“Reading a chapter from Warren Buffett’s Tap Dancing to Work the other day, I was surprised to find myself chuckling out loud. Now this guy is kind of funny, I thought to myself as I turned the page and grabbed another Danish. This guy is kind of making me laugh. And those thoughts that I had quietly, in my head, to myself, made me realize just how rarely I do have those thoughts in my head. And that thought led me to another thought, which was: why is that? Why, on the whole, are men just not that funny?”
Women get flustered under fire. They’re too fragile, too emotional. They lack the ferocity required to take a life. They can’t handle pain. They’re a distraction, a threat to cohesion, a provocative tease to close-quartered men. These are the sort of myths you hear from people who oppose the U.S. military’s evolving new rules about women in combat, who have earned medals fighting alongside men, the war stories they tell don’t sound a thing like myths.
We’ve all known for a while that Rosario Dawson was a rare breed of bombshell—the startling, space-oddity, multi-culti features; the preposterous hourglass curves; the endless stream of sass—but just for the record, she knew it herself way before the rest of us. The lightbulb went on, she says, when she still was in her teens, before she shimmied for Edward Norton in 25th Hour, before she made gold-digging defensible in He Got Game, even before Larry Clark cast her in Kids straight off a stoop on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. “I took a picture with my friend in a bikini,” she recalls. “Around then, I didn’t have it because I didn’t want it. But I fit the clothes well, you know?” Yes. We know.
In theory, a one-night stand should be as easy as its sexual congregants. You want sex. She wants sex. Commence passionate no-commitment sexytimes. Finish passionate no-commitment sexytimes. Wash face. Sleep. Part. Thanks for the memories, you!
But in practice, there’s no such thing as a smooth one-night stand. Awkwardness is unavoidable. Morning-after mouths taste like crime scenes. Maybe there’s a stuffed-animal collection you spotted too late.
And there are always feelings involved—mainly the ever-present anxiety that one person here is getting used. (It’s called a walk of shame for a reason.) Yet there are ways to nobly pull off this ignoble act. And if you ever want this to happen again—and who among us doesn’t?—we’ve got to work together to make sure it’s done right.
Yes, there are still 987 more years in this particular millennium. But we’ve already made up our minds. We’re saying right now: This is one of the top three hottest millennia ever. And we’ve already decided who the all-stars are. Yes, we’re talking about Beyoncé, but we’re not just talking about Beyoncé. We’re talking the century of Mila Kunis, the historically significant period of the Ladies of Friday Night Lights, the era when Marisa Tomei showed us how hot 44 was and Megan Fox showed us how hot talking-robot alien cars were. Just think, in the 1900s we didn’t even know what a sext was (thanks, Scarlett!), we’d never heard of Kate Upton or the Dougie, or the beautiful music they could make together. So, sure, it’s still early, but it’s not too early to obsessively catalogue GQ’s hottest women of the 2000s.