Keeping Casual Sex Casual

Casual sex is a lot like cookies: indulgent, delicious, and best when not too complicated.

With both sex and sweets, women tend to want too much. We take one taste, and then another, each time saying we’re going to indulge just once more. But then we realize that all we can think about is the baker…er, boy. We realize that we want the cookie and the nookie for ever after.

Men are different.

Men grab a bite on their way out the door. They may savor each bite, but they never ask for the recipe. And they sure as hell don’t own a cookie jar.

This is why women love Sex and the City’s Samantha. She enjoys men left, right, and center and doesn’t come back for more. She’s an eat-one-cookie-and-don’t-ask-for-the-recipe woman.

As women, the idea of having a sexual legacy is off-putting, but we all have one and should embrace it. I have no plans to sleep with men simply to increase the notches on my bedpost, but I do smile when I picture me and my girlfriends as little old ladies, giggling over past lovers.

I’m single now, so I see no reason to put off my sexcapades. Having fun now doesn’t mean that I won’t meet Mr. Right soon—it just means I’ll be more entertained while I wait for him. I’m convinced my married life will be a one-and-done match made in heaven. Best get on with the living now!

Embracing casual sex makes meeting someone new so much more interesting. I still consider whether or not they can be my future husband, in which case I hold out and let him woo me properly. But if he doesn’t meet my requirements for matrimony, I can still have some fun with him…that is, if he’s dead sexy. Why waste time with men who aren’t?

With the objective firmly stated, a few rules would help as well. No expectations for future communication, complete safety, and no forming attachments. Plain and simple, casual sex does not produce keepers. I won’t delude myself into thinking I’m the exception to this rule.

My first casual sex encounter of my thirties was incredible. He was chivalrous and sweet, but manly and sexy, too. He called after but didn’t push meeting again for a few weeks. It was easy and effortless, yet I knew I was appreciated. It was flattering and fun, and yet I amazingly found myself not developing any serious attachment to him.

Could it really be this easy?

A close friend entered a similar relationship. Her casual lover was Brazilian. Originating from various countries, like Argentina or Spain, gets a man free entry to the dead sexy club. Brazil is definitely one of those countries.

She played the game as well as I did… for a while. But as his texts and calls dwindled, she was tangled in the web of why’s and what if’s. His unexpected absence was tormenting her.

As we pondered his intentions on the phone, I fell to my standby comparison for love: food. I can relate anything that makes my heart go pitter pat to its place in the food pyramid. The relentless infatuation of an early relationship: sushi – you overindulge because you want the whole menu. The dwindling affection of a stale relationship: oatmeal that’s gone gooey and tepid when it’s left out too long. Your partner in the crime of casual sex going MIA on you: cookies. She forgot to enjoy it for what it is, which the Brazilian could sense, and which sent him into hiding.

As with so many things in life, some are best enjoyed for the moment and then walked away from. If you’re the type who struggles to walk away, it’s best to stick with relationships that have the promise of becoming serious. But if you can truly keep the connection casual, then go for it. Life’s too short to live chastely.

A Granny With Gumption

My grandmother has always been a feisty lady. Her tiny stature and high and tight granny curls exude an air of grandmotherly love that draws one in. Sometimes, a sugar sweet granny is exactly what you get. Sometimes, she’s as sour as a Lemonhead. You never know what you’re going to get, but can rest assured neither demeanor will last for too long.

Despite years of walking on eggshells and generally avoiding disownment, I’ve grown to appreciate my grandmother’s sassy side. For one thing, it makes for some great story telling. When my grandfather came home drunk at two in the morning and fell asleep against the horn, blaring his drunkenness into the night, my granny walked outside and shot out all four of his tires. I’ve been told she said, “Guess you won’t be going anywhere now” as she walked back into the house.

I choose to believe her when she claims to have been unaware of the significance of a red light bulb illuminating a woman’s door. She once used such a bulb to replace her burned out porch lamp and says she answered the door with four kids hanging on her apron strings to find a bewildered man. Surely, he was wondering what kind of operation this particular lady of the night was running and how much it cost.

Most women of my grandmother’s day are quite adept at sewing. My granny is no different, as evidenced by many photos of my sister and I appearing as Holly Hobby in our early years. Each tiny piece of clothing had “With love, Nana” embroidered inside.

When my mother was first born, my grandmother found a dress in a copy of Vogue and decided to make it for herself. She went about making what she describes as a wool coatdress in “a pretty shade of green.” She paired it with some heels and a hat – “because women wore hats in those days” – and dressed my mom up in a lace bonnet with silk flowers sewn into it. All dolled up, they promptly set off to the drug store.

You see, my grandmother may look at Vogue and be able to make herself look like Vogue, but her life looked nothing like Vogue. Despite her sole destination being a simple drug store, she managed to pass someone she knew – goal achieved! It was a friend of her older sister’s who went straight home and wrote a letter asking my great aunt how my grandmother could afford such a dress. The great aunt then wrote my grandmother asking, “What’s this dress I hear about? And how did you afford it?”

Over fifty years later, my grandmother sat in her doily-covered armchair, wearing the lilac fleece housedress she made herself with crocheted flowers sewn to the hem, and an air of satisfaction about her. I could just about see the glamorous dark haired woman in a green coatdress who used to Vogue her way to the drugstore.

A Guide to Breaking Up

After breaking up with a cheating boyfriend, I told my friend that it's normal to mourn the end of a relationship. You suffer a loss even if you chose to end it, so give yourself some time to be sad about it, and then move on. He replied, "I want someone to do it for me. I want to know how long I can mourn, what to do, my next steps... I want the instruction guide. I'm such a perfectionist it hurts!"

I doubt he actually thought I'd give him one... but, being a bit bossy, this is right up my alley. Here it is:

Some ground rules:

- Follow these instructions to a T… or is it “to a tee”? Whatevs, don’t falter.

- Only people unrelated to the break up and of sound mind and body can amend this. Basically, that means you and the ex can’t decide it’s a load of bollocks.

Words to live by:

1. For the next 2-3 weeks, it’s okay to feel crummy about this. After that point, people will be annoyed with hearing about it too often. For the next week, you can bring it up in every convo. The 2^nd week, try to reduce that by half, and the third week half again. Eventually, you’ll actually start talking about other things!
2. Don’t listen to sappy songs. If they’re about love, breaking up or depression, turn them off.
3. No rom-coms, dramas or Jane Austen. Terminator-type movies are okay. Comedies are a must. (Bridget Jones ad libitum… I love her)
4. Eat cupcakes!!!
5. Don’t wallow too much. You’re allowed to curl up on the couch from time to time, but follow it up with a trip to the gym. (remember, you’re single which means you can’t get fat and you just ate a lot of cupcakes)
6. If you drink, you need to be with people who won’t let you drunk dial, drunk text or drunk anything the ex.
7. If you drink and meet a cute boy… well, I tend to see this as a freebie. If you can see the nookie as fun, enjoy it. If it’s going to make you miss your ex, avoid it.
8. I’d recommend no contact with the ex for a few months. If he really needs more closure, meet him in public so you’re not likely to get too emotional or pulled back into what we have already established is a not-so-good relationship for you.
9. Remember the big picture – the right guy won’t come along if the wrong guy is taking up his place.
10. Repeat: Cheaters always cheat.

Umm… I think that’s it. Good luck!!

Addendums: Facebook defriending: debatable, Facebook stalking post-break up: forbidden, Watching for your ex's G-chat dot to turn green: not a chance. Basically, all forms of virtual stalking and obsessing are a no-no.

When You Know She's A Knockoff

No man unintentionally sends an ex-girlfriend a photo containing new girlfriend paraphanalia. I knew that on some level, my ex knew it would piss me off and was either happy about it or didn’t care. Men are stupid, but they’re not that stupid. They know they can’t parade a new girlfriend in front of their exes without comment. He was baiting me and, that day, I didn’t disappoint.

You see, I’d been fairly tolerant up til then. When he told me he was taking her to Florida for Valentine’s weekend, I wished them a great time and changed the subject. When she tagged him in multiple photos on Facebook or wrote sappy comments on his wall, I didn’t make fun of her pink sequined dress. I also didn’t point out that she was performing the internet equivalent of peeing all over him to mark her territory. I kept my mouth shut and, deep down, wished them well.

Sending a photo to me was a different story. He was putting her before me, disguising his crummy intentions behind his new cute little puppy. Sending me a photo of his puppy… with her purse in it. I know, it’s just a purse! But I knew what he was up to because I’ve known him too well for too long. While his intentions were pretty crummy, what I was about to do wasn’t any better. I started a catty fight with him over email, then text, then phone calls. We like our multimedia.

An ulterior motive I should also fess up to is my possessive ‘tude over the new girlfriend cheapening something as classy as Chanel. It was obviously a knockoff with the entwined C’s peeling off. Knockoffs of Dooney & Bourke or Coach I can live with. There is nothing specifically wrong with any of those brands, and I wouldn’t turn a bag down if someone gave me the real thing, but they’re just not Chanel. They can be knocked off and I can live with that fact.

Chanel, on the other hand, doesn’t deserve the injustice. Coco Chanel defined classic elegance when she created her designer brand. Her brilliance has been worshipped by incredible women like Jackie O and Grace Kelly and continues to inspire a special sort of class in women around the world. For all the lure that plunging necklines and miniskirts have, the classic perfection of a well cut Chanel suit still makes a girl swoon. Deep down, we all want to be Chanel girls.

I know I was anything but the classy Chanel girl I aspire to be when I sent that email. Coco Chanel wouldn’t appove, I suspect. But just because I can get a little too sassy for my own good doesn’t make this girl acting like she can afford Chanel okay. I think it’s even tackier to carry a knockoff of a $2500 bag than of one people could believe you actually can afford. With this and my pathetic budget in mind, I don’t carry knockoffs. If and when I can afford the real thing, I’ll carry the real thing. Nothing less will tempt me.

Just for her benefit, let’s consider if it was a real Chanel purse. Would a woman let her $2500 bag become a puppy play toy? The puppy is cute, I’ll give her that, but no one’s going to dress it up in a Hermes scarf or Gucci sunnies any more than they’d let it prance around the house with Chanel leather in its mouth. We don’t really need to go on, do we? No, we all know it was a fake.

And of all the men in the world, my ex is a stickler for quality. He doesn’t care if you don’t have money or can’t afford the finer things, but I'm pretty sure he's not a fan of acting like you can. I knew revealing to him that it was a knockoff would matter. Most men couldn’t care less, but this guy isn’t most men.

So there I am, new girlfriend’s fake bag shoved in my computer’s face and I had become the bitch he was baiting me to be. I won't disclose the full email here (much too sassy for daytime viewers) but the words "label" and "whore" may have been used right alongside "knockoff."

Not my proudest moment, but I've been known to call a spade a spade. And while I love letting the perfect retort live its full glory by putting it all out there, I have to admit I didn't feel any better having spoken my mind. All this left me to wonder what either of us accomplished through such catty behavior since, in the end, neither of us seemed very happy.

(a peep at the full When You Know She's a Knockoff)

The Dutch Boys Who Didn't

Being American, it’s easy enough to practice what Mama preached. American men pay, plain and simple. If they don’t, it’s noticed. And it doesn’t just get noticed in their date's mind, but gets talked over and run through the ringer by her girlfriends later on.

This all has nothing to do with who can afford what or a woman’s greed or any of that. It’s a sign of respect stemming from romantic tradition. So while most American women offer to pay, we rarely intend to actually do so. And while some American women agree to go Dutch, we all swoon when our date insists on paying anyways. Rational thinking doesn’t sweep us off our feet, but a man who insists on paying does.

Wikipedia, my second favorite source for all truth in the world (Google will always be numero uno), sides with me on this issue.

There is a delicate etiquette surrounding going Dutch. It is accepted in some situations, such as between non-intimate friends or less affluent people, but can be considered stingy in other circumstances, such as on a romantic date or at a business lunch.

The traditional way to handle a bill on a date in the West has been that the one who invited the other takes the bill and the invitee may not even know the actual price of the meal. An alternative view is that traditionally payment has always been made by the male. Full payment by the male is still most common but is no longer certain.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Going_Dutch

No longer certain, indeed. While most men have happily paid my way, two little "Dutch" boys made their way into my cast of characters. One was American and the other British. Both had their good points, but unlike the proverbial Dutch boy with his finger in the dam, neither chose the path that avoided disaster.  

The Brit introduced the idea of going Dutch a few dates in. He did so by asking if Americans often split the bill. I told him  the truth - some did but I never had. Truthfully, I offered plenty but none of the men I dated before had taken me up on the offer.


Is this fair? I didn't always think so, but I liked the tradition. Tradition is something I've always cherished. Like the traditions of Christmas morning, I get a warm feeling when things are done as they always have been. Not that I don't love modernity and change, or that I don't herald feminists who came before me for all they did to make my life better. I like new and old, change and tradition - it's a dichotomy that works for me.


But having men pay for me all the time seemed a bit unfair when I first looked at it. So I looked at the situation some more and realized I'm more than okay with it. You see, I love to cook. And I especially love to cook for the men I date. It often works out that I cook more dinners, breakfasts and midnight snacks than any man has ever bought me. In this way, I see fair as fair and happily say "thank you" when a man foots the bill.


Like a proper English gent, he joked his way through the conversation and offered that since he was accustomed to 50:50 and I was to 100:0, we'd split the difference and he'd pay 75% of the time. I liked the math and it became a joke, but in the end, I never paid. My insecurity (what little I have) got the better of me and from time to time and I would offer, but he always declined and I would say a sincere"thank you".


I did not say "thank you" when the aforementioned American looked up from the bill fold and suggested we split it. I definitely did not say "thank you" when he offered to leave the tip since he'd had one more beer than I had. Splitting is splitting, let's not tally it up, shall we?

In my eyes, first dates are plain and simple - if he invites, he pays. He had invited, so I was surprised at the bill negotiation that took place - him negotiating, me staring blankly. But I'm not one to argue my worth - to argue that my good opinion of him was worth him paying my half the bill - and in that moment, I judged him.


Judging is wrong, I know, and I'm not proud of it but I judge, judge, judge. It's like a reflex. I judged him as someone I didn't want to date again. Or, more like, my gut feeling judged him and I simply knew I didn't want to date him again. 

If you wonder if I missed out on a good guy, I can assure you I did not. I still know him, as friends, and am glad I trusted my gut. But this experience did get me thinking, once again, if I should re-evaluate the whole Dutch thing. 

So I did, once again, considering both the Brit and American. And I walked away from thinking it over knowing this: I’m anything but Dutch. 


It doesn't mean I scoff at women or men who believe 50:50 is the only fair thing to do. It's my own personal feeling that ingrained him me by too many good guys who have spoiled me before. 

Does this make me sound high maintenance? Probably, but I'm not. Does it make me sound haughty and snobbish? Probably, but I'm not (all the time). Does it make me sound entitled? Sure, and I suppose that fits - I'm entitled to appreciate tradition and value the respect and adoration a man shows when he buys my dinner.


In return, he's entitled to a woman who thinks he's the cat meow and who cooks up a mean "thank you" dinner.

Some Boys Are Like Soup

Ever notice how some relationships have themes? No? Maybe it’s just me then. One such relationship had a theme based around soups. It began by a shared love of one nearby restaurant's endless pots of soup. Literally, they never ended. More would come, forever and ever. I was in heaven.

We shared many evenings chatting over steamy brass pots of simmering lentils or tomato bisque, which for me was a great start to any relationship. I love soups and he loved them, too. Match made in heaven.

Things started to go awry when his knack for bending the truth became evident. He brought up bouillabaisse. What man brings up bouillabaisse? Maybe Bobby Flay or Tyler Florence (I wouldn’t mind sharing a bowl of bisque with either of them), but this guy was neither. He barely cooked, yet he went on about how he loved to let a pot of bouillabaisse simmer for hours.

From what I know about cooking fish, it’s the sort of thing that takes minutes, not hours. I said, “Usually when I cook fish, I only cook it for a few minutes. What’s it like after hours?” to which he replied, “it’s really, really good.”

I'm so sure.

His tendency to fib on the oddest of subjects became more apparent with time. The pinnacle of disappointment occurred a few days before Valentine’s day. After insisting he’d tried everywhere and was unable to book a restaurant for dinner on the big day, he suggested he’d cook us up “a nice pot of stew.”

Jigga’ what?? Stew on V-day? Did he really think stew would woo me to the bedroom when every other girl in the city was being wined and dined on the town? Last time I checked, there was nothing sexy or romantic about stew.

As other issues arose, the icky feeling I just wasn’t into him anymore became apparent. Like I said before, I love soups; stews and bouillabaisses, too. An inner debate ensued as to whether I should outright end it or wait for chili and chowder to be involved. Just curious to see if he’d court me with consommé or when he’d greet me with gumbo. A girl never knows if her inkling to cut her losses now is spot on or if he’ll win her back with some gallant gazpacho.

This girl decided soup is best when served for one.