What a Fucking Idiot. Posted in Uncategorized on March 7, 2008 by laspinner

NOTE: Today's post is brutally honest and has strictly adult content. If you wanted an unflitered account of what it's like to date Mike Cherico, here goes.....

Yesterday I received the following email from Mike:

RE: I'madorkus

quick heads up... I LIKE YOU... A LOT! so please please please don't be mad about tomorrows [sic] post!

(Having just read his post, what he should have emailed me was something more along the lines of "I'm going to humiliate you on my blog tomorrow, hope that's ok!!!")

Earlier: Don't Date This Man
But here's what happened yesterday. I called him a couple hours after receiving the email and he immediately backtracked, saying "I was probably drunk when I wrote that." (Keep in mind he sent it at 3:30pm.) After 10 minutes of me trying to explain why that was not acceptable and that if he likes me as much as he says he does he needs to tell me things himself, not through his blog, he finally explained that when he came over for dinner last week, I had a cut on my lip that freaked him out. He was really upset that I hadn't told him what it was and instead let him wonder if it might, in fact, be herpes. I wish I was joking. Keep in mind that, when Mike showed up at my apartment for dinner and I had just gotten home at 9pm from a long day of work carrying the groceries I'd bought for our meal, he asked me if he could watch TV while I cooked. Again, not joking. After dinner, we were being snuggly and talking about sexual issues- more on that later- when he blurted out "I already had sex twice today" implying that my affections were unnecessary. (My reaction was similar to what yours might be if an alien landed on your computer while you were reading this.) The evening ended shortly thereafter for obvious reasons but not before Mike told me that the chick he'd had sex with earlier was "really hot" (insinuating that she was irresistible, unlike me) and then, again, backtracked to say that he'd made it up.

[NOTE: Because I got so angry, apparantly Mike or his editors changed that part in today's post so that it didn't refer to me specifically. Whatever. I'm telling you it was me b/c I have nothing to hide, the whole thing is pathetic, I do NOT have herpes, and Mike is an idiot for thinking so. And then he says shame on ME for putting HIM in that position? Mike, you are VILE.]

So what was actually going on was not that Mike had fucked someone else, but that he thought I had herpes, and wanted an excuse to leave . Thank god for the old "I already had sex twice today" standby. I am going to devote exactly one sentence to an explanation of the cut because it's SO not the point, but basically I had accidentally bitten my lip the day before and had a very small scab. Perhaps not sexy, and if he'd asked me about it and said it made him feel weird about kissing me I would have completely understood. But by no means was it contagious or a symptom of any greater health problem. Mike, for a graphic pic of what oral herpes actually looks like, see here. You might need it for future reference.

I don't think i need to waste space describing how distasteful and declasse I think it is for Mike to write about that in his blog rather than discussing it with me in person. I consider that an attempt to humiliate me in public for his own benefit. If he had been honest about his concern and allowed me to explain, I probably would have been ok with him bringing it up in the blog because in any physical relationship there are issues of trust, and I certainly understand not knowing how to broach that kind of topic. But instead he defended himself that he shouldn't have to bring it up because he's "sensitive," and instead made excuses not to be intimate with me over our next two dates. (Apparantly, an alternate definition of "sensitive" is "idiotic.") He then apparantly decided that he would write about it in today's post because that was MORE courteous than saying it to my face, which even he could barely say without choking on the bullshit. When I told him I found that disrespectful and that by writing such a description of me he was basically painting me as some kind of disease-ridden whore he responded that it's not like my name is on there and anyway, "I don't owe you anything." The whole thing was so juvenile and devoid of the mutual respect and trust that adult relationships are founded on that I was completely dumbfounded. Seriously, you couldn't ask me about a cut on my lip so you stew about it for a week and then embarrass me on your blog? THANKS, SWEETIE, XOXOX Miss Smarty Shoes. I have seen David Bowie movies where the world is more realistic than the one Mike lives in. He continued to seeth that there was something wrong with me for putting him in that situation, that it was clearly my responsibility to address the cut and not doing so was obviously a premeditated decision on my part to confuse and upset him. Right. Because that makes sense. Is this the kind of guy who's going to tell you you're beautiful when you're pregnant or stressed or gain five pounds or have a stuffy nose? If I really DID get sick, would I be able to turn to him for help? If he can't bring up something minor like this, could we ever have an honest conversation about REAL issues? Those are rhetorical questions.

(Please don't misinterpret my position on being honest with a sexual partner. If I had indeed had something contagious or in any way harmful, it absolutely would have been my responsibility to disclose it to Mike before being physically intimate, whether it was visually evident or not. The fact that it WAS so obvious makes me wonder how he could possibly have thought I was trying to hide it.)

I honestly didn't bring it up because I had forgotten about it. To me it was obviously a cut, and a very small one, and if the thought had ever crossed my mind that it might appear otherwise to Mike I would have pointed it out immediately. I also had a zit on my forehead and a bruise on my knee from where Gretel jumped on me, should I have pointed those out, too? Given him a tour of my body's imperfections? Is it my fault that he is RETARDED?

What makes this incident meaningful beyond its absurdity is that even when I tried to briefly explain tonight to Mike that it was a small cut, he became angry again and yelled that he barely knows me and how can he possibly trust me. No matter what I said, he was still going to worry that I was lying and that I had a disease.

So the rest of this piece is about trust and Mike Cherico.

Mike is a recreational liar. It's possible he is in fact a compulsive or pathalogical liar but I honestly don't know him well enough and I'm not going to diagnose him. He lies so naturally that he loses track of the truth. For him, if a lie is easier to say then it becomes reality (ie; when he told me he'd had sex that day rather than bringing up what was actually bothering him.)

Below are some more anecdotes about my experiences with Mike, trust and truth:

* Let's start with the "amazing woman" Mike was apparantly holding hands with at the concert that I took him too (and paid for.) If it gives you some idea of his taste in women, she was a skanky, fake-boobed bimbo wearing a slutty outfit and Uggs from 2004 who looked like she'd just come off of ROCK OF LOVE 2. If someone in this story has herpes, it was that girl. She was giving me nasty looks the whole show and I asked Mike if he'd noticed- of course not. Bear in mind that while Mike was, I now realize, holding hands with this tramp, he was also stroking my hair, kissing the top of my head, etc. I am literally at a loss for how to articulate what a disgusting person he is. Mike, I am a beautiful woman, and how dare you try to make me feel like anything less.

* Mike called our date at the Rustic short last week because he "had to go make a drug deal."

* The brilliant thing about Mike's worrying about my having a disease is that the first night we met we had unprotected sex. It's literally the only time I have not used a condom with someone who wasn't a boyfriend (I am on birth control) and I am furious with myself for letting it happen. Suffice it to say that, given our respective lifestyles, if we took a poll of who was more likely to have an STD, me or Mike, I'd feel pretty confident about my odds. Concert Girl might screw up the race Nader-style, tho!

* The first night I went out with Mike a woman called repeatedly and he asked me to answer the phone, which I did, saying "Mike's office." I thought it was some past fling booty-calling him. Turns out it was his ex-girlfriend of a year who he had been talking to earlier and who was calling him distraught about their conversation. Had I known this was a person who he had had an actual relationship with I would NEVER have gotten involved. So that's how Mike treats people he ostensibly used to love. He also put me on mute once so I could listen to her talking to him about how much she missed him. She thought they were having a private conversation, but Mike was in fact egging her on for my benefit to show me how "crazy" she was. If she's reading this, please please do not think Mike will ever treat you the way you deserve to be treated because he is just not a good man. He once told me you're not good at your job and just get by on your looks. You deserve so much better and he doesn't have it in him.

* Most of the times I have made plans with Mike he doesn't follow through, doesn't call to explain, and then lies about it later. I didn't invite him to my birthday party for exactly that reason, but he found out about it and made a huge deal of the fact that he wasn't invited, so I invited him, then of course he didn't show up. The next morning he texted me to ask if i wanted to get lunch. I presumed he was trying to make up for the previous night and agreed. Two hours later I hadn't heard from him and called his cell. Turns out he was out to breakfast with another woman but told me to "meet him at the Rustic in a couple hours." Romantic. (I imagine most readers are wondering why I continued to make plans with him despite this shit and I promise I'm going to address that at the end of this piece so please bear with me.) While in the shower, I missed his call. An hour and multiple calls later he told me he'd come by but since I didn't pick up my phone he had fallen asleep, in his car. So I texted him to go fuck himself, that he was the stupidest man I'd ever dated, and that I was going to the rustic by myself. He immediately called me and said he was on his way to meet me at the Inn.

* It gets creepier. As he was on his way to meet me, he called me and said he'd been wanting to talk to me for awhile about how I really feel about him because he likes me a lot. I was very guarded in my response and told him we could discuss it in person. He said he really wanted to talk now and that he couldn't believe I really liked him for x, y and z reasons. When it became clear I was not going to give a substantive response he started laughing maniacally and said "I'm just kidding."

* It still gets creepier. When I later told him that was an extremely disrespectful thing to do and asked why, he told me that the woman from breakfast was still in the car with him, that she'd asked him why so many girls like him and he'd put me on speakerphone before calling so she could listen to my response. So basically he tried to lure me into an emotional confession only for the amusement of another girl. Keep in mind this was after he'd said he had fallen asleep and missed my calls, which was clearly a lie since he was still with this other woman.

Those select tales say nothing of the thousands of little lies Mike tells as part of regular conversation. It's virtually impossible to know what to believe. He also clearly uses lying/"kidding" as a way to back out of things he wishes he hadn't disclosed. He will say something and if you don't react the way he wanted he'll start laughing and exclaim "I was just kidding!" like a child.

He also got really jealous of my other dates and clearly couldn't handle being on the other side of that treatment. Pretty hilarious.

One more X-rated Mike story just because I've been dying to share it (I don't recommend reading this paragaph if you're sensitive.) He is, like he's said in the blog, truly terrible in bed. He basically just lies there and lets the girl do all the work. I thought it was just a first time thing but the morning after we slept together, we had sex again, and I went down on him and let him finish in in my mouth. I was literally sitting there with the taste of him still in my throat when he stood up to take a shower. He had now had two orgasms to my zero, so I asked if he might orally reciprocate. He, with no hesitation or hint of sarcasm, proclaimed "I don't know you that well!" and turned on the faucet. Frankly, it's a pretty obvious metaphor for his selfishness and laziness in relationships and how his pleasure is his only concern. But anyone who can say anything that rude without flinching is clearly playing his own game.

And now a little on me.

Lest you think me a vindictive harlot, I told Mike I was going to write this and he said he didn't care.... an obvious lie but one he insisted upon. I'm not trying to get back at him for his piece today, because his life is no longer my concern and I hope I'm lucky enough never to see him again, but even when I asked him if he wanted me to take it easy on him he said it didn't matter, he didn't care, nothing matters, do whatever I want. Even in something which I do believe he values, his blog, he still couldn't stop with the deceitful, "it's your problem not mine you stupid bitch" act and ask me, human to human, to keep these things private. So I thought it was time he came to terms with the fact that the things you say become the reality you live.

That said, I completely understand that all of you reading this must not think very much of me for dating someone like this, so here is my attempt to explain why I continued to see Mike.

For starters, I regret it more than I can say. As I reread what I wrote above I am viciously angry with myself for letting someone of such low moral fiber ever treat me this way. He is hands down the most bizarre, mean, selfish and delusional person I've ever met. (Not to mention that he's not very smart, and even though my post today is hardly Hemingway I think you'll agree with me that I can write circles around this guy. Frankly, he's just not a very good writer.) His behavior is so far off the charts of what is acceptable in normal relationships it needs transalation, like "Well in Mike's world this is what that meant." But that's why people like me are drawn to him, I am embarrassed to say. We think that if we can just understand him, we can help him. We believe with true love and support he will change, and if we can be the woman to do it, that will validate us somehow. It's no accident in my mind that he was in a serious relationship with a shrink.

Mike lies so often that it doesn't occur to him that other people are honest. He claims not to trust me and doesn't know if he can believe my preposterous lip-biting story because clearly I am trying to dupe him into herpes. The paranoid paradigm in which he lives is a very lonely place.

Last night I trusted Mike to drive me home. Despite my protests, he took out a bottle of liquor and chugged it while driving. On the freeway. I found out later that he was a lot drunker than I realized when we left the concert. I don't think I will ever forgive myself for being in such a dangerous situation with someone with such little respect for others.

It really pains me to have typed all this out because listed in this format I really can't justify to myself why I kept seeing him. There were definitely substantial moments where he dropped the act and what's underneath was very appealing, but it's so obvious in reading this that he's a terrible person and no other qualities, no matter how positive, could make up for the above. By comparison, I think I try really hard to see the good in people. Because I saw something special in Mike beneath the crap I thought I could bring it out. Because I have flaws and suffer from destructive impulses I thought he deserved forgiveness and understanding. I don't feel that way any more. I have too much respect for people to ever treat them the way Mike does, whether they're a boyfriend, co-worker, family member or stranger on the street.

And I will state for the record that I don't think any of this has to do with his blog. These patterns are too ingrained to be recent occurrences. He uses the writing as an excuse to be cruel and the serial dating as an excuse not to change. Like I've said before, I think the lying and destructive behavior are an elaborate defense system Mike has erected to keep himself from getting attached to anyone where he might risk getting hurt. He is inconsistent in his versions of the truth and then aggressive in blaming the other person for requesting clarification. He's so enmeshed in his own crap I don't think he could be self-aware if he tried. He changes the subject constantly to avoid being caught in his fake stories. It's so impossible for him to take responsibility for anything he has done wrong that he lies even to himself. Frankly, I think the reflection in the mirror is just too painful.

Like it or not, the holidays are upon us. I'm sure when you were stumbling home in the wee morning hours of November 1st in your slutty Madeline Albright costume, you saw the shopkeepers ripping down witches and vampires and putting up pictures of a fat old man who breaks into your house and tries to woo your children with toys. But there's also that other holiday in between, that one dedicated to an afternoon spent face-down on the shag carpet, woozy from tryptophan and big-bottle wine. A time when you listen to and look at your family and wonder "Who are these people??" I was thinking about this the other day and, in the immortal words of Mr. Ed: later that night, I got to thinking. I've decided we'll have a new Thanksgiving. A Gawker Thanksgiving. It's so corny! I know! But, I get sentimental this time of year.

So. How will this work? I think we'll start with the location. Naturally Laurel Touby, founder of MediaArby's, will be our "cyber hostess." (Ugh.) We'll all meet sometime around noon. Julia Allison will bring her darling dog Lilly and Jakob Lodwick will bring his darling fashion lenses. Tinsley Mortimer will arrive wearing an old, soiled Santa suit and just blink confusedly at everyone. (She'll disappear for much of the night, only to be found in the backyard, stuck in a bear trap.) Kristian Laliberte will arrive with his new boyfriend, Elijah Pollack. They'll be so in love! (Later, during dinner, Anna Wintour will lean in close, her breath reeking of gin and clamato juice, purring into your ear "Aren't they just divine together? They're like Paul Newman and Katherine Ross in Butch Cassidy. Except, you know, gay and, um, young.") John Fitzgerald Page will come crashing through the foyer in his Beemer, Eiffel 65's "Blue" blasting loudly, and shove a sweaty bucket of fried chicken into Laurel's hands. Then, just as we think all the guests have arrived, we'll hear a strange hum, a demonic orchestra tuning. As the whole house rumbles, Sean Hannity will shriek, jumping up and down and clapping his hands, "Rupey is here!" Mr. Murdoch will disembark his flaming humpback whale nuclear stagecoach and shove a sweaty Judith Regan into Laurel's feather boa.

James Lipton will utter a dinner bell clarion call from deep within his diaphragm, and all the guests will be seated at the long oak table. There will be a beautiful centerpiece fashioned out of the rawhide remains of Jocelyn Wildenstein's face. The feast will consist of many bottles of Coppola Vineyards wine, PinkBerry soufflés, and turducken. Robert Olen Butler will be the first to get drunk and hurl recriminations at people. "Elizabeth!!" he'll shout across the table at Jann Wenner, "No one poops in South America! It wasn't a sign! It was nature!!" Chris Crocker will defuse the awkward situation by stripping down to his skivvies and doing an old-style fan dance/Britney Spears hyper-sexual mash-up that erotically incorporates Janet Robinson's famous green bean casserole. ("It's the fried onions that really make it work," he'll say in a post-performance YouTube interview with himself.)

Once all are sated and sufficiently boozed up, plates will be cleared by Laurel's faithful butler, Neel Shah. Then, it's on to charades! Mandy Stadtmiller will start. She will pantomime long walks on beaches and summers spent murmuring on porch swings about the big, bright future. In mere seconds team partner Alyssa Shelasky will shriek "SuperPreppy!!" Commenter KarenUhOh, who has been quietly assessing the legal ramifications of all this, will dryly deadpan: "I thought the category was real people." Mandy will run out of the room weeping and farting, having had her hideous secret revealed. Graydon Carter will be next. He will act out a strange series of lilts and affectations, and Lizzie Grubman will yell with delight "Spike! Spike! It's your little fey creature of a son!" A few more rounds will come and go, and of course it will end in a tie and all will be smugly satisfied with their own accomplishments.

The rest of the evening will be devoted to that most revered and corny of Thanksgiving traditions, the actual giving of thanks. The list of thanks will be long and varied. Selected highlights will be:

Tionna Tee Smalls: The film Ishtar
NewToJezebel: Jewish people.
Jeffrey Epstein: Those High School Musical: The Ice Tour tickets he managed to score.
Christopher Hitchens: Religion and Bic razors.
Atoosa Rubenstein: The well-meaning gypsies who style her and, in a bold extension of an olive branch, the Omega Kitties.
Senator Larry Craig: Feet, and a willful spirit.
Josh Schwartz and the rest of the Gossip Girl team: Blacks and Asians.

And, finally, the yoga stick of thanks will be passed to yours truly. And your friend LolCait will say this:

"I find the word 'thanks' inadequate, or even inappropriate. 'Thanks' implies expectation, a resigned 'Phew! Of course these good things were coming after all.' So I'm not thankful, I'm grateful. Things of late seem pretty awful and, truth is, I've Done Nothing During The War, and yet some good things keep coming to me. Six months into my participation in this bizarre social experiment, it is quite baffling to have found both silly entertainment and keen insight on this most cold and unfeeling internet. So I am grateful for a strange new home, for precarious new friendships."

All will be quiet for a moment, and then I will fall down, completely drunk. I will be scooped up by the ever-friendly Josh Ferris (swoon!) and taken from the room.

The night will end as nights do, with sloppy hugs and prolonged, slurred goodbyes. Dear James Kurisunkal will be passed out in the broom closet, spooning a snoring Spencer Pratt, who will still be in his 'Vincent from the Beauty and the Beast television series' Halloween costume. (Or is it a costume??) Ira Glass will dejectedly try to coax Merry Miller into his cab. The Gawker editors will wander off into the night, a bottle of champagne shared between them (with a pour to the sidewalk, remembering Balks, Shafrirs, Spiers, Oxfelds, and others long gone.) Nick Denton will open his umbrella and float whimsically away into the purple night sky. And I will ramble off, thinking of puns and light bulb jokes for the next week. But, before I turn the corner, I will feel a tap on my shoulder. "Don't be alarmed," a voice will say. "It's only me, Douglas." I'll messily grin at him, this most famous of Queens landlords, and say "Oh Douglas. I'm not alarmed. I'm just grateful... Just wonderfully, queasily grateful."

Douglas will shrug his shoulders and walk away, headed off to yuk it up with Michelle and Emily, happy to have been included at all.

"Who are all those strange people?" Patrick Moberg will ask as he stands on the stoop and watches this all unfold. "I don't know," his new wife Camille will respond, robotically petting his arm.

"I've only just met them."

One of the burger competitors (and sharemate with Leventhal) was Mo Koyfman, who kind of serves as a chaperone to College Humor on behalf of their boss, Barry Diller. It's weird that he was grilling cheeseburgers, since he's supposedly kosher. Anyway, he lost.

Schoeneman even brought her gay albino housecleaner Marco, who cleaned during the party. Momofuku's David Chang was there with Frankie's Spuntino owner Frank Falcinelli as a judge, as was Peter Meehan of the Times. Ken Friedman of the Spotted Pig showed up too late to judge anything. This girl I went to N.Y.U. with was there and now she is married to Bob Vila's son, Chris. That made me feel old. [Ed. Note: Jesus Christ, you're like 12, Josh.]

That goofy-looking actor from 30 Rock, Lonny Ross, was there with his cute girlfriend. And though the party was first reported on New York magazine's Grub Street, its editor Josh Ozersky was noticeably absent, or not-invited. Chalk that up to the fact that David Chang and a few of the other attendees absolutely hate him.

[Photo: Ricky Van Veen/Flickr]

"He doesn't turn me on - period. I don't exactly "fake it," but we don't really talk about it either. I guess I should teach him what I like and all that, but I honestly think it boils down to a lack of sexual chemistry. I don't want to break up with him, but I'm also not going to settle for a bad-sex relationship. Besides totally emasculating him, and telling him that I really don't enjoy fooling around with him, is there anything else I can do???" The correct answer: "No, dump him!" does not occur to Ms. Having A Man is The Point Of Life, of course. No, here is her advice, in its entirety: "Oh girl. You are certainly not alone—it happens!" Um. MAYBE TO YOU.

Not Hot, Not Bothered, Not Okay [Alyssa]

While I'm not losing weight from all this exercise (that's not my goal, anyways), [Ed: OKAYYYY???] I have to say, my body feels better than ever. Very empowering. One funny thing though, since working-out has become such a big part of my life, I tend to invite anyone and everyone along. Yes, I'm that girl who makes her weekend guests wake up at 7am for "Beach Boot Camp," or something obsessive like that. Anyway, lately I've lured a few guys into spin class with me. (Men love the concept of spinning — they think they'll be surrounded by sex-deprived, calorie-counting women, and that the class will be easy and they'll look like heroes. Wrong!) Some of these guys are friends, some are healthy competitors and a few are flirtatious crushes. With all the intermingling of boys and sweat and heavy breathing, there's something totally ridiculous I need help with. I'm embarrassed to ask, but I cannot find a way to look cute while I work out. My hair frizzes, my mascara runs and I am absolutely drenched after like, one sit-up. Does anyone have any secrets to looking sexy at the gym? I know I shouldn't care. But I do! I just do.

Introducing My Core [Alyssa]

There was a seated dinner where my girlfriends and I were strategically separated (I guess the point was to make new friends — a little intense!). After our unbelievable lamb and couscous, I ended up mingling with a few gentlemen from my table. I wasn't interested in them romantically or anything, but I felt rude ditching them after an hour of dining together. However, since I couldn't really escape, I never had a chance to fully scope out the scene (I wanted the cute bartenders more than the billionaires!). My friend detected the "I'm cornered!" look more than once, and came to my rescue when she could. Eventually, she said I need to learn to be a better bitch. It sounds awful(!), right?

Just Another Arabian Night [See Alyssa Date]
Related: Dear 'Glamour' Blogger Alyssa Shelasky: You Could Stand To Learn A Thing Or Two About The 'Edgy' English Language... [Jezebel]

Tough Enough? [Alyssacentric]

What is up with the world.
This city is just settling down after the wettest day in New York history since 1977. Everyone looks sticky, sickly and stressed-out. Both my new apartment, and my parent's [sic] building, had flooding issues. The whole gang was up most of the night dealing with one thing or another. I was so consumed with towels and buckets that I didn't even turn on the news till noon, when I learned about the Virginia Tech tragedy. Awful. There are no words.
Also, not that my love-life has anything to do with such unspeakable events, but.... I'm single again.
Just so you know.

One commenter writes:

Four days ago, in the March 11th post you said there was no one to write home about. I don't exactly understand how in the past four days, a few of them being in Austin, you have met a guy, had dinner with him and your father, and feel too taken to flirt with the hot chef. I'm not trying to be mean, I just feel a little bit lied to. I stand by your right to blog less about your personal life, but I also didn't think you would lie to us. It's not that I'm dying to hear all about him (I mean, of course I'd like to know something about him, but maybe that isn't possible), it's that i feel like we get up everyday and read your blog, and the least you can do is be honest about what is going on in your life. You don't need to say anything about him if you dont want to, but don't tell us you are painfully single when in reality something is becoming a little more serious. Don't make us think that you are not blogging at all about boys because you aren't seeing any, when in reality you just aren't going to say much of anything about them ever. I'm not trying to be a b*tch, and I know this job is so hard, but the blog isn't going to be fun and stimulating, regardless of what it's about, if we feel like you are saying that you are single and then four days later there is some mystery guy meeting your dad and stealing your heart.

Stealing Top Chef [See Alyssa Date]

Earlier: The Only Thing Worse Than Being On Gawker Is Not Being On Gawker

When Gawker posted some snarky stuff about me, months ago, I literally hid in the movie theater all day long until it went away. I saw like 5 flicks in a row just because I couldn't deal. I hated every second of being on that thing (I don't know how my friend Julia Allison does it). That's probably another reason I have disproportionate compassion for the Britneys of the world...even though I'm completely unknown, being famous sounds like torture to me.

I mean, theoretically, I have nothing against dating more than one guy at a time, at least in the beginning, I've just never done it. And let's be honest, dating means "sleeping with" and that's just kind of, well, icky.

I have two back-to-back dates tonight!

Compare and contrast — it's MILF vs. smurf. Hard to tell how well each of these sexbloggers reflects their magazines' readership, but Listfield comes with an intriguing backstory; she's a former editor at Self and Fitness turned novelist whose husband, sculptor George Dudding, disappeared during a nighttime swim in 1999. Now she's just looking for an occasional guilt-free grope. Then there's Shelasky, who, you know, "dates" a lot of guys. And she's going to the Playboy Mansion! Icky.

Sex and the Single Mom [Redbook via FishBowlNY]