I’m sure this is the case in reverse for women, but as I’m a guy, I can only speak to my own experience.
There really isn’t much to say in this space that the title doesn’t plainly convey, but let’s at least get into it a bit.
In the beginning of a relationship, it’s almost an absolute no-no until one of you crosses the line for the first time and lives to tell the tale.
Honestly, it’s not that different from the first time my brother or I said “fuck” at the dinner table. My parents, after initially being angry, eventually said “Well, I guess we’ve crossed the fuck barrier” and from that point forward conversations were different. Farting and fucking share this one commonality.
I’ll add, before we go further here, that even when you have crossed the fart line together it’s still not the same as you would when you’re alone. Some things are better left as they are. Farting is one of those things.
But, back to the feeling at hand…
Before you’ve crossed that barrier, every single date and sleepover and hangout is really just gymnastics for your intestines and anus. How long can you hold in this gas before you either implode, something leaks out or you can get to a bathroom that’s far enough away that she A) won’t hear it and B) the smell will dissipate by the time you return?
No matter how great the night or date has been—let’s say, absolute best case, you’ve had mind-blowing, life-altering sex with the hottest chick you’ve ever gone out with—not a moment of it compares to the sweet and total release you’re going to feel the second you hear those heels click far enough away that they’re not coming back.
You know you’re back in the safe zone, so you let it rip. Good and long, multiple times for the next few minutes and it’s bliss in a way that truly can’t be described.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: You think you’ve been good, holding it in this whole time, but you discover you’ve actually had a few silent ones leak out… which is even worse than anything you could’ve imagined because now it just plain stinks and there’s no one to blame.
I’ve always enjoyed that word. Honestly, it never fails to elicit a chuckle either from me or from the person listening to me say “intercourse” instead of any of the more coarse synonyms.
Seeing as how this is a family site, I’ll attempt to keep it as clean as we can.
As we’re nearing the end of this list, the feelings from this point out are real no-doubt-abouters. The sort of slam dunk-type feelings that almost everyone has enjoyed at some point and plainly understands how unbelievable they are.
This one is no different. Of course, I should point out that something very similar will be even higher on this list, for reasons you’ll read in a few weeks. For now, let’s focus on why we included the caveat of “routinely.”
If you’re routinely having sex with someone, it likely means one of two very good things is going on in your life.
- You have an amazing hook-up with someone and both of you are on the same page about what is actually transpiring between the two of you.
- You are in a healthy, fulfilling relationship with someone.
Those of you that know me personally are probably surprised to read that last one from ol’ Ebenezer Scrooge of Dating, the Grinch of Boyfriends past over here.
But if I’m being honest with myself and the relationships I’ve been in throughout my life, there is something undeniably amazing about routinely getting it. And not just because you’re doing the one thing nearly all of us spend some amount of time in our lives thinking about. No, that’s great but it’s not just that.
When it becomes routine that means, sure, you’ve maybe lost some of that BRAND NEW, HOLY SHIT, EVERY SINGLE TIME IS A DISCOVERY OF LIFE feeling. But what you’ve gained in its stead is much, much better. You both know each other far better, you trust one another, you understand comfort levels and preferences and desires and turn ons.
There’s really no denying that while the absolute WOW factor may have diminished, it’s definitely better after that point in time. It may never be as novel or as shock-and-awe as it was initially, but that’s ok.
Plus, what’s better than coming home from (insert anything on this earth that takes you away from home) to return to your significant other and know you both want to and will have great sex with one another.
OK, aside from the NBA.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Going so long in between sessions that you forget how long it’s been since the last time.
This would be a lot lower, but as we all know it never quite works out as you have it planned in your mind.
The reality, of course, is you really can’t tell many people in your life how you actually feel about them.
This includes, but isn’t limited to, your boss, your co-workers, a great number of your friends, your girlfriend or wife or husband or boyfriend and anyone you’re dating that you hope becomes one of those previous four.
However, given the accepted and known repercussions associated with carrying this action out it does say something about how good it feels to do it that, even with all the baggage it carries, it’s still in the top 150.
To be fair: a lot of this is based on how I’d imagine it would go. In my life, I think I’ve told someone how I really feel about them less than two times. And I’m only saying that because if I said zero, no one would believe me. But, I think it’s closer to zero.
Outside of Curb Your Enthusiasm, it’s just not socially acceptable. But, that’s what makes it so enjoyable, so fun. It’s the forbidden fruit, the complete release.
And most of you are probably assuming, especially given the picture used above, that I’m talking about someone you don’t like. A lot of them… yes, that’s what I’m referring to. But, in the case of a partner, it often is the other way until you’ve reached a deep stage in a relationship where you can really be honest.
I wish I had some good story about how I told a friend I didn’t really care for any longer that we were through as pals, no hard feelings, and listed in painstaking detail my reasons for officially dissolving the friendship. They would be initially surprised by what I was saying, but the specificity of my claims would ultimately ring true, they’d see my side and we’d part amicably.
Alas, I have no such story.
So, if you ever decide to do this and get this feeling on your belt, let me know.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Telling a girl how you feel about them—in the positive—and getting basically nothing back.
The term “blind date” isn’t really used any more. Hell, for all I know it may be offensive nowadays.
Either way, just because that exact phrasing isn’t used any longer doesn’t take away from its accuracy.
According to research I haven’t done and isn’t even close to accurate, 73% of all first dates in major US cities are what, in a previous time, were known as “blind dates.”
Which is to say that the individuals on the date didn’t know what the other looked like before they arrived. It doesn’t imply that one or both of them was actually blind.
You may argue that the concept of blind dates has gone away with online dating, but I’d simply say that you, my good friend, have never online dated. If everyone looked exactly like they did in their pictures there wouldn’t be dating any more—either because everyone would’ve paired up or everyone would’ve given up, but nothing in between.
So when you agree to go on a date with another person, a relative stranger aside from some texts and the like over the app, you really don’t know exactly what you’re getting yourself into.
Sure, the savvy among us will look up any extra photos there are to find of this new person but still, you’re going in with a curated version of what this date wants people to think they look like. The real thing can be quite different and it goes in both directions.
This feeling is about when it works in your favor. Whatever it is (hairstyle, height, weight, appearance… that bullshit that “I just don’t look good in photos!”), the person simply shines in person more than they do in the app.
That’s a fucking win.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: You’re waiting outside the bar or restaurant for this date to arrive, you see them approaching and you’re stoked because of how much more attractive they are than you anticipated… then you speak to them. And it’s like talking to zucchini. Have fun for the next two hours.
You’re waiting in line for… well, anything. Waiting in and of itself is awful, you don’t need me to provide a specific location to make this scenario more dire, but I’m going to anyway.
Let’s say you’re on line at Target. You just had a nice experience buying crap you don’t need at prices you can’t possibly imagine were this low. Now, you’ve made the mistake you always make–you’ve picked the wrong line. It’s a Saturday, it’s busy, so of course the store only has lines 1, 3, 67 and 72 open. 1 and 3 are about a quarter mile down the road, so you picked 67 because the line appeared to be shortest.
Naturally, that was a short-sighted selection as every single person in front of you has a million items, coupons, out-of-date gift cards and basically every other form of delay known to mankind is taking place in front of you.
Then, a gift from the heavens arrives.
No, not the manager coming to your lane. That’s just a sign of further delay.
It’s the woman standing in front of you (or fella, whatever). She’s gorgeous, she’s not listening to music, she doesn’t have a ring, she’s not with anybody.
This isn’t a club, you’re not even necessarily looking to score in any way—be it a number or, you know.
But, now, at THE VERY LEAST, you have someone to make snide comments with.
Don’t pretend you’d rather share those with the dude in the Star Wars shirt behind you.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling? Thinking you’re in with this girl/guy, getting the courage up to ask for a number or even say, “You know, we should hang out some time!” and then getting flat out rejected or having the line suddenly move so fast you run out of time.
What follows is the product of intense years of study, effort and research conducted by yours truly. I’ve been out there, in the battlefields and trenches, with women who have made the mistake of allowing me into their lives. More times than I’m sure they’re willing to admit we’ve done some sleeping together, these womenfolk and myself. All times (but one) I’ve been almost assuredly the more surprised party that it was occurring.
While I won’t claim to have any sort of wealth of knowledge on the subject, I think we can all agree that not all sex is created equal. And I don’t simply mean positions or people involved. I’m talking the types of sex that you can have. It’s not all the same, and so, with the help of some gChat conversations I’ve had and my own highly involved ranking system, I think I’ve developed the proper sexual power rankings.
Without further ado, in reverse order…
This is awful sex. It’s just terrible. There’s some passion, some heat in the beginning–that’s great, sure. But that quickly fades and in its place are just two sweaty people who probably don’t really like each other as much as they did 24 hours ago, but desperately need genital friction. So, they have sex. They make that last ditch effort and I’m pretty sure it ends up the same way every time: sad.
That’s how much I fucking hate break-up sex. I’d literally rather not have sex than have break-up sex. You know how bad that has to make break-up sex? Think about that for a second. The thing that we spend most of our lives working for in some regard (school as a means to getting a job as a means to getting money as means to providing as a means to having as a means to impressing as a means to… you guessed it… SEX) has a variety that is so bad, doing nothing actually beats it out.
I guess I can spoil the surprise: it was just over two weeks ago. Like most people, I’ve never really considered myself a douche. I suppose if I’d ever stopped to do some self-reflection, I’d have conceded that I do have some definite douche qualities. But, a full-fledged, certified douche? I hadn’t ever thought of myself that way.
In doing some quick research, it turns out that’s the case for most douches. I asked a bunch of guys that I consider to be douches, and almost to a man, none of them felt they fit under the category of “douche”. Hard to see the forest through the trees, and all that.
The exact timing of this discovery (like I’d said, two weeks or so ago) and the method through which I discovered (Gchat) are immaterial when compared to the actual nature of the discovery and facts contained therein. I’ll get to them in a moment, but before we do… a little back story.
I met this girl probably five years ago, we both went to the same college—she having graduated a year after I did. We’d had some mutual friends and met through them one night at a bar in the city. Over the course of time, we’d wind up hanging out a number of times in a relationship that boiled down to, primarily, alcohol and intercourse. Now, for women reading this, it’s probably pretty apparent to you where this is headed—Duh, she thought you were a douche because you fucking WERE a douche! You can’t just treat a girl like that and not expect to be thought of that way! And to you, inner-monologue, I say, fair enough. But, I’ll also add, at the time* I felt as if it was a pretty mutually understood situation we found ourselves in. There would be no formal dates, no gifts, no hugs. It was, as they say, what it was.
That took place probably 3-4 years ago at this point. Since then, we’ve both moved on to various other partners (spreading our seed, y’all!) and randomly, a few weeks back, she and I spoke over gChat, that oh-so-familiar time-suck provided by our great pals at Google.
Somehow in the conversation, a guy she had dated in the past had come up. She described him as “a complete douche” and proceeded to detail several things he did that were, unequivocally, things a complete douche would do. So, we moved forward. We discussed my female situation (more on that, in full, when we get to the next episode) and a few other topics until we landed on the question of whether or not I was still living in the same place I had lived when we fooled around.
I still am, so I said yes. She asked if I was still living with my roommate, a peach of a young gent. I still am, so I said yes.
It was at this point I sort of had a sense for where this might be going. She started talking about this one time my roommate had made her french toast (for reasons unknown, I wasn’t there) and how he helped her sister (who also lived in the building at the time) with a car break-in once. So, to sort of help my case—which, in comparison to his on a nice-ness scale, will always pale—I simply typed in that I felt that, as swell of a guy as he is, I am as well, simply in my own, albeit different, way.
Her exact response, perhaps the highlight of the entire exchange:
The simplicity. The honesty. What’s not to love? She’d follow that up with this:
You weren’t that nice to me at all. I mean, I was kind of a mess when I met you, admittedly, but I don’t have a lot of fond memories. In terms of power-ranking my “ex’s” of any kind, you’re like just a few notches above [that previous guy we’d just called a douche].
Once I’d clarified that above, in this case, meant better, I surmised that I had to be, by the square is a rectangle, rectangle isn’t a square rule, a douche. Her response:
A different kind of douche, but kind a douche nonetheless. But that other guy I was talking about was a racist homophobic. I think deep down you have a good heart.
I may have lied before. That may have been my favorite part. Truly, it is hard to pick, isn’t it? I loved that the ordering of men from her past went, Racist/Homophobic/Expensive tastes douche… then me. But, thankfully, that wasn’t wholly true:
lolol No wait, there’s also an ex of mine that turned out to be a heroin addict.
Alrighty. So, to recap… it goes, Heroin addict, Racist homophobe, Scott Spinelli. That’s some company. She assured me that I was more “like a funny Disney villian”, which isn’t necessarily the worst thing in the world to be told. We ended by me saying I’d maybe see her around, which wasn’t (honestly) any sort of invitation or olive branch, simply what I felt was a nice thing to say to someone that lives in the same town as I do, to end an otherwise strange conversation. She countered with yet another honest, simple response.
And so there you have it. That’s how I found out that I was a douche. Honestly, kind of felt like this.
And while I know, nothing wildly specific was provided and that the way I acted with this girl wasn’t necessarily in-line with the Gentleman’s Guide, it’s still quite something to be flat-out-told: You. Are. A. Douche.
Live to fight another day, I suppose.
*I went back and looked at some of our old conversations, via e-mail and chat. Of course, none of this is hard evidence, and this girl did say that she didn’t expect to be–for lack of a better term–wooed, but nothing I found suggested I was actively acting like a douche. OK, I’m done providing desperate-attempt-efforts to explain away what can be only be described as douche.
“I know what I’m doing,” I shouted at my mom (probably with a shitty, teenage know-it-all tone).
“All I’m saying is, if it’s meant to be, it’ll be. That’s all.”
It in this case was the relationship I had with my then-girlfriend in college. We were both going abroad to London that year—the only problem was that she had planned to go during the Fall and I had planned on going during the Spring.
My mother, who has been married to my father for over a quarter century, spoke to me as if she knew about relationships. Calmly, she explained that I shouldn’t feel any pressure to change everything and that not seeing her could make us grow closer. When I tried to explain that it would effectively be a year without us seeing one another (as if she couldn’t figure that out on her own), she simply gave me a polite smile and reasoned that it wasn’t as if we were going to be on different planets.
Of course, I knew more than she did (and still do, about everything) so I pushed ahead and made my decision.
I decided to completely change my plans. Re-arranged my course load, figured out where I’d live when I got back in the Spring and switched everything with the appropriate people in buildings with titles like “Registrar” and “Bursar”*.
What happened, or at least the series of things that happened, led me on the path to becoming the single man I am today. In fact, those events were the last time I was ever not-single, if that’s a thing.
I remember the exact night this story occurred. It was September 8th of this past year. How do I know that, you ask? Well, I had spent my morning/day watching my favorite football team (the Tampa Bay Bucs) lose to the New York Jets in horrific, embarrassing, game-ending fashion.
Looking back on that day, it’s interesting to think there was a point in the season where I actually had hope for the Bucs’ season, but that’s neither here nor there for this post*.
Either way, as I went to the game with a couple of my friends and I’m no longer in grade school, we were not strictly in attendance to watch the football game. Tailgating started around 10:30 in the morning and seeing as how there were only four of us total, there wasn’t much to do aside from drink (and, occasionally, eat).
Of course, the game gets going and we don’t stop drinking. In fact, all the beer from the day is making us more aware of how rapidly ‘last call’ at MetLife Stadium is approaching, so there’s now a little urgency in each sip.
Once the game is over, mind you, it’s only four in the afternoon. It’s a gorgeous day out, I’m drunk but not wasted… I’m not ending my day here.
Now, as we all know, drinking tends to beget poor judgement and a little… shall we say… desire for companionship. So, like a moron, I begin scrolling through my phone for two things… First, someone (anyone) to continue drinking with once I returned to Hoboken… and Second, any girl in my contact list that I hadn’t already either burned a bridge with, insulted or otherwise ruined an opportunity for some sort of physical interaction.
I found the former in my roommate (who was actually going to be out watching the 4 PM games anyway) and the latter in a girl I had been texting with from CoffeeMeetsBagel. We’d discussed meeting for a drink at some point in the near future, but ol’ booze brain decided it would be a good idea to meet her that night.
A little while ago, I found myself at a bar in Hoboken (where I live) with two of my friends. This isn’t unusual.
We were drinking fairly heavily, it was a weekday and one of those two friends, en route to the bathroom, was chatting with someone (a girl, in this instance) he seemed to recognize from somewhere. This, also, isn’t unusual.
As I sat at our table with my other friend, we laughed how our buddy always seemed to know someone (male, or female) everywhere and was remarkable at striking up conversation with people in public. Time carrying on as it normally does, I realized that for some reason, this girl my friend was talking to actually looked familiar to me as well.
I should note, this girl was pretty, but in a very unremarkable sort of way. The sort of way that caught your attention, but not that made you lose track of the conversation you were in, if you catch my drift.
I asked the friend sitting with me if he recognized her, if there was anything about her that caught his eye. He said no, but I knew I knew her. With nothing other than my conviction, I told my friend (and the other one once he returned to the table) that I planned on getting her attention once she passed us on her way out.
Sure enough, that moment came shortly.
“Hey!” I shouted in her direction.
She stopped, but mainly because there were a total of (maybe) six other people in the bar.
“Hey,” I repeated. “Did you go to Villanova?”
Confused, she admitted that she had.
“Do you have a somewhat attractive, blonde-haired friend that lives in Jersey City?”
The confusion still sat heavily on her face, but it had begun to lift. She admitted in the affirmative, once more.
“Do you remember who I am?” I asked, with what I’m sure was a shit-eating grin plastered on my face. Before she could answer, I continued, “You walked out on me and my friend at a bar, at Pourhouse, about a month ago. Remember? You two said you were going to the bathroom, but you never came back. I was one of those guys.”
She laughed, unsure of what to do next. Or, better yet, unsure of what I was going to do next. But, I knew for certain she recognized me now.
“It’s OK,” I laughed, truly at ease. “I’d have left me too. I’m not going to bust your chops about it, I just knew I recognized you and wanted to make sure this was how.”
Again, more giggling and confused conversation. She stumbled around for a few minutes, saying how it was really all her friend’s plan and how sensitive she is and how she wouldn’t have left us like that if it wasn’t for her friend and how she was actually having a great time that night.
“No, you weren’t,” I said. “But that’s OK.”
She continued to try to convince me that any and of all that bullshit she had spewed was true. For the record, I honestly couldn’t have cared if it was (or wasn’t) true. I just wanted her to know that I recognized her. And have her deal with that awkwardness.
Not that it’s eye for an eye, but I doubt I’d ever walk out on two (admittedly, semi-hot) girls at a bar, so this was the best I’d get.
Score one for us.