An Open Letter To Men:

Two easy ways to instantly make any conversation better and win us over: 1.) Ask how we are. 2.) Say goodbye when you have to go.

And the Number One way to instantly make a conversation better and win us over: Initiate it.

Some things will always take precedence over you in our lives. We're sorry; we love you, but our own sanity, dignity, ambitions, family, closest friends, and important work functions may trump you at times. We will try to understand when yours do the same to us.

Operate under the assumption that if you're doing it, we know about it. Women's intuition is not for naught.

We worry. A lot. And we have 15 different scenarios as to why you seem distant. We know when to reassure you, so please reassure us when something's not wrong.

...Conversely, we know "I'm fine" doesn't always really mean "I'm fine."

Most of you have heavy-sensory loaded hot-spots somewhere between your ears, jawline, and neck that lead straight to below the belt. You may not know where they are. But we do.

We also enjoy a kick-ass action movie, extra-buttery popcorn, and a huge Slushie. So please tell us when a good one comes out. Bonus points for a hot leading man.

Watching a Girl's Gone Wild commercial with you is one of the most excruciatingly embarrassing moments of our life. Because we know they're fake. But we're not sure if you do. And if ours don't look like that, we don't want you to be let down.

...However, do not instantly assume we don't watch porn as well. 1 in every 3 visitors to an erotic website is a woman.

Body hair is what makes a man. Lack thereof is what makes a woman. Stop fucking apologizing for having it. However, just as we do up-keep, you can, too, and we will think even more highly of it.

Although we're pretty sure you DO notice when we gain five pounds, thank you for pretending that you don't.

Our women's magazines are not coasters. Our beds are not the kitchen table. And our shower is not a toilet. Please respect all accordingly.

There are some nights that we don't particularly want to have to change, do our hair, and move to wherever it is to see you. So when we say, "No, really-- go out to the bar with the guys," what we really mean is, "I want to catch up on Sex and the City re-runs, and I'm tired and didn't shave today." This is not us trying to get rid of you-- this is us just knowing that you need time with your boys as much as we need time to be by ourselves.

We can drive perfectly well. In fact, we are pretty sure we can drive better than you do. In any case, we're intelligent enough to be charming when we ask for directions, so we get the short-cuts.

Your parents terrify us.

And if we wanted to be with your friend, we would be with your friend, and not with you. So don't worry about it. We're with you.

We do not understand your all-in-one body wash/shampoo/whatever else it is it says it will do. And we would rather take a straight water shower than be stranded at your place and have to use it.

So...

If we leave a toothbrush or a small travel container of shampoo or body wash at your place, we are not trying to "mark our territory." We are trying to remain sanitary, because we're pretty sure you enjoy it when we smell good.

We love the fact you are always, ALWAYS warmer than we are. Just like we love the fact that you still let us tuck our very cold toes behind your very warm and sensitive knees. So thank you.
A few of your shirts may go mysteriously "missing," but just think of us wearing them to bed naked, and I'm sure you'll miss them a lot less.

If we offer to give you a massage, you can be pretty sure that what we mean is, "Let me touch you until sex seems like a good idea."

You do not get truly great head until you give good head.

Most of us do know how to hammer a nail, change a tire, and open a pickle jar. But offering to help is always a nice gesture.

And we love it when you act all manly. You know what I mean, taking charge of a situation when we're unsure or hesitant (and yes, this applies to sex, too), puffing out your chest, or just yelling at the TV screen when playing video games.

Our closest girlfriends will always know the real reason we're mad at you, or what we want for our birthday, or when the anniversary is, even when you don't. So it would be beneficial to make good friends with one of them, so that you can always ask for a clue when you need one.

And yes, you should assume that your worst fears are confirmed and we talk about you when we're together; that they are a little skeptical about you even if we are not; and that they are also informed as to how endowed you are. Rest assured, this does not mean we pick on you or judge you-- it's just like how you trade final scores of your favorite football teams with your buddies. They need to know who's good on the field, too.

They way you talk about your ex-girlfriends tells us a lot about the way you talk about us when we're not around.

Not all of our biological clocks tick. So stop worrying we just want you for is marriage and babies. Just like how not all of us always want to cuddle.

There will always be other women who will want to tell you how attractive you are, how smart, how brave, how strong, how amazing, how charming. We may not tell you every day, but by being with you, we are proving the fact DAILY that we KNOW and appreciate how attractive, smart, brave, strong, amazing and charming you are. We wouldn't be with you if we didn't think you were. And we really do think you are, so please don't fall for other flattery so quickly.

We think chicken wings are a perfectly acceptable dinner, too.

If we really like you, we're willing to do most anything for you. Don't abuse this. It's the quickest way to turn like to loathe. And we really like to like you. Because yes, men are pretty great.

Anything I left out? Anything else you want to know about how or what women really think? Anything you need translated or what to clear up on your side for us? Now is your time to ask. I'm feeling extremely candid and sharing.

XOXO

Taking Back "Slut": Self-Marketing and Dating in the 21st Century

King of Couture Valentino once said, "I love sluts. They're some of the kindest people I know." I have to say, I'm rapidly gaining on appreciation of this quote. First, it was when my mother looked at my profile picture and said, "You're looking a little trampy again, dear." Then, it was when Alli looked at me the other day and said, "I don't get what you find appealing about being a slut." Am I? Am I a slut?

Webster's dictionary defines "slut" as, "a slovenly woman; a promiscuous girl; or a saucy girl." I decided to look up "slovenly," just to be clear-- it means "sloppy in appearance." I then looked up "promiscuous"-- "not restricted to one sexual partner."

Well, in this case: A.) Yes, some mornings, like yesterday, I do feel extremely sloppy in appearance. I do believe what I actually said about it was, "Wow, I feel like such a scrub today."
B.) Well, I have not been restricted to one sexual partner.
And C.) A saucy girl? Damn, you got me there!

So, I guess I am a slut. But in today's world, "slut" seems to be used synonymously for "whore," and this is where I put my foot down. I am not having enough sex to be considered as the modern version of a slut. I really wish I were, though. In fact, I am not having sex right now, period. I go through self-imposed dry spells far too often to be considered a slut. I'm also notoriously choosy about who I kiss, let alone sleep with. If you can please point me in the direction of all these men you think I am sleeping with, I would love to shake them by the hand and say "congratulations!" And also, possibly-- "do you want to make the rumors true?"

But if we take the attributes of a slut-- the provocative clothing, the bluntness of sexuality and a frankness in talking about it-- then yes, I might be what people would call a slut. Dating, relationships, and especially sex are important to me. Those are the things I find fascinating, but also find most people don't talk enough about truthfully, candidly, and personally. Sex is how the human race continues-- relationships and dating are what gets us there. (Most of the time.) (Unless you really are a big slut.) (I love you.) I can't tell you how many times people have said to me, "the same thing is happening to me" or "I'm so glad you said that because I never would, but I feel the same way." Furthermore, I write a blog called "Sex and the College Girl." Would you really take me seriously as someone who knew what she was talking about if I looked the same way I do on any given day in my profile picture, or is that same infamous picture that makes my mother cringe what helps give me my credibility? Is my cleavage helping you trust in me? Is my cleavage giving me credibility?

...That makes me giggle every time I write it. Obviously, I don't take myself too seriously. Another reason why I'm (for the most part) fine when someone calls me a slut.

Most of life today is about selling yourself as something-- in the workplace, in your education, in your personal and love lives. Self-marketing (to go back to the Chanel quote from the "Irreplaceable" post,) is what sets you apart. I've run into situations in life as a retail employee, as a student, and as a girl someone was dating in which self-marketing became a paramount focus. In dating itself, a woman has to market herself as many things, as Marilyn Monroe, Madonna, and Meredith Brooks all explored-- you must be virginal and farm-fresh when meeting parents; laid-back and boy-like yourself with chillin' with a significant other's buddies; and by turns ferocious or soft in the bedroom. Meeting your S.O's parents for the first time? All about self-marketing, because believe me, a good job selling yourself as "such a nice girl" does a lot to cancel out the fact that his mother knows you are also the girl sucking her baby boy's dick. Women, it appears, are marketing geniuses.

There are different levels to selling yourself, I have learned, and they can be used interchangeably between your professional and personal life. Meeting someone to talk face-to-face trumps any other way of communicating to get a point across, be it a raise, or asking the guy you're seeing what is going on between the two of you. It is much harder to be turned down in person-- this is true, and this is the A-bomb in your arsenal. No one likes to disappoint anyone to their face. If you want something from someone, you have to get in theirs. From there on, voice-on-voice interaction on the phone is personal. Tone carries. People get attached to certain voices. Text is good in a pinch because it's nearly instantaneous, but then, it's just your thumbs touching, or "thumbs fucking," as my same mother who despairs in my profile picture, calls it. (If she only knew how much literal "thumb fucking" Perfect and I have done via text...the text charges would make sense to her.) Email is the worst way to try to prove a point (or the grandparent of email-- letter writing,), because so much time can lapse between the events of it being written, and it actually getting read. And then, you are separated by time and place and distance. You will never know how the other person actually took it when they read it. Sometimes, seeing a person's eyebrows flash in the moment of reading will tell you more than the formal and well-thought-out response they will give you, if any at all. Instantaneous satisfaction and knowledge is the difference between vocal and written communication.

How do women market themselves, you ask? What is selling yourself in dating? (And no, I don't mean prostitution.) How can someone use marketing techniques to further their dating game? How does it apply?

Easily. Be the hottest commodity out there. Assess your competition (other women), the needs of your client (the man you're after), and then explore how you can fill those needs not offered. Dating itself is favorably marketing yourself. What services do you offer? What are the benefits of being with you? I'm not suggests you change yourself to become "more desirable" and become someone that who you're not-- instead, conduct a mental revenue list of what is so great about yourself that it draws men to you and makes them want to be with you. Work on improving areas you're not so hot in-- communication, for me. Work even harder in areas you already rock in so that you blow the rest of the competition out of the water, and possibly, even out of the scene.

The concept of selling yourself brings you back to the concept of being a slut. Maybe I am a slut for how well I market myself as a sex, love, and relationship columnist. Maybe I am a slut for how well I appeal to men-- not just as a girl to date, hook up with, and have sex with, but also a a friend. You can argue that any woman who markets herself as a favorable dating candidate or a successful business woman is a slut. If so, then I'm going to say it loud: I'M PROUD TO BE A SLUT.

XOXO

Open Letter to the Damned, AKA: Perfect, If You Find This Blog, Read This.

In the 1957 article in the Atlantic by Nora Johnson that this blog gets its title from, she states, “Promiscuity demands a certain amount of nerve.” So does writing things like this blog. I recently had to edit a past-post that included my full name after it was brought to my attention that when you Googled me, you came across my blog on the top of page 2. Now, it’s pushed back to the last page, and I really hope that, say, Perfect doesn’t have the time on his hands to Google-stalk me and find this.

But sometimes, I think if he were to, it would save me a lot of time with the explaining and having to do the whole “talk about my feelings and relationship” thing. I’m a writer by love, nature, and trade, obviously. It’s so much easier for me to write what I’m feeling than actually have to look at a person I have all these thoughts and emotions about, and in most cases, deeply care for and have to say hard things to them. So, I do things like this: I write open letters. Sometimes, I hope the people that they’re intended for find them. Other times, I’d be perfectly happy if they never saw the light of day in that person’s eyes. It’s just getting the words out there, somewhere, anywhere, that helps me to get it off my chest and out of my head.

I’ve got two such letters today. One is short and not so sweet, born out of frustration and the fact that I can’t seem to tell the people that I love when I’ve had enough. The other has more depth, as it’s written for a character in my life who we all know, and some of us love, who just can’t seem to find a time to get close enough to breathe the same air in the same space I am so I can say this to him. As of today, and a failed trip to Worcester, I’m at my wit’s end, and really starting to consider writing this and somehow getting it to him if he doesn’t get that fine ass of his to Burlington within the next, oh, WEEK. Summer’s ending—he’s leaving, I’m going to be getting busy with my jobs at school, and there are still things left very, very unsaid between us. What do you think? Do I write him the sort of letter that he, in his helplessly, lovably narcissistic way would probably keep for the rest of his life, and his grandchildren would find years and years from now and be like, “woah, Grandpa, you were a lady-killer! You put this bitch through the ringer!” (Yes. His grandchildren would speak exactly like that, smoke a pack of Camels a day, and die early in ATV- and too many Pabst Blue Ribbon -related accidents. Actually, we may be talking about my potential future grandchildren. His would never use the word “bitch” to describe a woman. His would wear plaid and flannel and denim and be musical and unfailingly polite and everyone would love them, just like him.)

To certain girls who have perfectly lovely boyfriends who they constantly can’t seem to help but make drama with and then complain about said drama to me: “I don’t want to hear it any more, really. You’re a great friend, and I love you to bits and pieces, but I just can’t handle listening to you bitch and moan about things that half the time are your doing. At least you HAVE a boyfriend. At least you’re not totally, hopelessly, foolishly crushed over a guy who doesn’t seem to want you back.”

To the boy who made me so very, very happy, and then, so very, very confused with good chances of happiness-showers to break up the gray days: “My only regret is ever letting you go, letting the time and the distance get in the way of the words that I wanted to say to you, but never seemed to get the chance. Well, here they are. Some things, you cannot avoid forever, no matter how hard you try. I can’t avoid saying this, and you can’t avoid hearing it.

You know what? It was scary for me, too. I’ve never brought a guy home. And I’ve never let them stay the night at my place. And I certainly haven’t let them come back and spend hours and make themselves so comfortable as you did. And after you left, I had a panic attack about it, about how happy you were and how comfortable and natural it seemed. And you know what I did? I thought about it, about why it scared me, and then I got over it and said, “hey, whatever happens, happens. I know the way I feel, and I shouldn’t let fear and worry and the past and stupid stubborn independence get in the way of that.” I got over my scares. Which is why it just kills me that you let yours get to you.

I was willing to work. I was willing to put time and energy and gas and money and emotions and sweat and tears and laughter and joy and sadness and pain and maybe even after time, love, into this, and I don’t think you know that. I don’t think you know that I’m not the type of girl to just give up when you hand me an obstacle. I don’t think you know that challenges are what excite me, and finding a way through them is something I consider crucial to life. You’re willing to risk life and limb for the adrenaline rush—diving, biking, traveling, whatever—but you seem unwilling to try when you see the potential for pain emotionally. I, on the other hand, can’t fathom any good reason for taking the risk to hurt myself for fun and entertainment, but when it comes to emotions, I am reckless in them and how and where and to whom I hand them out, and I think I live a better life because of it. You cannot live always worrying about getting hurt; it stunts your growth and opportunities. And it drives me absolutely CRAZY that you can live your physical life one way, but be so cautious emotionally. I’ve been hurt, too. I’ve been cheated on and literally abandoned by the man I loved and never heard the words “I love you” in return, but I’m still here, playing the game, asking for more. If you’ve already lost so much, what do you have but more to gain? Yes, you’re going away soon, and yes, life will be changing for you, but that doesn’t mean you have to lose all of what you used to have or have now. You’re going to find that there are some things worth taking with you, some things you never want to lose, and some things that are willing to work with or for you to make things happen. “Change” doesn’t have to mean “let go.” Change can be mutable, fluid, and accommodating. I was more than willing to change with you, let you test things out, and see what would happen. Yes, you were right—it would hurt less to end it now than in the fall if things didn’t work out, but it still hurt. We still lost things—a summer of fun, the chance for something, weeks and days and hours. What did we gain by ending? We had a great month—then, what?

When we last talked like this, you told me what you thought would work. I agreed that your logic was sound, and to try it. (You are such a logical and methodic and thoughtful person, and I am not. I am illogical and spontaneous and challenging and blunt.) Now I’m telling you, bluntly, that it’s not working. I’m not happy. This, whatever this is between us, or more to the point, whatever is not going on between us isn’t working for me. I’m finding that despite time, and distance, and our agreement to be friends, that I still miss you, and how things were.

I’ve met a lot of people since we ended; hot guys, smart guys, nice guys, funny guys. Guys who cooked. Guys who spoke French. Guys taller than you. Guys who complimented me. But none of them were quite you. None of them seemed to be what I wanted, or what I needed. And every time I met a new guy, I found myself missing you a little more.

I miss you waking me up on the morning on your way into work, and I miss how I used to not have to debate with myself if it was ok to send you a text or call you or not. I miss your voice and your hands and your smile and your laugh and your heat. I even miss the way you made yourself so comfortable dislodging pillows on my bed; your hair, and your dog’s hair that I still find in my sheets; the thought of you being there for me when I needed you for anything from a bad day and the blues to a friend’s pregnancy. I miss the way you talked so easily with my friends, and the way you would look at me as we laid side-by-side in my bed, ridiculously tiny for the two of us, yet somehow never cramped. I miss rolling over in the night to face-plant in your underarm hair that I could braid, and the way you looked mortified and then chuckled as I rolled back over quickly. I miss you steaming up my car in the rain so I had to turn the defrosters on and kiddingly berated you for your metabolism. I miss watching how much you could possibly eat, and how you can eat a cupcake in just two bites. I miss your kisses and your stellar hugs and the feeling of being safe tucked in close to your chest. Obviously, there’s a lot I miss about you. This isn’t even the half of it.

(It also kills me that drunk sex with me is the only sex you know with me. Um, there is no delicate way to put this, but I am much, much, MUCH better than that. I have tricks that have tricks, and that night I was so loaded that I forgot to lip-nibble! I FORGOT TO LIP-NIBBLE! That is beginner’s stuff! That is, like, the foundation on which they built the pyramid of Good Making Out! Let’s not even get into what personal favorites of mine I forgot to bring out and play during sex…you get the point. You’re wandering around the world thinking that that is how I have sex, and I’m telling you right now—it’s not. Please, let’s go for a ride again. You owe me four shots of vodka and mutual orgasms, anyway, before I consider us even. I do not RSVP to a party and then not come.)

Basically, what I’m trying to say here is that I worked with you once to reach a conclusion that suited you. (Personally, that was unfair. I would do almost anything you ask me to, including putting on flippers and diving into the sea to pretend I was a mermaid for the rest of my life. Just saying.) Now, I’m asking you to work with me and possibly re-work something to suit both of us. Awhile ago, I was told that you still had feelings for me. Granted, it’s been a long time since then, but I tried my hardest to get to you; it just never worked. If you still have those feelings, or even a shadow of them, I want to try again. This time, With Feeling. You taught me so much in such a short time—how to open up and trust someone; how and why I would want to be honest with someone; how to talk about what I felt or needed; what a good relationship should look, feel, sound and even taste like; that I don’t, and shouldn’t, have to settle for the guys who either won’t or can’t give me those things; and what it feels like to be with someone who actually cares about you. I never had my doubts, just so you know. I may have been by turn jealous or suspicious or had low self-confidence or was confused, or doubted myself, but I never doubted either your feelings for me, or if you were doing right by me. You always, even still, do right by me. I couldn’t, and I don’t, ask for more than that.

Why can’t we meet in the middle? How can we fix, mend, repair, or re-start what was lost? If we can’t, if it’s over, and you’re done with it, then just know—I do miss you, and I do still want to be a part of your life and have you be a part of mine, and I thank you, so much, for both showing me a good time and what was possible. I had fun, killer.”

In other, non-related news, I just saw a porn in which a girl got ejaculated on her tramp stamp. I don’t think they were going for irony, but they achieved it. God bless American couples with video cameras and a desire for self-voyeurism, a bad break-up, and a vindictive ex-boyfriend. (Another reason why if you do decide to make a video, there should only be one copy, which the woman gets to keep possession of.)

So, I’m a little loathe to post pictures of Perfect here for obvious reasons, like, using his image without his consent, or him finding this blog. (Somehow, I think it would be worse if he found it with pictures of him rather than just, you know, with all these posts and posts and posts about him…I don’t really get the logic behind that thinking either; I’m just weird like that.) Anyway. I’ve found this ( http://www.jercoons.com/?s=media ) guy, who is, funnily enough, like a version of Perfect 1.5. (If you were wondering, the real Perfect is version 2.0.) They look similar enough—same hair, similar smile, similar eyebrows, both from Vermont, both musically inclined. The real different is that one of them plays shows and tours, and one of them does not. (I found the stay-at-home version.) Just give Jer a bass instead of a guitar, a deeper speaking voice, longer eyelashes, another, like, fifty pounds and biceps that could be nicknamed Thunder and Lightning, and (you’re going to have to trust me on this one,) make him a little more rugged and handsome, his music a little less pop-y and more brooding, and you have Perfect. I really debated adding a link to Perfect’s band’s page, buttttt…again, maybe a little too close for comfort.

I’d really like you to hear Perfect’s music, because that boy has the voice of an angel. Really. Me, Miss Not-In-Touch-With-My-Emotions; Miss Keep-It-Bottled-Up, Please; Miss I-Love-Hip-Hop-And-Alternative-Rock—I get a little gooey every time I hear him sing. Ok. So maybe not a little. Maybe like, a lot. Maybe like a puddle of girl on the floor, seeping through the cracks. Maybe like, he wrecks me. I’ll admit it. Once he played one of his songs for me in bed one night and sang along to me, that was it. I was done. I listen to it every night now—it’s become my lullaby. It instantly transports me back to that night, and how warm and bubbly and safe and comfortable and happy and, yes, drunk I felt. Once you’ve had an experience like that, there’s just no going back. I've been sleeping the best of my life since then, lulled to sleep by that song. (It's "Breakdown", if you really want to know, and the part that Perfect says he hates the most is possibly my favorite part of the song.)

If anyone really wants the link, ask for it personally, and I’ll give it to you. I can’t let you doubt Perfect’s musical integrity after listening to someone I tout as him, but a lesser version. Also, I don’t want any of you dying from curiosity. Also, I’d love to in an off-hand way get his band more coverage, because as I told him when we were together, it’s virtually a sin that they don’t plays gigs and don’t actively record more. And John, my Knight in Shining Honda Armor, is his absolutely amazing self-taught guitarist. Adorable and talented John, and perfect Perfect together. Who could resist that? Can I please consider this both Doing A Good Deed and Helping A Friend Out? Please?

Now, I have a cake to go have and eat it, too. Isn’t life grand?

XOXO

P.S-- Oh, ohohohohohh, I have to admit: I've been having the most crazy-realistic dreams lately. Even if I may not be getting a lot of action lately, my subconcious is. I had dreams about Perfect and sex with Perfect two nights in a row, so detailed that I could feel his hands on mine, the smoothness and softness of his skin and hair, his body-heat and sweat and weight on me, and then last night, a dream about-- surprise, surprise! Talk about a blast from the (not-so) past!-- Jersey Blunt, and let me tell you, the feel of his package did not disappoint. Here's hoping for more such dreams tonight, whoo-hoo!