Women must know more than men about how to be a real man because it seems like 910% of advice articles written about How To Be A Better Man are written by women.
It’s embarrassingly sexist. Remember the days when almost exclusively men wrote articles and whole books teaching women how to be better wives, mothers, human beings? The kind men approved of? And we didn’t get to say much about it? Our job was to listen, nod, and take notes to Improve Ourselves To Please Men More?
No, me neither. It was the ’50s and ’60s. I was either…
“This is my letter of resignation.” I pushed it across the desk. My boss glanced at it — there wasn’t much to read, just short impeccable corporatespeak saying, in essence: “I’m fucking off now. Goodbye, and thanks for all the fish.”
I don’t remember what he said. Probably, “Okay.” Maybe there was a relieved look in his eyes. He’d no longer have to worry about baby rattlesnakes in his desk or yellowcake uranium doughnuts.
“I know you haven’t been happy here.” The understatement of the year. He wasn’t solely responsible for my unhappiness. …
I hadn’t been long in Canada while I waited for the bus, sitting on some low stone steps, on a lovely sunny warm day. He approached, carrying a McDonald’s bag.
I immediately went on full red alert. He was large, scary-looking, and black.
Yeah, that last part’s not supposed to matter but it does to an American. I got hassled by black guys more there than I ever have in Canada. I only ever felt racially targeted in Toronto by Indian and Middle Eastern men. I’d been American all my life, and Canadian for maybe a year.
To be fair…
“I’m from Portugal,” he said in his thick fresh-off-the-boat accent. “I’ve been living here for seventy years. My wife died, and I am alone now. I live right over there.” He pointed to a building across the street from mine.
Oh yeah, I could see where this was going.
I am literally a young chick for the retired seniors in my ‘hood.
La plus ça change.
“Yes, well it was nice chatting with you,” I said. My head dipped toward my shopping bags. “I’ve got stuff that’s melting, I need to go. You have an awesome afternoon!”
Feminist porn? WTF? Porn created by women for women? I jumped at the chance to attend Toronto’s Feminist Porn Awards several years ago.
I knew women were making female-centered porn which I assumed, I hoped, meant it would suck less than male porn. My friend Janessa, far more a connoisseuse of sex, kink, non-cishet sex, and big dicks than I, headed eagerly to the Bloor Cinema to watch porn we expected wouldn’t involve a lot of tedious pounding of female orifices and ejaculations on faces, which has always struck me as disrespectful at best and degrading at worst.
Edited to add a gay ethical porn site in the list. Thanks for my buddy Anthony Eichberger for calling it to my attention!
When I was six or seven my mother took my brother and me to an annual Orlando fair. The main attractions were kiddie rides and of course the usual fright houses.
This particular year, either the layout of the park changed or I was now old enough to notice attractions featuring torture and abuse of women, intermingled with the children’s attractions.
You see the palest imitations of such fair bait today: The garish pastel paintings remain, but…
Men don’t really care about any of of this. Not if they like you. Don’t waste your money. — Park Avenue plastic surgeon to Nancy Jo Sales
I used to do what Nancy Jo Sales describes in her book Nothing Personal: My Secret Life in the Dating App Inferno, after she fell in love with a man half her age who wasn’t nearly as into her as she was into him.
She waits for him. She moons for him. She doesn’t want to appear too eager or clingy or — Goddess help us all, needy — so she makes few…
Note: Edited to include the title of the author’s newest book.
It amazes me that award-winning journalist Nancy Jo Sales even wants to have sex anymore. I’m further amazed she ever found dating apps addictive, which she discovered in 2015. She articulately presents how dating app companies engineer them to keep you swiping, swiping, swiping but not why she was so willing to settle for loveless, dysfunctional, often dangerous sex.
The author of American Girls: Social Media and the Secret Lives of Teenagers and The Bling Ring: How A Gang of Fame-Obsessed Teens Ripped Off Hollywood and Shocked The World…
I don’t defriend people much. I block ex-friends even less. I don’t even block assholes as much as I should on social media.
I especially don’t block people I’ve come to part ways with. Until the rise of Trumpism.
These Trumpy blobs of protoplasm take up valuable bed space in hospital wards, begging for the vaccine they refused last week as they drown in their own lungs. That’s only the apex of their mountain of sins.
Calling someone a narcissist is like accusing them of being a carbon-based life form. Duh.
I tend to roll my eyes when people talk about the ‘narcissist’ in their life or past, except for experts. I sometimes read Dr. Sherri Heller, a therapist who specializes in complex trauma and narcissism who writes extensively about genuine toxic narcissism. She’s an eminently more informed source for diagnosing it than the average layperson.
Everyone else? Not so much, unless they have something new to say (they mostly don’t), or describe what sounds like a genuine malignant narcissist, or to learn more about the…