Somewhere beneath the realm of brotherly love lies a connection so deep that not even Megan Fox's pouty lips and bad-ass boodie could penetrate it. This phenomenon is called a "bromance"; a unique and purely platonic bond between two heterosexual males that forms over a variety of interests such as beer, porn, sport, Journey and other such recreational past times. It's the male version of Romy and Michelle and Thelma and Louise, the cast of Fried Green Tomatoes and Steel Magnolias all rolled into one camaraderie of man-love at its best. He's your guy's best and most trusted ally, a confidant and loyal mate, the Robin to his Batman and the dude who you'll probably spend your entire relationship trying to live up to.
As if beating off the bevvy of belt-wearing tartlets and desperate fishwives wasn't bad enough, along comes Bob, the bane of every girl's relationship. There are many things a girl can fake in a relationship but not liking your boyfriend's life partner is not one of them. Like balls, they come in a pair so you have to acknowledge them from time to time. Trying to sever them can cause some serious complications especially if your boyfriend regards his bestie as the best thing next to grilled cheese. To you on the other hand, he's nothing more than a pesky nuisance, a third wheel incapable of taking a hint, a bunion that keeps popping up at the worst of times and whose general presence seems to interfere with all your romantic efforts, retreats and weekend getaways.
Contrary to popular belief, girls are not as selfish as guys like to think. They understand that maintaining a quality bromance is just as important to guys as one-on-one Cosmo time is to girls, but what happens when the future best man in question starts becoming a major problem in your relationship? What happens when his best friend's lifestyle choices start becoming a potential threat to the man you are trying to mould into the perfect husband? Is it time to abandon the holy gift of grace and open up the can of extremely uncomfortable worms? And just how does a girl approach a sensitive issue such as this without coming across as a possessive bitch trying to sabotage the only link associated with his single life?
"Unless you have a single girlfriend to distract his bestie with, you don't." Henry, a 31-year old IT specialist had been in several long-term bromantic relationships and had managed to crack the code of this non-sexual boy crush phenomena. "The bromance is a sacred connection much like the sisterhood of ya-ya traveling pants. It's a safe place where guys have the option to open up and speak freely about things they're generally uncomfortable about such as feelings and emotions. It's not much different to girl world actually. A true bro knows how to keep his boy's secrets and defends him no matter what kind of douche you think he is. Don't forget...before you, it was only him. Neglecting your guy because of some relationship is the number one no-no on top of that list and can only paint you in a bad light. Would you ditch a girlfriend who was going through a break up because of something your boyfriend had planned or would you drop everything to be there right by her side?"
Yikes! Perhaps Mars wasn't that far from Venus after all? Did boys really experience the same kind of bond that girls did with their female companions? Was a bromantic encounter some form of social progression that allowed men to open up to each other in a non-threatening, non-homoerotic way? And if this was the case, why the hell are we giving them such a hard time about it? Surely we have the odd girlfriend or two that annoys the living shit out of our man and still, finds a way to tolerate them albeit from a healthy distance? Do girls need to adopt a more empathetic approach to bromantic relationships or pull the plug completely?
"I dare you to ask a guy to chose between you and his bro. It's your jealousy issue to get over and no one else's. You want to know what drives you mad? Bob is a guy who probably knows your boyfriend ten times better than you do and that kills you. Not only is he able to do guy things with him, most of which you find boring and neanderthal, but he is also able to open up to him on an emotional level. It almost feels as if your role is redundant, doesn't it? The other major problem is that most girls try to sledge the sidekick for not living up to your standards. So what if his friend still comes home pissed every night with a new chick that looks young enough to be his daughter. You're not dating his friend so why should it matter to you? If his bromance is worth the sweat, your guy will eventually come to realise that his friend's behaviour is unacceptable and have a talk with him but on his own time, not on yours." Well there you have it.
Sigh, they'll probably have more nicknames for each other than they do for you and sometimes it may feel like you're starring in a warped remake of Three's Company. I guess we just need to tolerate our lover's brother from another mother. I'm sure that they would probably hold hands and braid each others hair if that did not come across as gay but then again, the things we girls get up to during a slumber party are our own secrets to bear. He may seem like public enema number one for a very long, long time but accepting that your man's nasty best friend is here for the long run is just another bullet we girls have to bite especially if the guy we're with is totally worth it.
When it comes to metrosexual matrimony, I couldn't help but wonder, why is it always bros before ho's?
Wednesday, 31 July 2013
Wednesday, 24 July 2013
And then there were three...
Having my baby, what a lovely way of saying...your life is about to change. While the majority of this wonderful journey may very well be altogether worthwhile (at least that's what every parent guarantees and swears upon) the first couple of months that come with being a new parent can take a serious toll on ones relationship. Friendships, partnerships, work and even those precious moments of you-time are sidelined and somehow dictated by the schedule of one tiny little bundle. Goodbye to the scent of designer perfume and welcome to the stench of baby puke and pear-flavoured aftermath. It's a limbo of emotions filled with equal amounts of happiness, stress, sleep deprivation and irreplaceable firsts, where tears come more easily and the strength of one's relationship is put to the ultimate test.
Forget about the tips you picked up in What to Expect When You're Expecting or even the advice you received from some overzealous relative who's well on their way to baby number three. Welcoming a newborn baby into the fold can be quite an adjustment and the transition can have some serious side effects on both mom and dad. For starters, you are no longer just an ordinary couple with the unlimited luxury of freedom and time to do whatever you please. You have become a parent now which means sacrifice, constant prioritising and putting someone else's needs ahead of yours, at least for the next eighteen years of your life that is. As if pushing something the size of a watermelon out of something the size the opening of a lemon wasn't triumphant enough, along comes this formidable tornado of physical, emotional and mental evolution in a style that comes in both his and hers.
The Royal heir may have been the talk of the town this week, but closer to home, one of my dearest and nearest had just welcomed their own little peanut into the world. Tommy and Katie were the first in a long line of friends to experience the many so-called wonders of parenthood and had embraced it with open arms. They had read all the books, taken pre-parenting classes and even endured some of the wackiest old wives tales told by some of their loopier relatives. Although they had done as much research as they possibly could on raising a newborn, I couldn't help but wonder whether they'd actually read the chapter about the various challenges their relationship might face in light of a third party arrival?
It was a Sunday afternoon when I decided to visit TomKat at their Sea Point apartment. I brought flowers for mum and a cigar for dad although something tells me Preparation H would have been much more appreciated. There I was, a non-parent, bright eyed and bushy tailed in a newborn parents war zone, staring dead into the tired eyes of my darling friend Kate. Tom, bless his soul, had been reclining on the leather sofa where he had been counting sheep since putting little peanut to sleep. The kitchen was a total mess with dishes resembling Pisa and the wooden floors that had once acted as a dance floor several moons ago, was over run by soft blankets and cuddly toys. It was like a Michael Jackson paradise and I felt the sudden urge to clean. Did having a baby turn TomKat into slobs or were they merely depleted of energy, too tired to complete the simplest of household chores?
"We're both beyond exhausted and highly irritable right now. We bicker about everything and barely have time to have any kind of adult conversation with one another or our friends for that matter. What I wouldn't give for a night out, and if you thought the hormones were bad during pregnancy, it's like they're on steroids now, and he gets the brunt of it. I'm constantly crying over everything and we both feel so guilty about not enjoying every single moment of this baby. We have not had sex in over four months because let's face it, I'm a blubbery whale. I feel so disgusted with my body right now. I'm lactating out of every orifice on my body and could really, really, really use a day at the gym. Anything to have a few hours to gather my thoughts and save my relationship."
Tea and sympathy. The only missing ingredient was cocktails. "My whole life feels like it's turned upside down. Going to the shops once used to take me 20 minutes and now takes up to an hour and a half. You have to have the baby stroller, the car seat, diapers and God forbid you forget the wipes! The family are forever popping in unannounced and uninvited to spend some time with the baby. Not us. The freaking baby. Never mind the fact that Tom and I are struggling to keep up and are both about ready to return baby to sender. I actually wonder sometimes whether the whole experience was worth it."
Tiny coo's had begun to emit from inside the cot and in an instinct Tom was up again. As he slowly peered over the baby cot to meet the eyes of his newborn daughter, she smiled a toothless grin before picking her up and bringing her over. It cried as all babies do when they meet me but at that moment, I understood how the anguish of sleepless nights and postnatal depression was nothing in comparison to the precious moments this couple would share for life. Like most trying times, the initial stages will make you wish that you'd thrown a stone at that stupid, fertile stork but if you can find a way of communicating with your partner throughout this period and acknowledge the fact that you are both just trying to do the best with the little you have, you may just find an even greater respect, love and appreciation for one another.
When it comes to a life-changing event such as rock-a-bye baby, how do we baby proof our relationship?
Forget about the tips you picked up in What to Expect When You're Expecting or even the advice you received from some overzealous relative who's well on their way to baby number three. Welcoming a newborn baby into the fold can be quite an adjustment and the transition can have some serious side effects on both mom and dad. For starters, you are no longer just an ordinary couple with the unlimited luxury of freedom and time to do whatever you please. You have become a parent now which means sacrifice, constant prioritising and putting someone else's needs ahead of yours, at least for the next eighteen years of your life that is. As if pushing something the size of a watermelon out of something the size the opening of a lemon wasn't triumphant enough, along comes this formidable tornado of physical, emotional and mental evolution in a style that comes in both his and hers.
The Royal heir may have been the talk of the town this week, but closer to home, one of my dearest and nearest had just welcomed their own little peanut into the world. Tommy and Katie were the first in a long line of friends to experience the many so-called wonders of parenthood and had embraced it with open arms. They had read all the books, taken pre-parenting classes and even endured some of the wackiest old wives tales told by some of their loopier relatives. Although they had done as much research as they possibly could on raising a newborn, I couldn't help but wonder whether they'd actually read the chapter about the various challenges their relationship might face in light of a third party arrival?
It was a Sunday afternoon when I decided to visit TomKat at their Sea Point apartment. I brought flowers for mum and a cigar for dad although something tells me Preparation H would have been much more appreciated. There I was, a non-parent, bright eyed and bushy tailed in a newborn parents war zone, staring dead into the tired eyes of my darling friend Kate. Tom, bless his soul, had been reclining on the leather sofa where he had been counting sheep since putting little peanut to sleep. The kitchen was a total mess with dishes resembling Pisa and the wooden floors that had once acted as a dance floor several moons ago, was over run by soft blankets and cuddly toys. It was like a Michael Jackson paradise and I felt the sudden urge to clean. Did having a baby turn TomKat into slobs or were they merely depleted of energy, too tired to complete the simplest of household chores?
"We're both beyond exhausted and highly irritable right now. We bicker about everything and barely have time to have any kind of adult conversation with one another or our friends for that matter. What I wouldn't give for a night out, and if you thought the hormones were bad during pregnancy, it's like they're on steroids now, and he gets the brunt of it. I'm constantly crying over everything and we both feel so guilty about not enjoying every single moment of this baby. We have not had sex in over four months because let's face it, I'm a blubbery whale. I feel so disgusted with my body right now. I'm lactating out of every orifice on my body and could really, really, really use a day at the gym. Anything to have a few hours to gather my thoughts and save my relationship."
Tea and sympathy. The only missing ingredient was cocktails. "My whole life feels like it's turned upside down. Going to the shops once used to take me 20 minutes and now takes up to an hour and a half. You have to have the baby stroller, the car seat, diapers and God forbid you forget the wipes! The family are forever popping in unannounced and uninvited to spend some time with the baby. Not us. The freaking baby. Never mind the fact that Tom and I are struggling to keep up and are both about ready to return baby to sender. I actually wonder sometimes whether the whole experience was worth it."
Tiny coo's had begun to emit from inside the cot and in an instinct Tom was up again. As he slowly peered over the baby cot to meet the eyes of his newborn daughter, she smiled a toothless grin before picking her up and bringing her over. It cried as all babies do when they meet me but at that moment, I understood how the anguish of sleepless nights and postnatal depression was nothing in comparison to the precious moments this couple would share for life. Like most trying times, the initial stages will make you wish that you'd thrown a stone at that stupid, fertile stork but if you can find a way of communicating with your partner throughout this period and acknowledge the fact that you are both just trying to do the best with the little you have, you may just find an even greater respect, love and appreciation for one another.
When it comes to a life-changing event such as rock-a-bye baby, how do we baby proof our relationship?
Thursday, 18 July 2013
Finger slip
Once upon a time, an enthusiastic assistant was instructed to type up a letter addressed to an organization called "Friends", a home that fostered children with learning disabilities as part of her company's 67 minutes of good will. She drafted the email and hit "send" before giving it a once-over, and patted herself on the back for what she thought was a brilliantly-crafted cover letter. She decided to reward herself with a cup of Earl Grey tea, but when she returned to her computer, she had noticed two new emails in her inbox; the one from her boss demanding an explanation for the prior, a livid response from the founder of "Friends" regarding her callous and insensitive remarks. She frantically scanned the email searching for any sign of disrespect she may have inferred. As she neared the bottom of her email, she was mortified to discover the faux pas in question: "We look forward to the visit next week. Kind retards, Anne."
If a simple finger-slip could cost someone their reputation and internship, imagine what it could do to an orgasm. Whether you're engaging in light or heavy petting, technique is a crucial part of sexual relations, one that often involves a combination of skill, time, practice and communication. These days, most of us (especially men) seem to rush through sex as if it were a Comrades Marathon, a race to see who comes first. The need to blow their load into any hole willing enough to accommodate his throbbing manhood seems more important than discovery and mutual satisfaction which is sadly a loss for both parties. It's kind of like having an three-course gourmet meal; you can't really appreciate the main course without acknowledging the effort of the host's entree and starter...
While oral stimulation seems to be first choice in most cases, most men seem to underestimate the simple yet sensual act of touch. A good fingering session requires skill and technique that you can only learn through communication. It has the power to fuel a woman's desire, especially when it's executed correctly. It's no mystery that women are far more giving and hospitable in general, especially if they are rubbed up the right way, so imagine the kind of mind-blowing sex that men could be having if they only learned to apply the basic pleasure principles to a woman's sexual needs. Are all men selfish and oblivious to such needs or are they just too timid to ask the one question every woman is dying to hear: how do you like it?
Rose was a simple girl to please and did not require a lot of stimulation to get her off. She had become a major player in the big leagues and had noticed an alarming trend of men that failed to treat her Lady Labia with any kind of reverence. For Rose, there was nothing more off-putting than hooking up with a gorgeous guy who knew absolutely nothing about turning a woman on. She was both amazed and disturbed by the fact that the men she had been seeing of late were unwilling to give as good as they got and when they did, failed to perform even the simplest of tasks correctly.
"Do you know how many times I've had to fake an orgasm lately?" she said with that dead pan expression that only Rose could pull off. "I spend countless minutes sucking and bobbing, gagging and stroking, making sure that my teeth do not get in the way of his precious penis but when it comes to a little down time with my vagina, you'd swear it was Pandora's box." Rose had recently hooked up with a guy who was known for being a bit of a ladies man but whose reputation was far from being lived up to. They shacked up in a bathroom stall last weekend while she casually let his fingers do the walking through her yellow pages.
"My vagazzle has never felt more harassed in my life and I am quite sure that I am going to need a painkiller after this. It felt as if he had been excavating for diamonds or something, trying to shove his entire hand in as deeply and aggressively as possible. He completely misunderstood the assignment and my G-spot for that matter, and even though I tried to coach him through the process, which by the way, he did not take well, he was still doing it wrong!!! What is it with these guys because somebody seriously needs to set the record straight. The vagina is not that complicated to operate and when it comes to the ol' finger slip, less is most definitely more. No wonder he has multiple partners. They're probably all too scared to come back."
You can't always rely on auto-correct to save the day especially when it comes to manual input. In order to master the sensual art of arousal you need to listen, communicate and tune into your partner's needs and desires. There's a big difference between good sex and great sex and while their are many different strokes for many different folks, taking the pace down a notch can earn you some serious brownie points in the boudoir. Props to the man who takes the time and initiative to give a little tit for tat but as for the rest, perhaps it's time that you stop, collaborate and listen.
When it comes to second base, why do most men fail to hit a home run?
If a simple finger-slip could cost someone their reputation and internship, imagine what it could do to an orgasm. Whether you're engaging in light or heavy petting, technique is a crucial part of sexual relations, one that often involves a combination of skill, time, practice and communication. These days, most of us (especially men) seem to rush through sex as if it were a Comrades Marathon, a race to see who comes first. The need to blow their load into any hole willing enough to accommodate his throbbing manhood seems more important than discovery and mutual satisfaction which is sadly a loss for both parties. It's kind of like having an three-course gourmet meal; you can't really appreciate the main course without acknowledging the effort of the host's entree and starter...
While oral stimulation seems to be first choice in most cases, most men seem to underestimate the simple yet sensual act of touch. A good fingering session requires skill and technique that you can only learn through communication. It has the power to fuel a woman's desire, especially when it's executed correctly. It's no mystery that women are far more giving and hospitable in general, especially if they are rubbed up the right way, so imagine the kind of mind-blowing sex that men could be having if they only learned to apply the basic pleasure principles to a woman's sexual needs. Are all men selfish and oblivious to such needs or are they just too timid to ask the one question every woman is dying to hear: how do you like it?
Rose was a simple girl to please and did not require a lot of stimulation to get her off. She had become a major player in the big leagues and had noticed an alarming trend of men that failed to treat her Lady Labia with any kind of reverence. For Rose, there was nothing more off-putting than hooking up with a gorgeous guy who knew absolutely nothing about turning a woman on. She was both amazed and disturbed by the fact that the men she had been seeing of late were unwilling to give as good as they got and when they did, failed to perform even the simplest of tasks correctly.
"Do you know how many times I've had to fake an orgasm lately?" she said with that dead pan expression that only Rose could pull off. "I spend countless minutes sucking and bobbing, gagging and stroking, making sure that my teeth do not get in the way of his precious penis but when it comes to a little down time with my vagina, you'd swear it was Pandora's box." Rose had recently hooked up with a guy who was known for being a bit of a ladies man but whose reputation was far from being lived up to. They shacked up in a bathroom stall last weekend while she casually let his fingers do the walking through her yellow pages.
"My vagazzle has never felt more harassed in my life and I am quite sure that I am going to need a painkiller after this. It felt as if he had been excavating for diamonds or something, trying to shove his entire hand in as deeply and aggressively as possible. He completely misunderstood the assignment and my G-spot for that matter, and even though I tried to coach him through the process, which by the way, he did not take well, he was still doing it wrong!!! What is it with these guys because somebody seriously needs to set the record straight. The vagina is not that complicated to operate and when it comes to the ol' finger slip, less is most definitely more. No wonder he has multiple partners. They're probably all too scared to come back."
You can't always rely on auto-correct to save the day especially when it comes to manual input. In order to master the sensual art of arousal you need to listen, communicate and tune into your partner's needs and desires. There's a big difference between good sex and great sex and while their are many different strokes for many different folks, taking the pace down a notch can earn you some serious brownie points in the boudoir. Props to the man who takes the time and initiative to give a little tit for tat but as for the rest, perhaps it's time that you stop, collaborate and listen.
When it comes to second base, why do most men fail to hit a home run?
Wednesday, 10 July 2013
Smooth Operator
There's a certain kind of man that prowls our city streets in abundance. He's confident, charming and always has a twinge of a smile plastered around the corners of his face, just like the Cheshire cat who tormented poor Alice as she fell down that wretched rabbit-hole. He's self-assured, cocky and satisfied by the dirty thoughts running through his mind as he scans any given location for his latest conquest. Casanova, gigolo, eligible bachelor. There are a number of words used to describe a man of this calibre. He's a skillful slut loaded with swagger, armed with a one-track mind and a black belt in seduction. The guy that makes you feel like you're the only girl in the world when you're actually one in many, whose biggest fear is commitment itself and who probably spends most of his adult life perfecting the art of manipulation.
It's amazing to see how the word "play" has changed over the past couple of decades. What was once an innocent term associated with the folly of youth has now become a dangerous liaison in which so many of us seem destined to lose. The games we played when we were young are quite different in comparison to the vicious blood-sport known as dating, a ferocious duel between man and woman to see whose heart carries the most resilience. The games may have changed but players remain the same, each intention crueler than the next, and with years of unprecedented practice behind them, how is a girl ever supposed to win?
Glamourised by idiotic franchise series such as American Pie and Van Wilder, the gigolo lifestyle is the ultimate status any heterosexual man can ever hope to achieve. The woman he scores at the end of the night is just another toy, a collector's item gleaming up on his mantlepiece of traumatised trophies, and even though the signs of a player are as clear as day, so many of us still allow ourselves to fall hard for these malicious idiots. Surely after years of dating the wrong kind of guy, we would've wised up to know when we are being played. Are we so desperate for love and attention that we'll believe anything these boys have to say or has the player simply upped his game?
Fortunately for Charlotte, she was no stranger to this particular kind of man. Although she fancied the occasional fiddle from time to time, a fool she was not. She had the gift of seeing right through their crystal charm and witty banter, and even managed to toy with them herself. She's the kind of heroine that lets them believe they have the upper hand and that they stand a chance of making her notch number 87 on their already overlapping belt. Did Charlotte possess some kind of super-power that most women wish they had or had she simply had enough and decided that it was time to play the player at his own game?
"There's something about you and I simply can't put my finger on it," Jon smugly boasted as he flirted his way into the conversation. If Charlotte had a dollar for every time she heard that before then she wouldn't be working night shifts as a nurse cleaning bed pans and changing IV drips. Let me think...could it be Charlotte's massive breasts which she aptly named Coco and Chanel or was it the fact that she was young, sexy and the only other single girl at a 50th birthday party? Here was a guy who only minutes ago had introduced us to his girlfriend of 13 months, a fragile woman called Alice who had just been through a messy divorce only to find false hope in this schmoozy schmuck.
Poor Alice would probably have to endure a relationship full of lies for the rest of her life. Behind that precarious smile and devil eyes lived a man who probably had more than one trick on the side, each one more oblivious to his actions than the next. You've got to hand it to them, these players certainly know how to multi-task, what with all the secrets and cover-ups, deception and lies, the simultaneous sexting and long conversations with their "buddies". Guys don't have long conversations with their buddies and if you believe that for one second then maybe you enjoy being played! It's an urban myth, a ruse to make you think he cares and has some sort of depth. True to form, Charlotte received the typical "I have to see you again" text only minutes after they had left the party. We all had a good laugh at his pathetic attempt to woo Charlotte who willingly scrolled down to hit "delete."
If only we could delete these players from our existence entirely, what a wonderful world it would be. Think of all the time we could save on real relationships worthy of our love and affection. Unfortunately, players exist and just like a cheetah rarely change their spots. With so many predatory men disguised as smooth talkers and slick sales execs, how are we ever supposed to tell the difference? As we pawn our way from one asshole to the next I couldn't help but wonder when we'd ever truly find the strength to protect the queen that lives inside us all.
When it comes to the game of hearts, isn't it about time that the players got played?
It's amazing to see how the word "play" has changed over the past couple of decades. What was once an innocent term associated with the folly of youth has now become a dangerous liaison in which so many of us seem destined to lose. The games we played when we were young are quite different in comparison to the vicious blood-sport known as dating, a ferocious duel between man and woman to see whose heart carries the most resilience. The games may have changed but players remain the same, each intention crueler than the next, and with years of unprecedented practice behind them, how is a girl ever supposed to win?
Glamourised by idiotic franchise series such as American Pie and Van Wilder, the gigolo lifestyle is the ultimate status any heterosexual man can ever hope to achieve. The woman he scores at the end of the night is just another toy, a collector's item gleaming up on his mantlepiece of traumatised trophies, and even though the signs of a player are as clear as day, so many of us still allow ourselves to fall hard for these malicious idiots. Surely after years of dating the wrong kind of guy, we would've wised up to know when we are being played. Are we so desperate for love and attention that we'll believe anything these boys have to say or has the player simply upped his game?
Fortunately for Charlotte, she was no stranger to this particular kind of man. Although she fancied the occasional fiddle from time to time, a fool she was not. She had the gift of seeing right through their crystal charm and witty banter, and even managed to toy with them herself. She's the kind of heroine that lets them believe they have the upper hand and that they stand a chance of making her notch number 87 on their already overlapping belt. Did Charlotte possess some kind of super-power that most women wish they had or had she simply had enough and decided that it was time to play the player at his own game?
"There's something about you and I simply can't put my finger on it," Jon smugly boasted as he flirted his way into the conversation. If Charlotte had a dollar for every time she heard that before then she wouldn't be working night shifts as a nurse cleaning bed pans and changing IV drips. Let me think...could it be Charlotte's massive breasts which she aptly named Coco and Chanel or was it the fact that she was young, sexy and the only other single girl at a 50th birthday party? Here was a guy who only minutes ago had introduced us to his girlfriend of 13 months, a fragile woman called Alice who had just been through a messy divorce only to find false hope in this schmoozy schmuck.
Poor Alice would probably have to endure a relationship full of lies for the rest of her life. Behind that precarious smile and devil eyes lived a man who probably had more than one trick on the side, each one more oblivious to his actions than the next. You've got to hand it to them, these players certainly know how to multi-task, what with all the secrets and cover-ups, deception and lies, the simultaneous sexting and long conversations with their "buddies". Guys don't have long conversations with their buddies and if you believe that for one second then maybe you enjoy being played! It's an urban myth, a ruse to make you think he cares and has some sort of depth. True to form, Charlotte received the typical "I have to see you again" text only minutes after they had left the party. We all had a good laugh at his pathetic attempt to woo Charlotte who willingly scrolled down to hit "delete."
If only we could delete these players from our existence entirely, what a wonderful world it would be. Think of all the time we could save on real relationships worthy of our love and affection. Unfortunately, players exist and just like a cheetah rarely change their spots. With so many predatory men disguised as smooth talkers and slick sales execs, how are we ever supposed to tell the difference? As we pawn our way from one asshole to the next I couldn't help but wonder when we'd ever truly find the strength to protect the queen that lives inside us all.
When it comes to the game of hearts, isn't it about time that the players got played?
Thursday, 27 June 2013
Second time around
Once upon a time when the sitcom and soap opera were still alive, a local TV network created a tiny window period known as "Open Time". Between the hours of 5 and 7pm, M-Net would open its airwaves to the general public (a.k.a the plebs and working class families too sensible to afford the luxury of South African cable), allowing them limited access to complimentary viewing pleasure. Although its main target was to convert the masses into larger sales statistics, it managed to bring us classics such as Loving, Perfect Strangers, Full House and my own personal favorite, Step-by-Step, a comedy series about a divorcee (Patrick Duffy) and a widow (the statuesque Suzanne Somers) who decide to give love a second chance.
Everything about the opening sequence was conceptually brilliant, from the rock-a-billy theme song to the massive beach side roller coaster. Not only did it set the tone for this hilarious, well-written show, but it also served as the perfect metaphor for love and marriage. The excitement, the fear, the free fall, the ups and the downs, the round-round. It's a joyride that feels just as exhilarating as it does nauseating, one that could end just as quickly as it begins. It got me thinking about second marriages and their subsequent success rate. Do second marriages succeed because of the all the lessons learned from the first or do they simply have a greater, more realistic understanding of what it takes to make commitment work?
Anyone who has ever gone through the big "D" will tell you what an emotional rollercoaster it is. Not only are the mixed emotions of blame, loss, anger, liberation and devastation overwhelming, but the exhausting exercise and heavy cost of red tape and admin is enough to swear one off love and commitment forever. It has the potential to breed bitterness and discontent, to lure low self-esteem and create jaded man whores. To make matters worse, the dissolution of a marriage is legally formalised by terms such as"irreconcilable differences", "adultery" and "constructive abandonment", buzz words printed in black and white that serve no other purpose than to remind us of how badly we sucked at making someone else happy, and even though most of us make it out alright, I couldn't help but wonder where there really was life A.D (After Divorce)?
The greatest success story of all comes from an older couple whom I admire, love and adore. Pippa and Liam were once both victims of a terrible first marriage. Pippa was an aspiring artist whose husband abandoned her whilst pregnant with their second child while Liam was a highly successful entrepreneur who came home one evening to find his best friend boning his first wife in their bedroom. A few years later, after the scorn and anger had subsided, they were introduced at a jazz concert through a mutual friend. What started out as a simple friendship had somehow blossomed into a twenty-three year marriage with five beautiful children to show for it.
What was the key to their success? Were they simply a better fit for one another or did they share a much stronger desire and determination to make things work in their second marriage? Did their starter marriage give them the upper hand and expertise required to overcome the challenges of modern-day unions or was there some greater sense of gratitude in a second marriage, a mutual sense of appreciation that can only come from experiencing a certain kind of failure? Was it their shared sense of self-awareness and soul-searching that came after a long trial of pain and heartbreak that did the trick or were they just lucky?
They say that practice makes perfect which is probably why second marriages work out so well. Third, fourth, fifth. It doesn't matter how many bands of gold you pick up along the way as long as you remain courageous enough to open your heart to the possibility of loving someone else again. The trauma of divorce can leave a serious dent on the heart (as well as the wallet) which is why one should always take it slow when it comes to take two. There aren't many sequels that surpass their debut but when it comes to love, perhaps round two is all it takes to find what you were looking for all along.
When it comes to the dissolution of one marriage, can we maybe make it better the second time around?
Everything about the opening sequence was conceptually brilliant, from the rock-a-billy theme song to the massive beach side roller coaster. Not only did it set the tone for this hilarious, well-written show, but it also served as the perfect metaphor for love and marriage. The excitement, the fear, the free fall, the ups and the downs, the round-round. It's a joyride that feels just as exhilarating as it does nauseating, one that could end just as quickly as it begins. It got me thinking about second marriages and their subsequent success rate. Do second marriages succeed because of the all the lessons learned from the first or do they simply have a greater, more realistic understanding of what it takes to make commitment work?
Anyone who has ever gone through the big "D" will tell you what an emotional rollercoaster it is. Not only are the mixed emotions of blame, loss, anger, liberation and devastation overwhelming, but the exhausting exercise and heavy cost of red tape and admin is enough to swear one off love and commitment forever. It has the potential to breed bitterness and discontent, to lure low self-esteem and create jaded man whores. To make matters worse, the dissolution of a marriage is legally formalised by terms such as"irreconcilable differences", "adultery" and "constructive abandonment", buzz words printed in black and white that serve no other purpose than to remind us of how badly we sucked at making someone else happy, and even though most of us make it out alright, I couldn't help but wonder where there really was life A.D (After Divorce)?
The greatest success story of all comes from an older couple whom I admire, love and adore. Pippa and Liam were once both victims of a terrible first marriage. Pippa was an aspiring artist whose husband abandoned her whilst pregnant with their second child while Liam was a highly successful entrepreneur who came home one evening to find his best friend boning his first wife in their bedroom. A few years later, after the scorn and anger had subsided, they were introduced at a jazz concert through a mutual friend. What started out as a simple friendship had somehow blossomed into a twenty-three year marriage with five beautiful children to show for it.
What was the key to their success? Were they simply a better fit for one another or did they share a much stronger desire and determination to make things work in their second marriage? Did their starter marriage give them the upper hand and expertise required to overcome the challenges of modern-day unions or was there some greater sense of gratitude in a second marriage, a mutual sense of appreciation that can only come from experiencing a certain kind of failure? Was it their shared sense of self-awareness and soul-searching that came after a long trial of pain and heartbreak that did the trick or were they just lucky?
They say that practice makes perfect which is probably why second marriages work out so well. Third, fourth, fifth. It doesn't matter how many bands of gold you pick up along the way as long as you remain courageous enough to open your heart to the possibility of loving someone else again. The trauma of divorce can leave a serious dent on the heart (as well as the wallet) which is why one should always take it slow when it comes to take two. There aren't many sequels that surpass their debut but when it comes to love, perhaps round two is all it takes to find what you were looking for all along.
When it comes to the dissolution of one marriage, can we maybe make it better the second time around?
Wednesday, 19 June 2013
The Dirty Thirties
"Bom! Bom! Bom! Ladies and gentlemen, this is the final boarding
call for flight OMGIMTURNING30 now departing Gate 29 for destination
unknown. We're expecting clear skies over the next ten years with the occasional patch of grey in the upper and lower regions. Please
feel free to make use of the overhead compartment to store any excess
baggage you might be carrying with you. We hope you enjoy your flight. Sit back, relax and enjoy a
far less turbulent ride..."
The day I had been dreading for over a decade was finally upon me and with only four days left of my twenty-something existence, I could feel the pre-30's crisis slowly creeping in. Goodbye one-day hangovers and hello three-day recovery periods. Gravity, grey and saying things like "they just don't make music like they used to" welcome themselves without an invitation. The slow, crippling stumble towards bed pans, dentures and zimmer-frame walkers begins with that tiny groan you develop when you turn 30 and ends with a comfortable casket that your 20-something year old self was not wise enough to save up for.
Some people say that your thirties is just your twenties reloaded, only this time with more financial freedom and better judgement. It's also the year that we apparently hit our sexual prime and I for one could not see any harm in that. Better sex, better credit, wisdom. Tell me again why these "dirty thirties" have such a negative stigma attached them? Was the dramatic thought of physical decay enough to overshadow the glory of the next decade or was it still this feeling of not having achieved anything yet? A rich husband, a family, two kids, a killer career and a fast car? Were we any closer to the white picket fence and fantasy life we dreamed of when we were nine or was it maybe time to let go and change our perception of success?
I turned to one of my bff's from "The Tin" (a.k.a Milnerton) for some perspective. Velma had successfully managed to boycott her own 30th birthday three years ago after she had thrown herself a massive party and then subsequently locked herself away in the bathroom with a giant bottle of tequila. "Age. Ugh! It's fucking bad knowing that you are not in your twenties anymore. You look at the tits and asses of youngsters with their perky cleavage and a dress so short that it's got a name...Koekkie Hol. Because that's all you see. Koekie and hol. It makes me so depressed thinking that I would probably never look like that again without the help of cosmetic surgery."
She lit another one of her slim, Vogue cigarettes and continued, "Skin. Saggy in the face, visual pores, flabby arms and dare I say it, flabby ass. You have to go for a pedi at least once a month to avoid per-historic reptile-looking heels and bok, this befalls you after you turn 30. The most awful thing I swear is the facial hair which happens after 30. I don't go anywhere without my tweezer. It's the single most precious thing I own. And the grey. OMG! Nothing says old like grey hair. I just hope that I don't get grey down there anytime soon because I would spend the rest of my life waxing my poor old wrinkled vagina. That would be horror movie shit. A grey va-jay-jay!"
While Velma dramatically painted an image of nearly every single woman-turning thirty's fear, she also managed to shed some major light on the subject. "Once you get over the "getting older saga", everything starts making sense. You start being more you and stop giving a shit about what people think of you. When you're 20, you have all the confidence in the world and nothing to back it up. When you're 30, you have even more confidence and then some. Life really does kick in after 30. You get a new lease on life, a kick in the head. You start appreciating all that is beautiful in your life. Friends. Family. A simple decadent dessert at your favorite restaurant (which you pay for with your own credit card). The "koekie holle" out there can go and f*** themselves because you are actually still attractive to 20-something year old's only this time with the added bonus of money and sexual expertise."
We all secretly wish we could stay young forever but the truth is we can't, not unless you have a full time plastic surgeon and the strength and determination to avoid carbs for the rest of your life. Your body might be gaining momentum and gravity might be taking its toll but does that really mean your personality should? You're still the same person you were a few hours ago only this time (hopefully) blessed with a little more courage and wisdom. You finally have the means and the confidence to achieve the dreams you thought were lost for good. And who really wants to be twenty again? It was a great trial run but something tells me that the greatest years of all are yet to come.
When it comes to turning thirty, I couldn't help but wonder, why the freak out?
The day I had been dreading for over a decade was finally upon me and with only four days left of my twenty-something existence, I could feel the pre-30's crisis slowly creeping in. Goodbye one-day hangovers and hello three-day recovery periods. Gravity, grey and saying things like "they just don't make music like they used to" welcome themselves without an invitation. The slow, crippling stumble towards bed pans, dentures and zimmer-frame walkers begins with that tiny groan you develop when you turn 30 and ends with a comfortable casket that your 20-something year old self was not wise enough to save up for.
Some people say that your thirties is just your twenties reloaded, only this time with more financial freedom and better judgement. It's also the year that we apparently hit our sexual prime and I for one could not see any harm in that. Better sex, better credit, wisdom. Tell me again why these "dirty thirties" have such a negative stigma attached them? Was the dramatic thought of physical decay enough to overshadow the glory of the next decade or was it still this feeling of not having achieved anything yet? A rich husband, a family, two kids, a killer career and a fast car? Were we any closer to the white picket fence and fantasy life we dreamed of when we were nine or was it maybe time to let go and change our perception of success?
I turned to one of my bff's from "The Tin" (a.k.a Milnerton) for some perspective. Velma had successfully managed to boycott her own 30th birthday three years ago after she had thrown herself a massive party and then subsequently locked herself away in the bathroom with a giant bottle of tequila. "Age. Ugh! It's fucking bad knowing that you are not in your twenties anymore. You look at the tits and asses of youngsters with their perky cleavage and a dress so short that it's got a name...Koekkie Hol. Because that's all you see. Koekie and hol. It makes me so depressed thinking that I would probably never look like that again without the help of cosmetic surgery."
She lit another one of her slim, Vogue cigarettes and continued, "Skin. Saggy in the face, visual pores, flabby arms and dare I say it, flabby ass. You have to go for a pedi at least once a month to avoid per-historic reptile-looking heels and bok, this befalls you after you turn 30. The most awful thing I swear is the facial hair which happens after 30. I don't go anywhere without my tweezer. It's the single most precious thing I own. And the grey. OMG! Nothing says old like grey hair. I just hope that I don't get grey down there anytime soon because I would spend the rest of my life waxing my poor old wrinkled vagina. That would be horror movie shit. A grey va-jay-jay!"
While Velma dramatically painted an image of nearly every single woman-turning thirty's fear, she also managed to shed some major light on the subject. "Once you get over the "getting older saga", everything starts making sense. You start being more you and stop giving a shit about what people think of you. When you're 20, you have all the confidence in the world and nothing to back it up. When you're 30, you have even more confidence and then some. Life really does kick in after 30. You get a new lease on life, a kick in the head. You start appreciating all that is beautiful in your life. Friends. Family. A simple decadent dessert at your favorite restaurant (which you pay for with your own credit card). The "koekie holle" out there can go and f*** themselves because you are actually still attractive to 20-something year old's only this time with the added bonus of money and sexual expertise."
We all secretly wish we could stay young forever but the truth is we can't, not unless you have a full time plastic surgeon and the strength and determination to avoid carbs for the rest of your life. Your body might be gaining momentum and gravity might be taking its toll but does that really mean your personality should? You're still the same person you were a few hours ago only this time (hopefully) blessed with a little more courage and wisdom. You finally have the means and the confidence to achieve the dreams you thought were lost for good. And who really wants to be twenty again? It was a great trial run but something tells me that the greatest years of all are yet to come.
When it comes to turning thirty, I couldn't help but wonder, why the freak out?
Thursday, 13 June 2013
Somebody that I used to blow
When you reach the golden gates of relationship heaven, life starts becoming less about words and more about numbers. 36. The number of years it took to finally meet someone who wasn't completely insane. 942. The number of days it took before he popped the question. 9500. The average amount of money a young couple has to spend on bond repayments in order to afford the luxury of a 3-bedroomed house. It all adds up, and while some numbers can represent a lifetime of happiness and dedication, there is one number that most of us would rather take to the grave than share with anyone else, especially when that someone is our current significant other.
Just like Britney Spears' 2007 MTV VMA performance, the number of sexual partners one accumulates before meeting "the one" is something we'd rather black out than blurt out in public. No matter how low or how high, we fear the potential embarrassment. Most of us would rather talk about salaries and overdrafts before discussing our number of sexual conquests. Is it really something to be ashamed of or do some people prefer to keep the matter private out of respect for their partner's feelings? One night stands, casual hook-ups, de-ja-who's and somebody that I used to blow. It's hard to keep up in this promiscuous day and age, and while nobody likes to be judged, some of us are quick to develop a convenient (and sometimes genuine) case of sexual amnesia when it comes to spilling the beans. Are we afraid that our sexual past might affect our romantic future or do we fear that our partner might look down on us for having more than what's socially acceptable?
Who decides what's socially acceptable or not anyway? A friend of mine had recently come across a survey called "The Perfect 10", a well-known study suggesting that the perfect number of sexual partners in a lifetime for both men and women should be no more than 10 (cue laughter). More than 10 brands you as a she-slut ho bag whereas less than 10 makes you a pearl-clutching granny-panty prude. If that's the case, then I might as well be shipped off to the red light district. While Aiden may have been aroused by the number of notches I had on my bedpost BC (before commitment), the same could not be said about my Hungarian friend, Anja, who was petrified that her magic number would somehow be revealed to her new boyfriend.
While most good girls eventually turn bad, Anja's life seemed to work in reverse. She had been known as the village bicycle back in her home town and had gone through a very promiscuous stage of her life between the ages of 16 and 24. Safety had always come first with Anja, well at least 80% of the time and while she can't really remember the actual number of men she had slept with, she remembers certain glimpses of her sordid past. Walks of shame through hotel lobbies at 3am, public displays of erotic affection and all the glory hole goodness you could possibly think of. Anja was definitely no angel.
Her life did a complete 180 the day she arrived in South Africa where she got a job working in tourism and met the most wonderful man, a chartered accountant by the name of Andrew. Andrew had come from a very conservative English family and had always been a by-the-book kind of guy. Once night over a bottle of delicious Grenache and a roaring fire, he openly admitted to Anja that he had only been with 5 girls his entire life and not once had the sex ever been meaningless. She wasn't sure whether it was the wine or the heat, but when Andrew asked Anja the same question, she lied and told him that he was her 4th lover - more like the 74th.
"I couldn't bear the thought of him looking at me in any other way than the way he looked at me right there and then. His eyes were so full of love for me and I did not want him to think of me as some kind of cheap whore from a third world country." Was Anja doing the right thing by keeping certain parts of her sexual history private or should she have just told him truth? Fortunately no one from Hungary was going to rock up any time soon, but why did she feel the need to lie? Was it nobody else's business but her own? Surely if he loved her as much as she said he did, he would have understood and accepted her for who she is now and not what she was then. Would he think of Anja any differently or would he have been able to laugh it off?
We're all entitled to a bit of mystery in life and perhaps some numbers are better left unaccounted for. Whether it's by choice or early signs of sexual dementia, no one has the right to judge who you based on some silly number. As long as that number remains one and the same during the time spent in a committed relationship, it really ain't nobody's business. Our sexual past shouldn't really matter if the number of people we're currently sleeping with has whittled down to one.
When it comes to a person's sexual past, why should one number affect our relationship's present?
Just like Britney Spears' 2007 MTV VMA performance, the number of sexual partners one accumulates before meeting "the one" is something we'd rather black out than blurt out in public. No matter how low or how high, we fear the potential embarrassment. Most of us would rather talk about salaries and overdrafts before discussing our number of sexual conquests. Is it really something to be ashamed of or do some people prefer to keep the matter private out of respect for their partner's feelings? One night stands, casual hook-ups, de-ja-who's and somebody that I used to blow. It's hard to keep up in this promiscuous day and age, and while nobody likes to be judged, some of us are quick to develop a convenient (and sometimes genuine) case of sexual amnesia when it comes to spilling the beans. Are we afraid that our sexual past might affect our romantic future or do we fear that our partner might look down on us for having more than what's socially acceptable?
Who decides what's socially acceptable or not anyway? A friend of mine had recently come across a survey called "The Perfect 10", a well-known study suggesting that the perfect number of sexual partners in a lifetime for both men and women should be no more than 10 (cue laughter). More than 10 brands you as a she-slut ho bag whereas less than 10 makes you a pearl-clutching granny-panty prude. If that's the case, then I might as well be shipped off to the red light district. While Aiden may have been aroused by the number of notches I had on my bedpost BC (before commitment), the same could not be said about my Hungarian friend, Anja, who was petrified that her magic number would somehow be revealed to her new boyfriend.
While most good girls eventually turn bad, Anja's life seemed to work in reverse. She had been known as the village bicycle back in her home town and had gone through a very promiscuous stage of her life between the ages of 16 and 24. Safety had always come first with Anja, well at least 80% of the time and while she can't really remember the actual number of men she had slept with, she remembers certain glimpses of her sordid past. Walks of shame through hotel lobbies at 3am, public displays of erotic affection and all the glory hole goodness you could possibly think of. Anja was definitely no angel.
Her life did a complete 180 the day she arrived in South Africa where she got a job working in tourism and met the most wonderful man, a chartered accountant by the name of Andrew. Andrew had come from a very conservative English family and had always been a by-the-book kind of guy. Once night over a bottle of delicious Grenache and a roaring fire, he openly admitted to Anja that he had only been with 5 girls his entire life and not once had the sex ever been meaningless. She wasn't sure whether it was the wine or the heat, but when Andrew asked Anja the same question, she lied and told him that he was her 4th lover - more like the 74th.
"I couldn't bear the thought of him looking at me in any other way than the way he looked at me right there and then. His eyes were so full of love for me and I did not want him to think of me as some kind of cheap whore from a third world country." Was Anja doing the right thing by keeping certain parts of her sexual history private or should she have just told him truth? Fortunately no one from Hungary was going to rock up any time soon, but why did she feel the need to lie? Was it nobody else's business but her own? Surely if he loved her as much as she said he did, he would have understood and accepted her for who she is now and not what she was then. Would he think of Anja any differently or would he have been able to laugh it off?
We're all entitled to a bit of mystery in life and perhaps some numbers are better left unaccounted for. Whether it's by choice or early signs of sexual dementia, no one has the right to judge who you based on some silly number. As long as that number remains one and the same during the time spent in a committed relationship, it really ain't nobody's business. Our sexual past shouldn't really matter if the number of people we're currently sleeping with has whittled down to one.
When it comes to a person's sexual past, why should one number affect our relationship's present?
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