Thirteen things I learned from Cosmo, Part Cinq

Pity me. As you read this, there’s an excellent chance I’m a mile above America, wedged between George W. Bush’s Last Vocal Supporter and a Moonie behind on his conversion quota. Times like this, I wish I knew some relatively obscure foreign language — Yoruba, perhaps — in which I could repeat, “I don’t speak English.”

See, no matter how badly you pronounce, “I don’t speak English,” some wag will point out that you are, in fact, speaking Engish. Yuk. Yuk. So I need a language — something guttural, something phlegmy. I mean, a guy can pretend to be asleep for only so long.

*please please please no coughing sneezing children oh PLEASE*

. . . because I always catch stuff on planes, too. Bad enough that snot rockets are a hazard of my profession. Gaaaah, enough kvetching already — let’s find out what’s new in this month’s Cosmo.

1. I never lied enough. In Nine Love Lies Guys Tell, we’re given the following gem from Kyle, age 25, unlikely to live to 26:

“If I’m only into a date physically, I’ll lie to become whatever she wants me to be. She likes comedy? I’m a regular at open-mike night. She plays tennis? Hey, I was all-American in college.”

Hmm. What if she likes nice, thoughtful guys? Can you fake that, Kyle?

I really like this lie from T.J., age 24:

“I had a date with this super-conservative girl and wasn’t feeling it at all. So I impulsively told her I was having a lot of fun, considering I was used to dating men. It wasn’t true, but it was too funny watching her squirm.”

Heh. Wait until she calls your mom, T.J.

2. Italy must not have that “minimum model weight rule” yet. Dig the pencil arms and pogo stick legs on Cosmo’s model for 8 Top Spring Trends:

3. Best. Sex. Therapist. Name. Ever.

There’s a chance that you may contract a bacterial infection if you don’t clean your vibrator after each use. “Germs will thrive on the bodily fluids left on the surface of the vibrator, and when you use it again, you reintroduce a potentially harmful amount of bacteria into your body,” explains sex therapist Pepper Schwartz, PhD.

4. The douche is dead! And thank heaven for that. “Down-There Clean Tips” is the must-read article of this issue.

Anyway — Massengill, eat your heart out. If you simply must turn a profit, market enemas. Or nasal douches. Things that might actually help a few people. Things that don’t suck the heart and soul out of the best part of a woman’s anatomy.

5. Britney Spears has a new fragrance: MIDNIGHT fantasy, but if you’re expecting one of those pull-away flaps concealing a sample, guess again. They had to pull those issues from the stores. My understanding is that Britney’s fragrance — a tantalizing melange of Budweiser belches, leaking silicone, and Paris Hilton’s cooch — drew too many flies.

6. I’m sexy. No, really! In their regular feature, Sexy vs. Skanky, Cosmo puts “face stubble” in the sexy category, “chest stubble” in the skanky category. I have face stubble aplenty, and my chest hair has all grown back nicely, thank you.

Ahem.

See, I was getting paranoid at the gym. One of the elliptical trainers routinely measures my heart rate. Sometimes it would be 160 or 170, sometimes twice that. I began to wonder if I had some sort of exercise-induced arrhythmia so I got my doc to put me on the treadmill. But to do so, he had to put EKG electrodes on my chest, and to do THAT, he had to shave a bunch of squares off my chest.

This looked so freakish, I shaved the rest of it off. And had an itchy, stubbly chest for effing weeks. I’m never doing that again. But I’m sexy. Cosmo says so. Sexier than this dude, anyway.

I see you discussing your “love theories” . . . in a padded room.

But how does one juggle face stubble with oral sex? That’s what I want to know.

7. But I am by no means typical.

Okay, I’m cheating. I knew that already. Still, it intrigued me to see myself so poorly reflected in an article entitled “His Idea of Girlfriend Material: These factors convince a guy you’re worth forfeiting his single status for.” Ignore the dangling preposition and follow me on this point by point:

(A) Picks up the check. Cosmo argues that guys want women to pick up the check occasionally, but I’m old school. This would make me uncomfortable. On the other hand, if she said, “I’m taking you out to dinner next Saturday,” I would expect her to pay for that meal. See, if I’ve asked her out, I’m paying. That’s all there is to it. You don’t ask someone out and then let her pay. Am I wrong?

(B) Have Friday-night plans. “Sure, you want to see him, and he appreciates that. But when you bombard him with a steady stream of e-mails and text messages asking if he wants to do something this weekend, it’s suffocating.” But again, I disagree. If I’m into someone (as I was with Karen, right from the start), there’s no such thing as suffocation. Okay, I suppose if she’d followed me into the bathroom, I might have been a bit creeped out. Maybe.

(C) Love his guy stuff. This assumes I have “guy stuff.” I don’t.

(D) Unleash your lust. “When a guy looks ahead to his future with a girl, he wants to imagine crazy nights of wake-the-neighbors sex.” Here, at last, we agree.

This article carries a cool sidebar — vignettes from five guys telling how they knew She was the One. My story’s closest to Paul’s: “The first time I slept over at my girl’s place, we stayed awake the entire night talking and laughing and totally lost track of time. I knew then that she was for me.”

Say it with me: awwwwww.

8. Speaking of stubble.

Q: My guy’s scratchy stubble makes my face red after we make out. Help!

‘Kay, that wasn’t exactly my question, but close enough. What’s a guy to do — Nair? Waxing?

A: Get him hooked on a daily moisturizer to soften his scruff . . . . Look for creams with smoothing shea, jojoba, or cocoa butters.

But won’t that make me greasy?

Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s not about me.

9. I am a well-bonded babe. I took the How Comfortable Are You With Intimacy? quiz. Each question has three possible answers: (A) aloof and cold, a la Hannibal Lecter; (B) scary-clingy, a la Alex Forrest; and (C) normal. Pick the normal response each time and you are, like me, a “well-bonded babe.” Good for you!

Who am I kidding. I know how to take tests — that’s how I got where I am today.

10. What to do about my mother.

At last, an article for me: When Your Mother Bugs the Hell Out of You.

These expert strategies will help you handle some common (and universally infuriating) mom experiences.

Yes, help me, please! What are your recommendations, O Cosmo Goddesses? (Goddess. Author: Colleen Rush.)

“Keep a tighter lid on your drama.” No problem. I share nothing with the woman.

“When she sends you sensible new undies, scrubs your moldy shower curtain, or calls to check if your apartment is warm enough, tell yourself, ‘She misses me’ instead of ‘She thinks I am a slut who lives in a pigsty and can’t work a thermostat.'” Won’t work. My mom already knows I’m a slut who lives in a pigsty. And she hasn’t sent me any sensible new undies in, oh, I don’t know, MONTHS.

When she plays the martyr: “Sure, it can sometimes feel like a manipulative mind game — and some moms do dig the attention and sympathy that comes with self-imposed martyrdom. But also consider this: When you were little, she was supposed to shield you from life’s tough stuff.” Ahem. When I was little, she WAS life’s tough stuff.

Next!

They’re BOTH tasty. Stop trying to turn women into anorexics already.

11. Ian Kerner, PhD sex therapist, is quite a wag.

We’ll get to his waggishness in a moment. In his article Turn Your Guy Into a Sex Genius, his lede confirms something women have been telling me for years: thousands of men are complete idiots.

In my 10 years as a sex therapist and author, I’ve asked thousands of men where a women’s clitoris is, and more than half of them believe (incorrectly!) that it’s located deep within the vagina.

I dearly love that (incorrectly!) Tells you what he thinks of his audience.

But if your man’s what I call ill-cliterate, don’t write him off as a lost cause — there are ways to school him gently on the techniques that cause your toes to curl.

‘Ill-cliterate’ doesn’t quite have the élan of ‘truthiness,’ but I give Dr. Kerner points for trying.

I’ve waited long enough . . . time to read Cosmo’s HOT PINK FEATURE ARTICLE, THE SEX HE’LL DIE FOR (hey, didn’t I write about that yesterday?)

12. I will never learn. As many times as Cosmo’s sex articles have disappointed me, I keep expecting the next one to tell me something new. Here, listen: what am I supposed to die for?

• A massage in which she opens and closes my butt cheeks, doubtlessly imitating Donald Duck the whole time.
• “Tease him like crazy.”
• “Don’t neglect the nipples.” Um . . . OLD NEWS, okay?
• Run your fingers through his pubic hair — oh, I bet it would feel real fine to have a few dozen short hairs plucked out at an inopportune time.
• Hand jobs. We’re supposed to believe guys don’t get hand jobs anymore, so it’s some kind of novelty.
• Blow job techniques modeled after the swirlie. I’ll concede this one; or at least, I won’t knock it till I’ve tried it.

But the bottom line message is undeniably true: the more you drag it out, the better the orgasm. No duh.

13. I’m glad Karen doesn’t read Cosmo. Imagine if she put this gem into use:

When you’re sipping your drink, use your tongue instead of your lips to cushion the edge of your glass. Just that little glimpse of the tip of your tongue will drive him absolutely wild.

Me: What are you doing?

K (innocently): What?

Me: You were thrusting your tongue. You were making strange, disturbing, involuntary movements with your tongue.

K: I was not!

Me: You were. I saw you. Jeez, let me think — do any of your meds have extrapyramidal side effects? That’s all you need, tardive dyskinesia, like you don’t have enough —

K: This is not tardive dyskinesia. THIS is tardive dyskinesia (makes obscene gesture with tongue).

Me: Stop it!

K: I believe I have proven my point. Now, calm down. Cosmo said I should show you the tip of my tongue when I drink, okay? Happy now? Has the magic been thoroughly obliterated enough for you?

Me: Well . . . thanks, but no thanks. You’re weirding me out.
It’s tough trotting out new moves in a *cough* well-established marriage. I doubt we’ll be learning about fellato-swirlies anytime soon.

***

That’s it, folks. I may or may not be blogging for the next few days; it all depends on whether my hotel has a business center. Or, who knows, maybe my new toy (a Blackberry, woo hoo!) will work out its ‘net access problems, or maybe I can get Karen to return to the fray.

Meanwhile, have at it in the comments. Link yourselves to your hearts’ content!

See you soon.

D.