News flash: More and more women are jumping outside their marriages in search of no-strings-attached sex. All it takes to find a willing partner? An Internet connection and an account on a site like AshleyMadison.com. We sent writer and monogamist Teddy Wayne to meet the growing flock of lady Don Drapers:
Gloria is a slender, pretty woman in her late forties whom I meet on a Friday night at The Bar Downstairs at the Andaz hotel in midtown. She’s had two enjoyable long-term affairs with male colleagues. Recently, however, without any opportunities presenting themselves, she joined Ashley Madison. She wants to fall in love again but doesn’t feel the need to leave her husband—at least not yet.
"There are more reasons to stay than to leave. There’s still love that holds us together," she tells me over cocktails and tapas. "But I don’t believe any one person ever fulfills a person’s needs. And lifelong passion is extremely rare. If I left him and married someone else, it’d probably just be a matter of time until I had the same situation. It’s unusual for a strong sexual component to remain after a few years, and I’m not willing to give up that part of my life."
She says she’s been with “publishers of magazines, CEOs, politicians, managing partners at law or investment firms”—all via Ashley Madison.
"Politicians?" I exclaim, astonished anyone in elected office would be so brazen in the aftermath of Anthony Weiner. "Can I ask what level of government?"
"I won’t say any more," she laughs. "I like him and don’t want to get him in trouble."
Do you see yourself as a perpetual underdog in life’s great battle to get action? Do you believe your underdog status entitles you to enact a sort of psychosexual revenge against those who have historically prevented you from getting laid (i.e., women)? Congratulations! You are probably a nerd, and also kind of a dick.
Siobhan Rosen lays out the perils of dating nerd-holes:
If you suspect you might be one of the unsavory types of nerds, ask yourself a few questions: Do you see yourself as a perpetual underdog in life’s great battle to get action? Do you believe your underdog status entitles you to enact a sort of psychosexual revenge against those who have historically prevented you from getting laid (i.e., women)? Congratulations! You are probably a nerd, and also kind of a dick. Please let me offer some unsolicited advice: There are better ways to work through your childhood torments—like, say, bouncing a basketball or visiting a nice lady with a soothing voice and a prescription pad. You might also consider dropping the whole sensitive, emotionally intelligent, unlucky-in-love mensch act if you’re really just looking to add another stain to your Transformerssheets. Women don’t mind the occasional cad, if we know what we’re dealing with from the get-go. In short: Be honest about who you are. Real men might talk about Jedi mind tricks, but they don’t use them.
One female writer laments the um, messy effects of our porn-y culture. An excerpt:
I was out with a Brit I’ll call Robbie, because that was what he went by, poor guy. Not Robert or Rob. Or even Bob. A 31-year-old Robbie. It was our fourth date, and we’d already done some things in dark corners of various Brooklyn bars that get kids kicked out of BYU, but he hadn’t, as Jason Segel might say, put his p in my v yet. It was time to take it to a bed. Or at least behind a closed door. So we went back to my apartment and consummated our courtship. There was some fumbling, as there always is at first, especially after a couple of nerve-zapping beers. But we’d managed to get the condom on, the penis in, and a nice back-and-forth rhythm going. We were making sounds like Jodie Foster in Nell. Making faces that signify a stroke. In short: Everything was coming along nicely, pun intended.
Then Robbie started talking. Indelicately. Fun fact: Turns out the Brits have their own term for “dirty slut.” The phrase was something like “tidy slapper.” As in “You’re a tidy slapper, aren’t you?” Tidy slappers, I learned, like “big hard cocks.” Robbie’s precoital BBC accent had morphed into a buttery Cockney. It was like I’d wandered onto the set of an X-rated movie called Cherry Poppins. Before I knew it, he was out of me, over me, and breathlessly inquiring, “Where do you want this?”
Unfortunately he was not the first nondermatologist to offer a fourth-date facial.
Our sex-and-dating columnist Julieanne Smolinski tackles an awkward topic in her latest column at GQ.com: how to handle it—what to say, what to think—when the man in your life starts crying. Click here to read the full piece. Our favorite bit is below:
On further reflection, I realized I was surrounded with weepy men. My best guy friends have dissolved like otter pups over no less than the Lost finale, or an overly fond description of a long-dead parakeet. I’ve tended to date graduates of the Nick Hornby School for Maudlin Young Men, and I deal with it poorly. I once ended perhaps one of the most fulfilling sex-only relationships of my life because the guy cried over a soccer game.
I never know what to do during these moments. I tend to view crying in its most literal sense: as fluid squirting involuntarily from an orifice, and I react accordingly. You know, like if you’d severed your femoral artery and blood began spraying everywhere. In both cases, I might offer you a tissue and go, “Don’t…do that.”