My Tinder Date with a Satanist /
Recently, I wrote a story for Women’s Health called “Should We All Just Retire Hand Jobs?” In order to argue that hand jobs are for middle schoolers, I figured, why not survey some dudes to find out if they hate getting them as much as women hate giving them? And what better way to survey a bunch of random men than through Tinder? I pulled out my phone, swiped right for 20 guys in a row and cold-texted this opener: “Thoughts on hand jobs vs. blow jobs on a first date?”
Some guys never answered. Some said, “Both?” Some tried to be clever (Guy: “That’s like choosing between puppies and rainbows!” Me: “Which one’s which?” Guy: “Lol I dunno. U got me.”).
I didn’t tell any of the men about the article, but almost all wanted to ditch the HJ. I was invited on a few dates – at which point, I stopped texting. But then there was, let’s call him, Trevor. Tinder Trevor.
Here’s what worked in Tinder Trevor’s favor: he formed complete sentences, responded truthfully and was a bit impish. He also asked me questions about my preferences. We “flirted.” You might even call it sexting, except that this is what sexting looks like if you’re talking to me:
Him: “I fantasize about having sex with a girl in a miniskirt.”
Me: “So smart! Much easier access than footsie pajamas!”
After the story was published, I asked Trevor out for a drink. What the hell, right? I’d never been on a Tinder date.
I chose a West Village speakeasy near my office and wore a very-long-not-miniskirt dress.
Trevor looked younger than in his photos. He was tall and thin with spiky, blond hair and dark circles under his eyes.
The speakeasy was packed with couples and jazz players in suspenders. We sat near the bathroom on stools and ordered fancy $14 cocktails. I told him up front about the article so he wouldn’t think that that was how I always approached men. He was surprised but took it in stride. We ran through the obligatory date details – he said he was 25, from Connecticut and that he wrote computer code for a living. We talked about his upcoming family beach trip.
I wasn’t initially attracted to Trevor, but he seemed nice enough. The date only went South when the conversation turned to the South.
I told him I was from South Carolina.
“Ah, yes, I know about the South,” he said. “I went to Austin once.”
I clued him in about the real South – about Bob Jones University and the Confederate flag on our State House grounds, about the preachers who screamed damnation on my college campus, about the friends who shuttled me to church with them four times a week and told me I was going to hell for cursing.
“Christian, eh?” he said. “Guess your friends wouldn’t be so down with this, would they?”
And then, without warning, Trevor reached into his polo shirt and pulled out his pentacle.
“I’m a Satanist,” he said.
After a moment of stunned silence, I excused myself to buy a second round.
Yeah, I could have left, but a Satanist?? Come on, guys! I have nothing else to live for here. (Also, no, “pulled out his pentacle” was not an innuendo. He literally whipped a star necklace out, and no, it is not the same thing as a pentagram, as I learned.)
I proceeded to argue about Satanism with Trevor for the next hour. When I told him I was agnostic, his eyes lit up. I imagined him thinking, I can work with that. He told me he was an atheist until, in college, he read the Satanic Bible and identified with it. He pulled up the Nine Satanic Statements on his Android, and we read them together. The tenets of Satanism are vague and all end in exclamation points: “Satan represents indulgence instead of abstinence!” “Satan represents vengeance instead of turning the other cheek!” "Satan represents responsibility to the responsible instead of concern for psychic vampires!“
Psychic vampires, everyone.
Trevor then explained his love for heavy metal and mosh pits.
"A good mosh pit is the best thing in the world,” he said.
“Don’t you mean ‘gnosh pit’?” I joked.
“Why?”
“Because…eating food…is the best thing in the world.”
I made solid points about religion, but past midnight, Trevor did what most guys do on late-night, booze-fueled dates – he leaned forward, stared at me approvingly and stopped listening completely. When he began rubbing my legs, I suggested we leave.
Outside, in the middle of the sidewalk, he pulled me into a kiss. I pushed him away.
“So, where are we headed?” he asked.
“I’m going to catch a cab,” I said. “But I’ll walk you to your train.”
As we strolled to West 4th, he took my hand and playfully pressed it onto his crotch. I snatched my hand back.
“Now, now,” I said. “We both know I don’t like giving those.”
At the train, he tried to kiss me again and asked when we would meet up.
“When’s your next metal show?” I said.
But I knew I’d never dance with that devil.
/
Photographic proof that I was jaded about men from an early age.
#PubicHairProblems /
From love+like.
Last week, I wrote a story for Women’s Health magazine called Why I Can’t Figure Out What to Do With My Pubic Hair.
I detailed a mental hang-up I have about my Barbara Bush that stems from a college experience. Postgrad, I’ve gone back and forth about pubic hair patterns, worrying about what men prefer while trying to figure out how to land on a look that makes me happy, too.
In the process of writing the story, I went on Facebook and posted a vague status requesting guy help for a sex/love article. I thought maybe a handful of dudes would reply, but boy oh boys, was I surprised. I had over 20 guy friends message me, all eager to answer any sort of climax question I might throw their way. They were a little less excited when I started grilling them about how they like their pubes, but I still ended up collecting a list of hilarious, creative and thoughtful responses. And, you know, the hours I spent conversing about lady hair actually helped calm my anxieties about how to properly landscape my Busch Gardens. Most guys said that they prefer "well-kept" or “trimmed” hair, but overall, it didn’t matter that much to them whether girls are completely bare down there.
A big thank you to all the lads who lent me their time and consideration. I wasn’t able to use the quotes in the piece, but what a shame to lose these great, graphic insights. Here are a few of my favorites:
- "As long as it doesn’t look like Tom Selleck is hiding in her vagina, I’m fine."
- "I’m happy with whatever grooming, as long as I don’t have to constantly pull hairs out of my mouth during oral sex. I would probably be intimidated by lightning bolts, though."
- "I prefer her to wax everything because shaving incorrectly can lead to unsightly marks. I wouldn’t want to be doing my business down there and see something comparable to my grandma’s rug or the Rocky Mountains."
- "Where I draw the line is if I’m in that region, and I start worrying about werewolf attacks — all getting a lantern out, being like, 'We should get back to the village! The woods are dangerous at night!'"
- "I don’t really care if she’s got hair or not, so long as it’s not ’70s porno-style."
- "Shaven! It’s easier to navigate a desert than a jungle." **
- "My GF and I tried shaving, but it got super itchy and unpleasant. Now, if we’re choking on each other’s hairs, we’ll tell each other to do something about it. Generally, though, we don’t have pubic rainforests growing down there."
- "Honestly, less is more. If the hair’s left completely untouched, it doesn’t feel considered, which is somehow less flattering. Like, I spend a lot of attention on making my beard right, because it’s fun — and I like people who take pleasure in details, too."
- "As it is her body, she can do whatever she wants. I think if guys as a whole were more relaxed about women’s physical appearances, things would be better. Let your girl be herself. That’s probably what attracted you to her to begin with."
- "As long as it’s not the Amazon, I’m okay. That being said, a nice full shave/wax is, ahem, the cherry on top. I won’t complain. It’s like when girls get flowers. It’s like that. 'Oh, for me?!! You’re so thoughtful!'"
**But how fun is a desert, sir?