The pickins, they are slim, and it's 50 percent our fault

Ok girls, listen up. I have figured out how we are going to get guys to grow up and start acting like responsible adults worthy of dating us. But first, you must read this article from Slate that explains it all quite nicely. If me telling you to read it isn't enough, this is the title: "Sex is cheap: Why young men have the upper hand in bed, even when they're failing in life." Got your attention now? Read it. I'll wait.*

So, for those of you who still didn't read the Slate article despite my first footnote not making any sense, let me sum it up for you. Men like sex more than women like sex. (I'm inclined to disagree, but then when you've been involuntarily celibate for close to a year, your memories of sex are so distant they are probably skewed... so who knows.) In a society where women are plentiful, (and have lots of autonomy and authority) men don't have to be successful or commit because if their girlfriend dumps them, there's always another girl who will have sex with them. In a society (like engineering colleges) where the women are few and are in high demand, they can be choosy so the men compete for them, and so have to be more successful and driven and willing to commit or the women will not have sex with them.

So did most of my ex's friends at the aforementioned engineering college get married to their college girlfriends soon after graduating because they were in love? Of course not! It's because after four years in a girl desert they had no clue that in the real world women actually comprise 50 percent of the general population and thought that if they didn't marry the one they have now, they might not get to have sex ever again. Suckers.

Here's the kicker: While young men's failures in life are not penalizing them in the bedroom, their sexual success is hindering their drive to achieve in life. It's kind of like why buy the cow (stop playing video games/trying to "find" yourself and get a real job already) when they can get the milk (attractive women will still have sex with them despite the video game playing habit/lack of employment) for free.

Here's the take-away: Women, if we want to date men who are successful, driven and don't live in their minivans or parent's basements, WE NEED TO STOP REWARDING THIS KIND OF BEHAVIOR. Like Jacqui says, the pickins, they are slim and it's 50 percent our fault.

I've never liked the Lysistrata approach to solving anything, because, well, I like sex, too. However, desperate times call for desperate measures. So from now on, women of the world, let's band together on this. It's called raising the bar. We need to NOT have sex with losers who exhibit ANY of the following red flags:

He lives in a vehicle and thinks it's cool. Living in vehicles is for homeless people.

He lives in the basement of his parents' house/Craigslist stranger's house

He is unemployed**

He calls you "chief"

He smells bad and/or has greasy hair. If these things alone are not enough of a deal breaker, they could also be indications he lives in a vehicle/his parents' basement.

He has four children with three different women, none of whom he was married to. (This is not (only) because children are monsters and what new girlfriend wants to deal with four of them, it's because he exhibits poor decision making skills/a troubling inability to wrap it the the fuck up.)

When you ask him what he does, he says he makes candy. (He does not make candy. In fact, it's his father's company in another state that makes the candy and ships it to him, which he then sells at farmers markets. Except that he doesn't really sell it at farmers markets. It just piles up in his house because he did not submit the proper paperwork on time to legally sell it at farmers markets. He is afraid to tell his dad about this situation so he makes his living waiting tables and selling weed. When his friends come over to smoke the weed, they eat the candy.) The not-having-sex goes double for this person.

He has aspirations of being a ski bum/river raft guide.

He has a fake wall to pretend he isn't living in a studio with a roommate***

He sleeps on a futon/couch/sleeping bag on the floor. Grown-ups sleep in beds. Fact.

This is not an exhaustive list, so feel free to add to it. The most important thing to remember, girls, is that if you have sex with any of these guys, you are fucking everything up for the rest of us. And you won't be doing them any favors either. How are they ever going to learn how to be productive members of society if you are having sex with them? So don't. Thanks in advance.

*Who are these women that say no when an attractive, young stranger approaches them while walking down the street and proposes casual sex?! This is basically my dream come true. And I would probably cry when they said "just kidding!" and I found out we were not, in fact, about to hoof it to their apartment for some afternoon delight, but that I was just a statistic in their stupid little graduate student psychology research project. That is just plain cruel.

**Since this is a recession and I'm not totally heartless, if the guy was recently let go, seems upset and a little worried that he was recently let go and is actively trying to find a new job, you may have sex with him. Especially if he has a job interview this week. But proceed with caution.

***This doesn't apply in Manhattan

The Myth of the Psycho Girl

OK. So. I'm sick of how women are constantly characterized as controlling, ball-busting, angry, bitter bitches. And men are fun-loving, laid back free spirits. Wheee! Men are allowed to dick around during their 20s and 30s (that's like two decades!) abusing substances, living out of vans, hooking up but avoiding real relationships (or any kind of responsibility), "finding themselves" and having adventures (but not real jobs), in a state of perpetual adolescence. I read a really interesting article a few weeks ago in Salon about this perpetual adolescence thing. This is not only expected of them, it's encouraged and glorified in popular culture (Wedding Crashers, Knocked Up, The Hangover). And if women occasionally get fed up with their childish antics, it's us who are the psychos.

Well I have a hypothesis. It's called: There's No Such Thing as the Psycho (Ex)Girl(friend), There are Only Asshole Guys. And yes, I stick by my hypothesis title at the risk of sounding angry and bitter...

Example #1: So my ex's best friend, J, was in town this weekend. He called me to see if he could stay at my house and if I could bring him to the airport (this is the story he told me) because the couple (his friend M and his fiance) he was supposed to be staying with got into a huge fight and he had to leave their house. Here's what I found out really happened: J's flight got in at midnight and his couple friends dutifully went to pick him up. The next morning, itching to get snowboarding early, J grew impatient when the fiance had to be dropped off at work at 9 a.m., thereby delaying his departure to the mountains. So a fight and angry e-mail exchanges ensued between the fiance and J, at the end of which bridges were burned, J had nowhere to stay and was probably out (at least) one friendship.

He blamed the whole thing on M's fiance. He said M had a habit of going out with girls who were controlling, bitchy and the fun police.

But here's the thing: J is a freeloader. I know this because he lived on my and my ex's futon for weeks at a time. I like him a lot, but even I used to get annoyed with him. He's a really nice, happy-go-lucky kind of guy, but you care less about that stuff when his snoring is keeping you awake at night and he's breaking your kitchen appliances.

The point is this: The fight was NOT all the fiance's fault and if J wanted to stay friends with M, he should have at least made an effort to be nice to the girl he's with. The real problem here is J's unwillingness to realize that M is one of the few men who has succeeded in graduating from his perpetual adolescence and is now a grown-up with a real job and is engaged to be married. But in this scenario, his fiance becomes the manipulative succubus who won't "let" M hang out with J. Controlling, psycho girlfriend is the story J will tell when people ask what the shit happened. I've never even met this girl, but I'm already on her side.

Example #2: A friend of mine (who is 30) asked this girl (who is 21) to be his date at a wedding because she's "really fun." (As an aside, not only is this girl 21, she also has a tiny tattoo of a mustache on the side of her index finger, or maybe it's her middle finger, I can't remember, which makes for A LOT of mustache ride jokes and photo ops, and makes her really popular with the guys. She sticks her finger under people's noses and everyone laughs. It's like her party trick. I can't decide if it's really cool or really fucking retarded.) But he didn't really like her. So they go to the wedding, have fun, don't have sex (I just made out with her! That's it, I swear!) and several days later my friend asks her for her (hotter) friend's phone number. And she gets pissed. And won't talk to him anymore. And he doesn't get why. She must be a psycho.

If you ask me, he did a poor job of managing her expectations.

I asked him why he 1. was hanging out with 21-year-olds in the first place, 2. would think it's ok to bring one to a wedding if he had no intention of dating her, even if he didn't have sex with her, (purposefully not fucking you is apparently asshole guy code for "I'm just not that into you, make no mistake, we are just friends, even though I invited you to be my date at a wedding and then kissed you").

He said younger girls are more fun because all the girls his own age are angry and bitter and jaded.

Well congratulations, asshole. You have just added another to our ranks. Welcome to our demographic, finger mustache tattoo girl. At this rate, we will achieve world domination earlier than I'd hoped.

Managing Expectations... Jazz Hands

I booked a ticket to NYC this week. It's an exploratory mission to determine whether a permanent return to the East Coast is what I really want. The added bonus is actual sex with my favorite phone sex fella.

After I booked the ticket and informed the boy, whom I haven't seen in a year, I realized I am a liar. I tell him (and others) that it's purely sex that I am after in his case. I'm human, I'm liberated, I'm training for an Iron Man, I'm going on a humanitarian trip to Haiti in April. I am woman hear me roar. I'm FINE with casual. Right? I am a born people pleaser and I can tap dance as fast as needed. Jazz Hands.

I am also acutely aware that he is about as jumpy as they come. Boy's got rabbit in him. I'd like to meet his mother, or the girl that obviously worked him over cause he is the total package of emotional baggage to be sure. I do love a challenge.

I actually don't know what his story is, not really.

We met over a year ago. There was an instant attraction, but he was seeing an old friend of mine so off limits. Things with them ended and we had a secret little fling a few months later. You are free to judge me on this. I probably deserve it. Attraction is however a strange thing. The instant I met him, I took a deep breathe and thought, gulp, be cool, this one could be trouble. It's my theory when you meet someone that stops you in your tracks like that, it must mean you would have healthy babies or something. It can't have anything to do with actual compatibility with a total stranger. I don' t believe in love at first sight. It's just nature's way of saying, oh, y'all would be a good fit to propagate the species. That's my theory, anyhow.

We started an email/text flirtation. He made me laugh and most importantly, he was just the right combo of aloof and charming to make me chase him just a little bit. The emotionally unavailable are my specialty after all. He showered me with attention, I responded. Who doesn't like attention? He pulled back just as I started to get really interested and suddenly I was chasing him. It eventually ended, as it usually does, with me getting sick of it and telling him to go to hell. I really stuck to my guns and didn't hear from him for almost a year. He texted me over Christmas to apologize for his previous behavior. It got me thinking about how much fun it is to have someone to flirt with regularly... yada yada yada I already like him more than I want to admit. Rats. Foiled again.

I'm a big girl now I suppose (bigger at least than the one who fell for ex-boyfriend, yikes, ask me about the housewarming poetry slam sometime) but I can't help but wonder if I perhaps do need to manage my expectations just a little bit. In the words of my co-worker Brian, "Dating is a numbers game, see a lot of people, hedge your bets, don't settle". I fancy Brian a bit of an off beat life guru. (He is also captain of non sequiturs and sweets. He fills the silence with statements like, "Luke Perry is a Dick" and the space in his top drawer with reeses. He can stay.) I am going to try taking his advice. Flings are good for the soul, just as long as the head keeps the heart in check. I doubt Scarlett Johansson is going to regret rolling around in Mexico with Sean Penn on her death bed, no ma'am, I do not think so.

Save Me From Republicans And Deliver Me From "Chief"

Two very interesting things happened to me this week.

On Friday evening, I had the unexpected pleasure of attending a taping of Real Time with Bill Maher and Gloria Steinem happened to be part of the panel. She is a personal hero of mine, and this was a thrill. That's Ms. Jacqui to ya'll because of this woman, pretty cool.

On Tuesday, I was hit on by a Republican. This was less thrilling, though the juxtaposition is amusing.

A trusted friend put it best when I told her about this happening: "Republicans don't even like women". Generally, I hate generalizations. However, this one has a certain ring to it for me.

He is a good friend of people that I adore, so I have it on good authority that he is a well meaning "good guy". Alas, it is my opinion that smart women don't sleep with republicans, even the well meaning ones.

You see, when he told me that he was reading the book George Bush "wrote" (come on, it's unlikely he can actually read the book let alone write it), I threw up in my mouth, just a little, OK a lot.

I mentioned this event to the phone sexer and he said "Jesus, does he know he doesn't live in Mississippi?" God bless the phone sexer for that. He is such a wonderfully sexy democrat I am now finding it challenging to manage my expectations.... But I digress.

Seeing Gloria Steinem speak reminded me that it is not only my own commitment phobia that makes me run in horror from a nice republican.

House Republicans recently used their new majority to pass a bill cutting funding for a whole smorgasbord of programs that serve underprivileged women and children. This includes $747M in cuts to funding for WIC (nutrition for underprivileged women, children, and infants), over a billion in cuts to Head Start education programs, and the elimination of tax breaks for private employers who offer health plans that cover abortions. This is what Republicans call "Winning".

Jon Stewart put it better that I could " ...The republicans in Congress are saying: You can't prevent an unwanted child, and you can't get care if you do get pregnant, and we won't give you any help feeding the kid after it's born, BUT those 2 mins when that skull is crowning, your baby is the most precious thing on earth".

Abortions constitute about 2% of the services Planned Parenthood provides and there is already a law in place preventing federal funds from being allocated to abortion services. So, congrats republicans, you just cut vital funding for HIV tests, cancer screening and birth control to name a few. Oh wait, I almost forgot my personal favorite. They want to close the pesky loop hole that allows federal funding for abortions as a result of rape, incest, or instances when the health of the mother is at risk. Young republicans, this is Super Sexy to mention during courting, if I do say so myself.

So, No, I don't think it's "cute" when you forward me republican propaganda. Additionally, I don't think it's funny when you reply "OK chief" to my request not to be put on any republican email lists, not even in jest. This brings me to another generalization I feel comfortable making. As a rule, do not call any woman you are interested in "Chief" under any circumstances, EVER. You just made me envision bludgeoning you.

Phone sex with a hot democrat it is.

The 25-year-old Virgin

So I met this guy at a mutual friend, M's, party and he asked for my number. He actually called me the very next week. He was super hot. Looked like Ethan Embry, you know, Mark from Empire Records? He lived in a town an hour away and volunteered to come take me out to dinner. He was really nice and sweet, brought me a present and everything. So four hours and a lot of drinks later he's back at my apartment and I have tricked him into staying the night instead of driving all the way back home. He used my spare toothbrush and everything.

All the signs are pointing in one direction. The universe is aligning and it looks like things are going to go my way for once. When the realization strikes me, I'm practically giddy and I can't wipe the shit-eating grin off my face: I am going to get laid. I'm sure of it. After a six-month-long dry spell, I've convinced myself this is basically going to be the most awesome sex of my life.

So when, after 20 minutes of naked making out this guy isn't inquiring where I keep the condoms or whipping out one of his own, I start wondering... What's a girl to do in this situation? Do I take charge and just proceed to fuck him? That's not really my style. Do I ask if he wants to do it? What if he says no? Awkward. This is so confusing. This has never happened to me before.

I did none of the above. What I did instead was obsess over why he wasn't trying to have sex with me and wonder what I did to turn him off. I decide maybe we are too drunk for this anyway and propose we go to sleep.

A few days later I asked our mutual friend what the guy's deal was and why he wasn't more aggressive in the bedroom. She replied with a bombshell so horrifying I refused to believe it.

"I think he might be a virgin."

There was no way this kid was a virgin. He's 25. And he lived with his last girlfriend. For like four years. Impossible. Twenty-five-year-old virgins, especially ones with live-in girlfriends, simply don't exist. They are mythical creatures, like unicorms. To still be a virgin at 25 would mean deciding to actively refuse to have sex and that just does not compute.

So to settle the argument, my friend texted her husband, D, who just happened to be with the guy in Las Vegas at a bachelor party. D must have just shouted across the bar to the guy, asking if he was a virgin, because immediately came the reply: "Not a virgin."

Awesome. So the next time I see him, I figure it's all systems go. And by the way, he happened to be going to Asia for the next three months as part of his graduate program, meaning his next date with me could possibly be the last time in the foreseeable future he's getting any action. It's a sure thing.

So we go out again and same deal: dinner, drinks, my house, naked making out. And the same thing happens. He's not making any move to go further. Let me recap that for you: He's naked in bed with a naked girl who is MORE than willing to have sex with him AND he's leaving in three days for Asia, which means the pressure is on as this is probably his last opportunity for some booty (at least on American soil) for the next three months. And still... nothing. So we spoon and go to sleep.

And by go to sleep I mean lay awake for hours, sexually frustrated, contemplating dying my hair, losing 10 lbs and thinking about what I can sell to get enough money to pay for a boob job because I'm clearly unattractive and unfuckable to the opposite sex. This is confounding.

I replay snippets of conversations in my head. Did I offend him somehow? What did I say? Could I actually be hideous and I'm just unaware of my hideousness? Should I have done more giggling and lip biting? If I had a glaring personality flaw, my friends would tell me, right? What's wrong with me?! I wore a short dress for fucksake! Could he be a Jesus freak?

So the next morning he says, "Oh, by the way, so you and M were talking about me the other day," meaning the text question while he was in Vegas asking if he was a virgin. "What were you guys saying about me?"

Uh oh. Busted. I have to downplay that I kissed and told and that we were talking about him behind his back. Its rude. I start backpedaling. And sweating. And blaming my friend. And talking really quickly: "Oh, that silly M, for some reason she said you were a virgin. But don't worry, I didn't believe her. Isn't she so silly? I don't know why she would think that. I told her you definitely were not a virgin but she insisted on asking D anyway..."

Me: Nervous laugher

Him: Silence

Turns out he was a 25-year-old virgin. Huh. Guess they do exist. And I'm an asshole.

I guess I should have suspected something when D said we shouldn't date because I would eat him alive. At the time I was insulted by that comment, but now I think it was more like a warning I didn't heed.

Anyway, I'm not knocking virgins. I'm not saying don't date them. But if you don't know for sure the guy you are dating is a virgin (and what 25-year-old is going to admit to that shit? When you are in the middle of a bachelor party in Las Vegas and your friend asks if you are a virgin, there is only one correct answer. Although if he had said yes, maybe his friends would have pitched in for a hooker and voila! problem solved...) it wreaks havoc with your self-esteem wondering why they aren't trying to have sex with you. And after you find out they are indeed a virgin, it wreaks havoc with your self-esteem wondering why they aren't trying to have sex with you.

So I guess what I'm saying is: Don't date a virgin. It's a deal breaker.

And the Hippos were Soiled in Their Tanks

So I was supposed to go out on like a real date with this guy I had met online. Not like meet for a drink/coffee, but a real date. He planned it and everything. It was to start at the zoo. Since I used to live just a few blocks from the zoo, I thought I would walk there to meet him.

It was a Saturday and I was in super training mode for a half Ironman triathlon, which meant I had gotten up at 5:30 a.m. and ridden my bike 50 miles, followed by an hour run. When I got home, the exhaustion, coupled with the intense heat of my shoebox of an apartment, caused me to fall asleep. For two hours.

I woke up on the couch, still in my tri clothes, already late for the date. There was no time to shower and I just hoped he wouldn't notice all the dog fur sticking to my still-sunscreen-covered, sweaty limbs. I threw on some clothes and deodorant, and ran out the door.

Although driving would be quicker, I decide to stick to my original plan and walk to the zoo. Only now I have to run. Like sprint. I texted the date real quick and said sorry I was running late and that I would be there in a few minutes and proceeded to run the few blocks through the park to the zoo.

Because I wanted to look like a cool hipster I wore the official shoe of the cool hipster: Converse All-Star sneakers. Without socks. And despite what the Harlem Globetrotters say, Chuck Taylors are terrible, terrible athletic shoes. After 100 yards I can feel the blisters forming, but it's too late to turn back now. I hobble the rest of the way to the zoo, half running, half limping. I spot a guy that looks vaguely like the guy in the online pics sitting on a bench. He's dressed a little too nicely for a date at the zoo...

At this point I realize I'm sweating profusely. It's 90 degrees. I have pit stains. I look down at my feet and the blisters have now apparently popped because blood is soaking through my shoes in several spots, turning the blue canvas dark purple. Hopefully he won't notice. I try to walk like a normal human being.

We amble (by amble I mean limp) around the zoo, looking at animals, commenting on how weird/cute/ugly they are and making getting-to-know-you small talk. Then we walk into the inside half of the hippo enclosure where you are able to view the hippos swimming in their pool. No other zoo patrons are inside the hippo house and it immediately becomes clear why. It stinks. Really bad. Not like your typical manure-and-hay farm smell of livestock and zoo animals, but really, really horrible. Like something died. There is hippo poop everywhere and it's obvious this animal is experiencing some severe digestive problems. This, coupled with the stifling afternoon heat and humidity from the water is too much. We can't just ignore it. The situation must be acknowledged.

You know what's more awkward on a first date than talking about a hippo swimming around in its own diarrhea and speculating about what it must have eaten? I'll tell you. Going to a sushi restaurant and trying unsuccessfully to stifle giggles as you discuss ordering rolls with names like "Multiple Orgasm," "Booty Call," "69," "Climax," and my personal favorite, "Foreplay." Yeah, I'm 12.

And this was a fancy sushi restaurant in a swanky part of town that people like me have no business being in. I was waaay under-dressed because he didn't tell me we were going there. He just made a reservation and it was a really fun surprise when we show up in the part of town where all the Botoxed women wear high heels and clothes that accentuate their boob jobs to run mundane daily errands, like going to the grocery store. (VH1 NEEDS to take its Real Housewives series to this part of town.)

Needless to say, this was not a place where someone can show up unshowered, wearing their bloody Converse All Stars, sweaty tank top and jean shorts. Did I mention I was wearing jean shorts? Yeah, I was. Not like the short, cut-off, trashy kind, but the longish kind that are too tight to fit a cell phone in the pocket and make it difficult to ride a bike/run to the zoo in. Not that this in any way excuses wearing jean shorts. I told you, I had just woken up.

I'm pretty sure the restaurant had a dress code and that's why we were forced to eat on the patio. The air-conditioned dining room was apparently reserved for diners who don't look all homeless-hipster chic.

Anyway, by now my feet hurt, I'm still sweating, I'm not even drunk and all this pretending that this ill-fated date is actually super fun is exhausting. So I gave up. Against my better judgement, after seriously considering taking my shoes off and walking home barefoot, and without knowing for sure that this guy wasn't a serial killer, I let him give me a ride home.

Amazingly, this guy called me again so maybe I wasn't as much of a hot mess as I thought I was. He was nice and interesting and all, no complaints there. But the embarrassment of that afternoon of horrors was too much for me to ever face him again.

I don't know what it is, but talking about poop and sex with strangers, followed by an impromptu trip to the nice part of town never fails to make me feel awkward.