Just last week I declared my current paramour history, and then what happens? He redeems himself in such an amazing manner that it threw me into a fear-of-commitment-induced hyperventilation tizzy so scary we both thought I'd have to be hospitalized! Oy. Then this big-time Mr. Showbiz Agent Guy calls and wants to meet for drinks, and what do I do but decide to grab lunch at the local hipster coffee shop. It's never a good idea to take food from someone who has more tattoos than you—those places should be avoided for anything more solid than cappuccino foam. While it tasted just delightful going down, by the time cocktail hour rolled around, my seemingly innocent little tuna sandwich had morphed into a roiling ball of scuzz, hell-bent on shooting its way back out my mouth. Just try to be charming and witty when all you can concentrate on is not projectile-vomiting bad fish onto a nice man's blue suit. And as if I hadn't been wrong enough lately, a couple weeks ago I bemoaned the fact that all the relationship-oriented self-help books are marketed toward women—then what do I get in the mail but Esquire's Things a Man Should Know About Sex. I stand corrected.
This tiny little tome is jam-packed with helpful hints for men who fuck women. Unfortunately, it may also be one of the most idiotic guides I've ever read. Example: "Sodomy of the oral variety shall hereafter be known as a Slurpee." What? Read on: "Appropriate euphemism for womanly bits: Snoopy." Is this a guide for sexually precocious kindergartners or repressed half-wits who don't know the difference between 7-11 and 69? Note to men everywhere: I don't know any dame who wants her twat to be termed something out of a Peanuts cartoon. Other euphemisms include "golden winnebagos" (breasts— at least I think they're talking tits) and "you-know-what's" (orgasms—something I'm guessing is in short supply amongst the girlfriends of the men who penned this dreck).
As I looked through the pages, I realized that although this book is ostensibly marketed toward guys, the content gives it away—admonishing men to cuddle, listen, and not watch television while going at it. This is actually a handbook for broads to bestow upon their wayward laddies. After all, what kind of pantywaist is going to belly up to the Barnes & Noble counter and hand 10 clams over to a smirking cashier for a how-to-fuck book?
Now that I've convinced you that your time is better (and more cheaply) spent asking me questions about your sex life, I'll get down to the business of solving problems:
I have been with my present lady since last June and we are getting married on the 30th of June, 2001, and I have some wedding jitters. My fiancee has told me she doesn't have any jitters. My step mom has told me it is normal. I love my present lady and wonder what will me being married a second time feel like? She has lived with me for the past three months. Will I feel any different? Could you answer this for me and publish it, but only sign my initials, dsl? I think it would help a lot [of] people who read your column each week.
Uh, OK, "dsl." Only because you sent your fairly dull letter twice and seem rather desperate for an answer, I'm gonna tell you what I think: I have not a clue as to whether you'll feel any different once you walk down the aisle—maybe you will, maybe you won't. But as I've never taken the marital plunge, I asked my boss, a man who's blissfully married to his second wife, to read your query and provide input. After staring quizzically at the page, he scoffed, "I think he's also going to be worrying about marriages three and four." Not too terribly helpful, that boss o' mine.
I recently attended my friend Travis' second wedding, so I called him for his always-sensitive take on things. "Most women are psychotic before their wedding and then filled with triumph after they actually nail the guy. Most men are calm beforehand and then filled with terror." Uh, OK, Travis, but this time it's the guy who's nervous. What should he do, I implored. "It's like jumping off a cliff—close your eyes and do it." Just don't forget to Slurpee her Snoopy once in a while!
Got jitters? Write Dategirl at email@example.com or Dategirl, c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western, Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.