Men like to laugh off women who complain that sex is hard to come by; they can’t imagine how hard it can be for a woman to get some when there are so many willing dudes out there.

You guys are SO wrong.

Sure, sex would be easy if we were willing to sleep with ANYthing, but why should we, if you’re not? And don’t say you are, because when it comes down to it, men are way more prudish than they let on. Plus, on the flip side, it’s actually easier to get women into bed than people think, because all it takes is saying the right things and seizing opportunities.

If there’s anything I take pride in, it’s my honest vibes. If i want someone, they know it, even from across the room. I’m not the romancing type, either. Some of my girlfriends require dinner beforehand even if it’s just a bootycall, but I don’t believe in wasting my precious time. We all have needs, and we should recognize that in each other. Why beat around the bush?

So knowing this, I am utterly confused as to why men who clearly pick up on my honest vibes, do the number exchange thing, call me out, flirt, etc., and then neglect their cues. If we hang out and flirt all night, then leave together, for example, and even share a cab, there isn’t much left to do on your part. The heavy lifting is over with, and yet y’all pass on the kill. Wtf?

We (as in us gals) could write it off, of course, if there were no flirting (because there’s always the chance he’s gay, or just loves your platonic company–though, seriously, what are the odds of that), or if after the incident we never got another phone call. And yet, we’ve all seen it happen: men follow up time after time, go through all the same motions, and then just leave the tension to hang and eventually die (because my patience, as I said earlier, is in limited supply).

We could do your work for you, of course, and invite you over to our places, but having to do that is a huge turnoff. Plus, you never know which guys will get all weird and judgey, like it’s inappropriately sluttish or overly aggressive behavior, when subconciously they’re just grateful they weren’t the ones who had to take the plunge. Pathetic.

And that, boys, is how it’s possible to have confident, hot women all over town who are sexually frustrated. Because y’all are a bunch of cowards, or weirdos, or both.

The only line that made sense from Balls of Fury: “It’s better to die like a tiger than to live like a pussy.”

I learned yesterday that I’m considered by some of my gay friends to be a fag hag. Call me a killjoy, but I was kind of offended.

When I think of fag hags, I think of women who brag about having gay male friends like they’re accessories. I think of women who measure their fabulousness based on the amount of attention they get from a community that is stereotyped beyond belief. I think of the hours these men put in (for what reason, I’ve no idea) hanging out and shopping with these insufferable people who treat them like talking pets and who probably talk about themselves more than is healthy.

That stereotype aside, the idea that I would make friends with people because of their sexual orientation offends me. First of all, I have the most amazingly bad gaydar it’s ridiculous. I didn’t even realize most of my gay friends were gay at first, because sexual orientation just doesn’t cross my mind when I meet people unless they’re people I’m sexually interested in. Not to mention, before moving here I had surprisingly little exposure to the gay community even though I lived in New York, mostly for coincidental reasons. My best friends there are all straight. What’s more, prior to meeting my boyfriend, they were mostly straight men, not women (a.k.a. the farthest thing away from gay stereotypes).

Here, it’s a different story. I formed an instant bond with several of my co-workers here, several of whom are gay, though I didn’t know it at first. We get along famously because they are awesome people. And they are awesome by their own merit, not because of a label people apply to them. I don’t care how much some gay men enjoy being stereotyped, I simply do not believe that being attracted to the same sex gives you instant fashion cred, or special insight into my female mind.

Anyway, this came up because I think a maybe-closeted coworker may have been trying to come out to me the other day. When I said as much at dinner last night, and said that I didn’t understand why he’d pick me and that situation as a platform to reveal himself, my other gay coworkers laughed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and called me the “biggest fag hag a the table” (effectively insulting my other colleague, who herself has accepted the title with pride).

Of course, I know this was meant as a compliment of sorts, but I’m still offended. I don’t understand why gay men would use it as a compliment … as an Asian woman, I know what it’s like to be in that role. Scores of non-Asian men throughout the world just love surrounding themselves with Asian women because we make neat, exotic accessories. They think it’s complimentary to tell Asian women they are beautiful, but we don’t laud them for it; when I tell a man he has an Asian fetish, or is a sinophile etc., I mean it as the sincerest expression of disrespect.

I’ll take their compliment, but I still think the label at least indirectly sets the world back in terms of marginalizing gay men. And for the record, I make friends of all genders and sexualities based on the high standards I set for what I feel are good personalities.

Yet another bit of wisdom discussed on Unfiltered made me think of bar/club strategies.

Nevermind the fact that chicks have a tougher time of this, because while guys generally respect the laws of brotherhood and know not to cock-block each other, women do the opposite. Guys are programmed for better strategies, and they’re pretty basic, too. It doesn’t really take a brain surgeon to figure out that having 100 guys at a bar hitting on one hot chick who’s out of their league isn’t going to get anyone lucky. (Then again, I never accused men of being smart.)

The thing about these situations is, men have the goal of hooking up with the best possible thing they can get their hands on by the end of the night. When women are on the prowl however, we usually are aiming to do our personal best.

I don’t like to downgrade, and depending on the situation I am sometimes insulted when a guy with no game, who can’t dance or dress, and who is really unfortunate-looking thinks he can get with me. I know this sounds superficial, and it would require a scary amount of self-awareness for a person with no game to KNOW he has no game, but it’s true. And honestly: it’s no more superficial than guys betting that hitting on second-choices makes for higher chances of getting sex.

So could the whole hit-on-the-less-than-hottie thing work for women, too? Perhaps, but hitting on gross slobbery ugly guys who might even blow you off because they’re delusional enough to think someone hotter wants them doesn’t sound like fun to me.

Either way, all makes me realize why the club situation is hopeless. EVERYONE who walks through the door is scanning the room for the hottest bit of flesh available. Everyone will do whatever it takes to get that person’s attention. Most of us never realize that “everyone” includes the person we’ve set our eyes on, and the chances that the person has also set their eyes on us is only 1 out of 12. (I’d say 1 out of 300, but let’s face it–most people in clubs are not in the running. I get 1 out of 12 from counting the hottest same-sex people in the club other than you, and adding two people to the mix: yourself and the girl who, regardless of looks or presentation, looks the easiest. 1 out of 12 are the chances that of all those hot people, the hottie you spotted is into YOUR type.

Not to mention the most obvious thing–it’s nearly impossible to find a good match personality wise. The only thing you have to go on at the club is natural beauty, fashion sense, and dancing prowess. Three very important things, to be sure, but also three things that have a 1 in 1,000,000 chance of leading to good sex, much less a relationship/friendship.

In which case … we’d have a better chance getting HIV. So it’s decided then–next time I hit the club, I’m gonna concentrate on dancing and enjoying the music.

I think the evil twin in me has finally decided to take a rest. It’s been weeks since I’ve thought a man other than my boyfriend was dangerously enticing, and weeks also since I’ve even considered hooking up with another person. He did good on his visit here.

That could explain my sudden loss for words on this blog, but it’s no excuse. Sorry! Anyway, today’s topic is very PG-13. I wanna talk about kissing.

Despite the pride I take in certain sexual talents, I think I lack experience in the most basic physical act of affection. When I was growing up, making out with random people just for the sake of making out was pretty much something the white kids did at house parties. When I got to college, it was something the white kids did at pubs.

I do remember my first kiss; it was quite good despite coming from my worst lay. He was an older dude I was totally infatuated with. I was on the ratty futon in his tiny downtown apartment, the lights were dim. He rolled over half on top of me–not menacingly–stared into my eyes like he adored me, and leaned in for a sweet, soft kiss. It was brief, and kind of loving. It was the most tender thing he ever did with me, unfortunatley. See more about that here.

Kisses after that were few and far between, mostly because my boyfriend is equally disinterested in making out as I am, and most of my other lovers were horrible at it. One guy kissed only for a few ineffectual seconds before he launched into more serious (and fun) foreplay, and another guy wouldn’t take his mouth off of mine the entire night, and even bit my lip so hard it was swollen afterward.

I did have one good kisser, a good friend who also turned out to be a good f*ck, but it’s been so long since that happened I barely remember it anymore. What I do remember is that his kisses weren’t slobbery or mushy. I didn’t feel grossed out, and it was the only time I ever kissed someone and actually wanted to do it some more. (I don’t know if I was returning the favor, though; is kissing a recriprocal exercise, like if one person is enjoying it the other person probably is, too?)

Plus, I never kissed a guy I didn’t end up sleeping with. (A couple of guys did kiss me, but for the record I was backing away and backward, away from them, both times.) To me, it’s like something you do with the intention of going further. I’ve been told I’m wrong on that one, though, but I am still unconvinced; if I could have the aforementioned best-kiss-I-ever-had again without the sex, would I take it? That depends on if I feel like getting turned on without getting satisfied. Who the hell would ever want that?!

That, my friends, is the reason why I have forever been puzzled by people telling me about hot nights on a couch making out with some dude for hours. I can’t imagine how wet and sloppy it must be to have someone sucking my face for such a long time. I also don’t know how much I’d want to stick around with a guy who can kiss me for that long without having an irresistable temptation to touch my body and take it to the next level.

Thoughts?

I don’t like talking about my relationship. People might not think so, because I feel like it ends up the topic of discussion a lot, but it’s not my fault.

The thing is, most of my (well-meaning) friends like to ask how things are going with my boyfriend. It’s a natural question, given that we live so far apart, but I HATE answering this question for the simple reasons that (a) the topic bores me and (b) I feel like I have to apologize for being so unenthused about my relationship.

I have known my boyfriend for nine years. We’ve been together for more than half that time, and we lived together for most of our relationship. I don’t have gushy things to say about him, and I don’t cry when we separate (I cried enough during our first long-distance stint–I’m talking SCARY, SCARY amounts of bawling–to last a lifetime). I may sometimes mention endearing things he does, because he can be quite cute, but at the same time–call it the writer in me–I tend to think more about the annoying and ridiculous things he does because I find them to be interesting as topics of conversation.

My mostly older, mostly settled friends either think I’m drowning in separation anxiety and crying myself to sleep at night missing him, that I’m playing him and out cruising for dudes all day, or they think I’m settling in some god-awful relationship at a too-early age, none of which is true. I do contemplate my future and whether it includes him, yes; but my life is pretty conflict-less for a person who likes to think she’s semi-fresh out of her teens.

I dread the question “how’s it going with you and your boyfriend,” because things are what they are; we’re half a world away from each other, I sometimes appreciate and love him and I sometimes want to kick him in the head, just like in any other long term relationship. Fact is, I’ve known him longer than many of my girlfriends have known their husbands. It doesn’t mean I have a bad relationship. And it DEFINITELY doesn’t mean I have hours of dishing to do about the latest drama we have. When relationships start reaching decade-status, most problems seem pretty small in the scheme of things.

So I’m tired of feeling bad every time I have nothing exciting to say about my boyfriend. I don’t have to be able to articulate 10 things I love about him and being with him in order to prove I’m in a good relationship. I also don’t have to feel that my relationship sucks just because my boyfriend has some irritating personality deficiencies (none, I must add, that are any more irritating than anyone else’s personality deficiencies–what can I say? I have discerning taste and opinions about people). I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Of course, there is the fact that I’m what some of my friends like to call a “flight risk,” which inevitably leads to questions. But I’m tired of talking about that, too.

Y’all will know the end of the story when you get my wedding invite, and it is or isn’t him. Sorry, I may be an emotional person but epic romances kinda stopped being my thing after freshman year of college.