A reader recently wrote in that she felt my recent posts were lacking my usual ‘wild abandon.’ I thoroughly appreciated her insight and in an attempt to redeem myself, figured I’d divulge a recent experience below.

Since my emotional state of well-being often resembles the sine graph (for those who you who don’t remember what that is or failed high school math, click here for a visual), it’s not uncommon for me to spend one night in, alone, wallowing in misery and the next sporadically strapping on stiletto boots and singing annoying things to my girlfriends like the ‘Party All The Time’ song, which FYI is also a highly amusing video.

On this particular night, I was feeling pretty neutral but forced myself out since I’d promised my friend Femme that I’d help her model / promote these clothes (don’t ask) that a designer friend of hers had wanted us to wear out. We were going to Lollipop (which I just wrote a review of here), but getting together at her apartment first to drink and don our outfits.

I’ve written before about pheromones and how I’m utterly fascinated by them. Technically defined, pheromones are “a chemical secreted by an animal that influences the behavior or development of others of the same species, often functioning as an attractant of the opposite sex.” Well, my pheromone alert button starting wailing at an emergency level the moment I entered Femme’s apartment. This isn’t something that happens often. I had to do a 360 scan to visually locate the apparent object of my desire. I looked right, left, then BOOM – dead center in front of me beyond Femme’s open kitchen, I saw my guy.

Next I was confused because this guy was not my type at all (an article discussing my type available here) but it’s essentially classy, euro casual, long hair, slightly taller than me but not too tall. The man my pheromones directed me too, while goodlooking, was outrageously tall, non-euro, and sporting a shaved head.

Huh?

Pheromones have a way of bringing people together quickly, so it didn’t take long until we were talking and I learned he was from Brasil. Suddenly, this made slightly more sense. I recently caught South America fever and in the past six months have traveled to Uruguay, Argentina, and Brazil. We therefore had a lot to say to each other. We chatted until I was dragged upstairs to change my outfit. My girlfriends stripped, prodded and changed me, warring over whether I should wear this stylish headband that I felt made me look like a pirate.

This headband was so tight that by the time we got to Lollipop, I felt like it was molesting my brain. I took it off so I could focus fully on chatting with the Brazilian – the only social activity either of us had been engaged in for the past hour. Now however, we’d dangerously entered bottle service land. It was also a Saturday so there was no reason not to consume drinks with bravado. I’d been switching between vodka and champagne all night and stared at the Brazilian aghast when he proceeded to pour a flute of Vueve into my mixed vodka drink. As if I wasn’t already wasted, now I was drinking vodka flavored champagne.

As I emphasized in my review, Lollipop’s shoe box level small so it’s practically impossible not to invade other people’s personal space. So put the equation of pheromones, Saturday night, drinks, and small space together and you get touchy-feely with someone pretty fast. What’s amazing about the Brazilian people is their utter directness in regard to love/sex. It’s not uncommon for someone just to look you square in the eye after knowing you ten minutes and proclaim:

“I like you.”

This often leaves Americans dumbfounded because we feel you should go on a date, hold hands, watch football and attend a barbeque before making blanket statements this bold. It’s hard to take a comment like that seriously because the person barely knows you. The flip side is: In all seriousness, don’t we form a subconscious opinion on someone in about ten seconds flat? We are animals. Our general instincts about somebody are usually right.

So in Brazilian style, after what must have been at least three hours of ‘get to know you’ time, he moved for a kiss, which I darted. I’m always out seeing people I know and truthfully pretty shy about sexual things, so never engage in the public make out move. I find PDA of all forms annoying so remain super hesitant to engage in it myself (unless of course I’m madly in love and accidently flaunting my happiness…that doesn’t happen often either.) I did my best to explain this to him and he smiled at me with warm eyes:

“Don’t worry. I totally understand,” he said. Before I could heave a sigh of relief he added, “I’ll wait for you in the bathroom.”

He then disappeared down the stairs while I double-taked.

I responsibly labeled myself incapable of handling the situation so deferred to my ever faithful roommate Tatas, who naturally let out some sort of squeal when I told what just happened.

“Go down there!” she urged.

I felt pretty uncomfortable because while some may think “it’s not a big deal, it’s just a kiss,” I am one of those people who doesn’t kiss lightly. I don’t recreationally make out. If I go as far as to kiss you, it means I’m all the way in, and would probably be pleased to do many other things together as well. So for me, a kiss is essentially my mental point of no return. Which is why I was quaking in my heels as I crept down the stairs.

His strong arms instantly appeared and swept me into the bathroom. Before I even had a chance to open my mouth, his lips were on mine in a pheromonal frenzy. The best part of this story is that he was wearing / modeling this designer’s clothing as well, and therefore in dress pants and a dress shirt. Since I’m a fan of checking out what you’re dealing with ASAP, I began unbuttoning his shirt (I mean, that just seemed like the correct next move when you’re in a bathroom making out with a Brazilian.) Then I had my second head spin of the evening when underneath the designer linen I revealed tattoos, nipple piercings, the works. I think I physically took a step backward and made a ‘Time Out’ hand signal.

I had no words.

The formal attire was just such a shocking contrast to what I found underneath that I felt helplessly confused.

“Yeah,” he explained, “I used to everything pierced.” He motioned to his ears and face. “These are all that’s left cause no one can see them.”

I remained dumbfounded and uncomfortable, but finally turned to confront our paused reflections in the bathroom mirror. For some reason it hit me that my mother would utterly disapprove this man without his shirt on…and that is perhaps the steamiest, sexiest thought in the universe. So I just grinned glided back toward his mouth, then helping him rebutton before we rejoined our friends upstairs for a long night out.

Who hasn’t been there?

The throes of passion. Four in the morning. You’re fantasizing about what a fabulous couple you’ll make at brunch. He’s fantasizing about his favorite porn and wondering if he can play it on silent without you noticing. It’s romance out of a fairy tale. Everything seems perfect, until someone realizes you’re missing condoms.

This discovery can put a lot of pleasurable activity to a jerking halt. The good news is guys will do pretty much anything for sex, so usually end up disheveled at Lucky’s 24-Hour Deli or Duane Reade at dawn, only to return home and find their partner happily passed out in a cocoon of bed sheets that would take large scissors to get her out of. So he scowls, leaves you to sleep and becomes especially embittered upon realizing he still has to go to brunch with your friends. The next day over breakfast, he acts like an asshole.

Sad story.

So in the era of the internet where everything’s available online, why not check out a service like CondomJungle.com? Not only do they carry every major brand (Trojan, Durex, ONE, LifeStyles and eighteen others I’ve never heard of) they have every size and style that you can peruse at your convenience without feeling like ‘that loser mesmerized by all the condom options in aisle 4.’ Exploring their site, I actually learned that different condom companies use slightly varying ‘recipes’ to make their product, which makes sense because while I’m clueless, I’ve noticed most guys become attached to one brand over another. I mean, you’re putting these things on a pretty sensitive part of your body. Shouldn’t you take the time to find one you really like?

While I’m a confident adult, condoms at the cash register still make me feel sixteen. I’m not sure why, but buying lubricant is even worse. No, men aren’t the only gender who needs lubricant. When you’re newly in love and having sex five times a day, women need it too. The good news is that CondomJungle.com sells lubricants as well (again, so many varying brands and options!) Oh, and all these items are at a sharp discount from what you’d find in stores. On orders over $29 you get free shipping, and even get free sample condoms with your order. There’s no embarrassment factor since shipping is Secret Ops level discreet so no one knows what’s in the package. Plus you can leisurely get aroused reading the nitty-gritties about products before buying.

So:
-Discount prices
-Free shipping
-The privacy to peruse
-Free condoms
-Non-descript packaging

Versus

The everybody loses at 5 A.M. deli – pissy brunch situation?

Sign me up!

They even have a cute purple finger puppet called the Trojan Vibrating Touch Her Pleasure. I like anything with the world ‘pleasure,’ especially if said with a Brazilian accent. Sadly, I’m an infant and still terrified of sex toys, but someone more courageous should check it out and get back to me.

Model Behavior’s an avid supporter of safe sex. Since it’s officially spring, it’s just a fact that we’ll all be getting it on more. So bulk up on condoms now. Happy love making!

Getting in touch with my inner crazy, I recently forever spurned Mr Grey, for real this time. Remember? The shmuck that inspired to write high literature such as The Grey Relationship, My Dating Ego, Please Don’t Be Nice, and Grey Grey Grey. Yeah, see theoretically that ended a long time ago. That was, in essence, a lie, since we continued to see each other ‘as friends,’ which come to find out (shocker!) doesn’t work at all.

At least it didn’t work for me. My current theory is that there’s no way to be friends with someone you used to like in a ‘Model Behavior way’ unless you’ve moved on to the extent that you’re so sickeningly happy with someone else that the Ex couldn’t penetrate your aura of calm with a industrial strength machete. Needlessly to say, I’m a long road away from being a female relationship Buddha. In fact right now, I’m more likely to be wielding a machete myself. I’d come home from ‘friendly’ nights out with the former object of my affection and realize I was:

1. Alone
2. Angry
3. Miserably unhappy.

Not while we were out. No, in chaos of going out there was still the mirage of hope that this story might finish somewhere over the rainbow. It’s rather the moment I entered my humble residence after another failed fantasy sequence (and a ginormous waste of time) that I’d get irrevocably sad. Seeing him was essentially a fail proof way to make me more and more like someone who needs a straightjacket. Because even if during the day I could recognize that I didn’t even want him, the minute you dimmed the lights, gave us some wine, and turned on Ministry of Sound, I’d get overcome with (as lame as it sounds) nostalgia. Nostalgia for what exactly is unclear since we were never technically happy in the first place.

Plan A in coping with this problem was to pull a disappearing act. Never again take his calls, emails, texts, block his number (if only the tech freaks who created the iPhone took the time to include this break up feature) etc. I figured I’d be a master at this since men do it to me all the time. Unfortunately, I’m too soft hearted and found it eventually impossible not to respond to him. So after coming home ready to star in one of those ‘where does your depression hurt’ commercials for the ten zillionth time, I knew a drastic course of action had to be taken. I couldn’t resist his ‘friendly’ advances (which ultimately made me suicidal) so my only choice was to cut off this masochistic game at the source.

So after splitting a cab home and saying goodnight in the happiest of spirits, I sent what I like to call the ‘Death Text’ (which is sort of like the emotional equivalent of the evil Death Star in Star Wars). It’s an inevitably melodramatic and over-the-top text message that says something like, “I’m begging you please, never contact me again, EVER!” Because here’s my new analogy, guys:

Women are like a house. Get a realtor, look around, but if you don’t want to buy and move in, GET OUT. It’s not fair to live in the house when ‘you’re in town’ or when ‘you feel like it’ or to rent out a room when ‘it’s convenient to you’ if the girl has serious feelings for you. If you don’t want to invest and start a mortgage, get the Hell away and let the poor house go back on the market. Because if you’re a part time tenant the piece of real estate has zero hope of finding a true owner. And that’s just cruel, whether you do it under the guise of ‘friendship’ or ‘business partners’ or ‘hook up buddies’ is irrelevant. Be the bigger person and find a house you actually want to move into. Or just wander the streets a homeless player with no place warm to sleep at night.

Now I’m not only equating my gender to property, it seems I’ve come full circle and am asking guys to do the disappearing act (the exact thing I dreaded in college). Further proof that women are irrational and crazy.

My new motto: “I’m crazy and I like it.”