Get Lucky

Not getting laid sucks. It simply sucks. Getting laid regularly is honestly one of the things I miss the most about relationships.

Like any girl in her twenties with a healthy sex drive, I need sex. I need to have sex every now and then. And I’m not talking about any incontrollable sex addiction here, but just basic human needs.

Since I’m not really into random one-night-stands, the situation unfortunately sometimes evolves into a Big Issue. A week without is fine, but in two I start to feel it. In a month it will start to get on my nerves. In three months, which I would’ve reached in a few days… Well, let’s just say that it's impossible to ignore anymore.

Making things worse, it’s as if the whole topic was a taboo. Although in our group of friends we’re not usually too shy when it comes to talking about our sex lives, this is the one topic we never discuss.

And I quite don’t get it – why? Out of sight (or talks), doesn’t here mean that the issue would be out of mind.

On the contrary, I've realized that being all open about it might actually help. The other day, a few girl colleagues and I were sitting over some after work drinks, and the genie was let out of the bottle. We were going through a check on our relationship statuses – “Single”, “Single”, “Single” – when suddenly, one girl blurted out the unmentionable. “Since we’re all single… How long has it been since the last time you had sex?”

At first I was shocked by the outspokenness. And the round of answers was rather miserable, to be honest – “Three months”, “Two and a half months”, “Four fucking months". Luckily, there was one cheerful “Two days, yay!” giving the rest of us a glimpse of hope. Also, it was oddly comforting to realize that the rest of us were all in the same sad boat.

Not getting any really sucks, but I don't think we should get miserable or desperate about it, or to lower our standards and sleep with whomever. Hell no! You might as well be fabulous, for sure that won’t hurt your chances.

Stay strong, girls. 

Post by Jo  

P.S. On Friday, I finally broke my dry season. Finally, finally, I had sex. Fuck yeah.

Truly, madly, deeply

A while ago, on a rainy summer night with blogs, Lykke Li and detox tea, I came across an interesting piece about our common perceptions of love and inspiration, in essence questioning the way we tend to regard love as something external to us, and inspiration as something that arises from within an artist.

Regardless of who we are or what we do, we tend to believe that love may suddenly come to us. It may swipe our feet from under us, it may throw us around and give us the ride of a lifetime – and, eventually, it may go away from us, abandon us, leave us alone. Inspiration, on the other hand, is seen to grow in the inside of an artist. If an artist manages to nurture and foster that inspiration, success will follow – and if he fails to find that inspiration, the artist himself has failed as a person.

What the article suggested was whether we should turn this whole scheme upside down – to start regarding love as an internally born emotion and inspiration as an external force. Basically, to give more mercy for the artist who’s still looking for the lost inspiration; he isn’t doomed for failure, but inspiration has just left him for a while, only to find him again later. And, what caught my attention the most, to bring more love to the world by stopping waiting for it to miraculously appear and instead, by starting to cultivate love yourself. Ultimately, people not only tend to care for the things they love, but also to learn to love the things they look after.

I really got stuck on this idea. Even after a few days of pondering, I still couldn’t take it in, or not even let go. I simply can't picture it, resigning myself for someone, growing love and affection bit by bit.

Some might say I’m ridiculously naïve, but I don't care – I sincerely want to have that zsa zsa zu. That passion, longing, and aching desire. That butterflies-in-your-stomach thing that happens when you not only love the person, but you gotta have them.

I don’t want a lukewarm love. I want it to burn my
lips and engulf my soul.

Woori (via That Kind of Woman)

Post by Jo

Hate the player, not the game

It’s always very exciting to get interested in someone new. I love the game – the looks, the smiles, the flirty talks, the carefully crafted text messages, and all the other little things – to try to figure out whether that other person is interested in you, and whether you yourself are really interested in him.

To me, there has to be a little chase. It’s a thrill to try make an impression and to give out the best possible image of you, and to see how the other one responds. What’s crucial, however, is to find an equal match. I lose my interest in a second if everything is too easy, if I don’t have to make a bit extra effort.

Until now, I’ve never lost my interest because the game would’ve been too complicated. Yeah, until now.

Lately, I’ve been playing around with this one guy, who pretty much corresponds the typical example of whom mums warn their daughters. He’s ridiculously good looking, well behaved, and overall comes across as a really nice guy. We work at the same place (oops), so we see each other quite often. The way he seeks his way to me, the way he talks to me, he really makes me feel like I’d be the only girl in the world – there’s a fire in his eyes, and be damned that smile that’s so hard to resist.

The problem is that he seems to be fascinated by roughly anything as long as it’s wearing a skirt and a little lipstick.

After a few weekends of drunk dialing scored somewhere between interested and very interested on Sally's scale, last Friday we finally happened to meet in a club. I had been guessing that he might be the player type, but boy hadn’t I realized he was such a high roller.

I saw him at the entrance with one girl under his arm. Half an hour later he seemed to be buying a drink to the second, and a while later he didn’t seem to mind the third one trying to French kiss him. It seemed as if he’d done that all on purpose right in front of me, glancing at my way to see how I’d react. Oh, and did I mention he’s still officially in a relationship? (Although be it on the final stretch.)

Honestly, I don’t think I’m up for that. Apparently, I have a limit on how much I’m willing to gamble, and this one just doesn’t seem worth the risk.

Post by Jo

#notimpressed

Last Saturday, I experienced one of the weakest pick-up attempts in a while. My friends and I were at a club opening, standing at the bar, chatting and sipping some sparkly. Suddenly, behind my shoulder I heard a nervous cough.

“Hey… Sorry… We study at the same university, don’t we?”

Struggling to recognize the guy, I was mumbling something resembling a yes, while he already blurted out The Big Question.

“So… Wanna dance?”

Wait… What? That's all? We study at the same university; therefore I should be up for some dryhumping with you, on an empty dance floor size the half of a football field? I don’t think so.

And seriously dude, don’t you have any manners at all – you didn’t even introduce yourself?

Amused, I politely declined the honor, telling him I should already be on my way home. Unfortunately, the poor guy started pleading, and next 10 minutes or so went on like an awkward broken record – “Please”, “No”, “Pretty please”, “No”, “Pleeeeease”, “No way” – and so on, until the guy finally gave up and left.

Making the first impression matters.

When approaching a stranger, aim to make an impression – any impression. Frankly, to me even a bad impression is better than no impression at all. And whatever you decide to do, just don’t apologize yourself. You won’t make an impression by being sorry for who you are.

You don’t have to do anything huge – just be cool and stay smart. Act according to the setting. If, for instance, you can count the people on the dance floor with your fingers, it’s probably better to offer the lady a mojito, not to beg for a booty shake.

Be confident, and be genuine. And please do introduce yourself.

Post by Jo

Bang Club Rules aka. how to be friends with benefits

The rulebook for friends with benefits

1. You do not talk about Bang Club.
2. You DO NOT talk about Bang Club.
3. If someone says "stop" or goes limp, taps out the bang is over.
4. Only two people to a bang.
5. One bang at a time.
6. No shirts, no shoes.
7. Bangs will go on as long as they have to.
8. If this is your first night at Bang Club, you HAVE to bang.

 
Yup. Works pretty well.

Friends with benefits, the odd grey area between friendship, one night stands and a proper relationship, might easily develop from convenient, casual sex into an emotional shitstorm if some set of rules for the thingy isn't agreed upon.

Now, I don't mean you should sit down with lawyers to negotiate – just make sure you're on the same page of each other's terms and conditions. Keep it simple, and keep it straight.

I myself have managed to maintain a great friend with benefits for some three months now. Some say it's the longest that such a no strings attached status can last, and that after that it's doomed to get emotionally complicated. Ouch.

Oh well, I guess I'm about to see. In the meantime, I'll continue enjoying myself without the awkward mornings (so, what was your name again?) or being bounded by exclusivity. A win-win.

Post by Jo

Reputation – a turn-on or a dealbreaker?

When meeting new people, I can usually pretty quickly decide whether I find these people interesting or not.

Recently, however, I got puzzled when I met this one boy at a party. He was a friend of a friend, goofy, easy-going and quite a charmer. We had a good time: he was obviously hitting on me, and I was interested. I could've easily been sold, but I was bothered by his reputation: he’d slept with more girls than an average bus can carry, and it was no secret.

I was slightly repelled by the fact – and yet, at the same time, I was intrigued by the other side of the story: rumor also had it that he was simply great in bed. Bang.

Although I had a lot of fun with him, I couldn’t decide if I should be flattered or degraded by his attention. So, when the bar closed, we ended up in an awkward afterparty with some very random people. As the sun started to rise, it was time to decide whether to go big or to go home. I couldn’t chase off the uneasy feeling, and so I decided to head home – alone.

The next day, after a long, sunny picnic with friends and some champagne, in my decreasing day-drunkenness and craving for some closeness, I came to question my decision. A reputation is just a reputation – stories and rumors – so why should I be so much affected by what other people seem to think, instead of relying on my initial reaction?

And right then, I was interrupted in the midst of these speculations and my favorite intimacy substitute Häagen-Datz by a surprising call from my regular/irregular bangbuddy.

I hadn’t heard from him in a while, but the moment I decided to answer to the phone, it came clear to me that it wasn’t the charmer himself I had been interested in last night, but only the chance for some physical action. Reputation matters, it seems, as I was suddenly so happy I hadn’t become his latest conquest.

The guy came to pick me up by a cab, and as we drove to his place, I already forgot about the charmer.

Post by Jo

Type, antitype, blood type, E-type…

Today I started thinking about types. I was sipping a late afternoon espresso with a friend of mine, and after the discussing the hot topics of the day such as Beyoncé changing her username on Instagram, I told my friend whom I went out with the other day.

“Really? Wow… I didn’t think he was your type!”, was the reply she gave me. 

Well. Neither did. This guy and me have nothing in common except a hilarious sense of humor and a big ego.

But what the hell is my type anyway?

During the previous year I have dated a bunch of guys. A tattooed consultant, who cooked a really good lasange. An Italian businessman that was 15 years older than me and drove a ridiculously expensive car. A curly haired snowboarder who, all of a sudden, quit his day job and moved to Australia. An overweighed comedy actor that smoked a lot and was drunk at least three times a week. A blonde-haired male Barbie that was such a perfect gentleman and so by the book that Disney could’ve created him.

My first boyfriend was a long-haired bass-player and the latest one a start-up entrepreneur.

So you get the range. There is no type. There is not a single common feature that I would identify about the men I get interested in.

But yet I consider myself open-minded. Untamed. I surprise even myself with my feelings. Last time I told my friends that I’m really not interested in the guy I just met at the party, as he is really not my type, I ended up being crazy about him after three days (and well, getting my heart broken after three weeks).

So I guess it’s something abstract that I fall for. It’s the bang. The uniqueness. That’s my type. Or maybe I’m just the kind of girl that one day dies for sushi and another day for bouillabaisse. Haha.

Post by Sally

Ps. With this guy, I like his enthusiasm about old school rap music and his ability of not to give a fuck.