.
Don’t worry men, I won’t.
For those who didn’t get a chance to see, earlier this week I did an interview with Aloe Blacc for GQ.com. And if you don’t know who he is, well that’s why I did the interview. Click below
For those readers who pay attention, they may notice the lengths I go to to avoid talking about relationships and dating through the prism of race. This is intentional not because I’m colorblind to the factors race plays in dating, but because I honestly believe when it comes to matters of the heart, the only two groups that really matter are males and females; that what truly separates people from falling in love is more about gender, less about skin color and ethnicity.
But every now and then, I can’t sidestep the race issue. Every now and then, I must go in and acknowledge race matters. Today is now and I hope you all pay attention to what I’m going to say a little bit closer than usual.
Last week I was interviewed for a news magazine show on CUNY, one of New York City’s local channels. The story was a response to a story Nightline did earlier this year on this large number of single (beautiful!) black women. During the interview, the question was posed to me (I’m paraphrasing here), “A lot of black men feel they were portrayed in a negative light when this story came out. Do you feel that way?”
Of course I answered the question as succinctly as television allows, but if given the room to say more, here’s what I would have said.
This Thursday, my love for tacos will hit its apex. I’m entering a taco-eating contest.
No, I am not a competitive eater. Although, I always manage to be the first one to finish my plate whenever I’m eating with others. Yes, I do understand there’s a good chance after I finish the contest, my love for tacos will morph into hate. But none of these things matter. What matters most to me is I do well, because if I do well, women will be lining up outside of the restaurant with Tums in hand.
I actually don’t want any woman I know to come to the competition. I understand they are there for support and to cheer me on, but there’s one overwhelming fear I won’t be able to shake. The fear of losing in front of a woman who has come to root for me and thus never getting fed tacos again.
I know, I know. It’s just tacos. What kind of women would ever look at a man differently simply because he didn’t win first prize in some taco-eating contest? But see, such questions don’t apply to any competitive scenario, even ones as trivial as being the first person to finish a whole platter of tacos.