Period Tips...FOR HIM!

When my lady friends and I are gal pal-ing around, sipping on wine in the same room or via Snapchat, three distinct topics of conversation always come up: the state of Turkey’s borders now that it has opened them to Syrian refugees; the disproportionate burden of student loan debt on minorities; and bOy PrObLeMz.

 

Recently, a series of unfortunate events caused being on the rag* to be brought up in conjunction with the third subject. Questions like, “What doesn’t he get?” and “You’re almost 30, is this a new thing for you?” and “IS IT REALLY THAT HARD?!” were tossed around haphazardly, and I realized that, as a whole, men and/or boys really don’t know anything about the inner workings of women.

 

None of them.

At all.

 

To be honest, the above questions deserve an answer. If a guy is of millennial age, he has been around ladies and their Aunt Flo* for roughly 15 years. While we understand that it’s not happening to you and that you’d rather not discuss it, it’s going to occur monthly for the next 20-30 years, and there are some facets of the occasion that we are owed understanding of. If you shy away from reading this post because you’re uncomfortable talking about vaginas, you should not be anywhere near one and your manliness is absolutely in question. Go back to training camp and let Captain Li Shang make a man out of you, Mulan: you are not done.

You think it’s all just Tampax and Midol? Think again. 

 

I think it goes without saying that excessive bitchiness (like, bitchier than a girl’s normal bitchiness) should never, ever be met with, “That time of the month, huh?” Expect a flurry of disgusted eye rolls, “Wowww”’s, and almost definitely a few tears if you choose to utter The Forbidden Phrase. Did you think that was going to help things? Did you think the knives stabbing our abdomens were suddenly going to cease because you pointed out what the hell was going on down there? Please tell me that you would react with serene rationality if your insides were suddenly rejecting the wall of justice they had built up over the past 30 days so I can call you a liar. Pro tip: if you think what’s happening is happening, keep it to yourself. Should even a hint of inference, assumption, or deduction in reference to my attitude or my body enter the conversation, you will be verbally abused, and as one friend put it, “know that I probably meant it but maybe not how it came out.” Maybe.

 

Have you ever been around a girl who you guessed was riding the crimson wave* and watched her devour an entire Cinnapie from Papa J’s? Did you say something? I hope you didn’t fucking say something. We’re not just having a bad day or feeling like a pig, we’re doing both of those things simultaneously. My stomach was flat yesterday and now I appear to be two months pregnant (sweet irony), so as you can imagine, pointing out my current situation will truly be the icing on the cake….chocolate cake…with cookie dough bites baked inside….and butter pecan ice cream….and a vat of hot fudge. Yessss. You wanna be helpful? Don’t suggest we go to a salad place for dinner, because I’m eating for my ovaries and they could not be less interested in vegetables this week. Let’s get some meatball subs and you can not look in my direction while I shove it in my mouth in three bites.

 

Some twisted individual placed the idea in men’s heads that when we’re curled in a ball on the edge of the couch wearing size XXL sweatpants and clutching ourselves, we want to be “massaged” and “held” and “touched in any way.” Ew, freak, get the fuck off of me. This isn’t a charley horse that can be shiatsu’d away in a few minutes; it’s my body literally hosting a rebellion against potential children. If your hand comes near any part of my body with plans to rub me, I’ll break it and continue watching Gilmore Girls like it was nothing. Real talk. If you feel the need to comfort me, employ the Claw and Retract Method: one gentle hug and then immediately let go. It should last no longer than two seconds to correspond with my current level of patience, and it should not put pressure on any part of me that could result in more pain. The more pain I have, the more pain you have, remember that.

 

Here’s the part that caused the most uproar amongst the girls: period sex. Women don’t want to be talked to or touched for the majority of the duration of Leak Week*, but they want it bad. Badder than Usher, even. At any other time, a guy would be all over this, but mention the potential for a little untidiness and suddenly all bets are off. Let me get this straight: we actually want to do all of those things that you want to do the other 98% of the day, and we want to do them five minutes ago, now, and tomorrow, and you won’t because it could get messy?

Furthermore, if you are seduced by our admittedly aggressive demands, don’t you dare swallow your balls back into your body upon first glimpse of some red on the sheets. If Bloody Mary* shows up unexpectedly and it’s a surprise to the whole room that some stainage has occurred, we can split the trauma 60/40 (this is worse for me, trust). However, if you were warned and were all, “No biggie,” and then flip out when there is a bullseye on the bed, making a show out of disgustedly tearing everything apart and saying something like, “Ugh, that’ll never come out” or “Gross!” is the opposite of me wanting to do it again. Now I’m lightweight embarrassed for the both of us: me, because obviously, and you because apparently I’ve been dating a 13-year-old who probably still laughs at Uranus jokes. Actually, both of those are embarrassing for me. God invented towels and OxiClean for a reason, you big baby—meet me upstairs in two.

 

Referring to my *PERIOD by anything other than my *PERIOD makes it sound awful and makes me feel like more of a disgusting troll than I already do, *PERIOD. Any lingo that has become synonymous with a woman’s *PERIOD was obviously invented by a man, because a woman already knows how shitty it feels to bleed out their insides and they would never bring brash language into the mix. Blood is exiting the vagina because the uterus is shedding the lining that the eggs, produced by the ovaries, were waiting to be fertilized in. That’s your daily dose of accurate terminology, straight up. If you want to refer to any of that by anything else (except for "menstruation" because not even we like that), don’t. If you’re disconcerted by medically descriptive language, put your penis on a shelf and only take it back down when you’ve grown the testicles you need to use that thing properly.

 

Finally, the ladies and I request a thank you. If we are not trying to have a baby together, and we take it upon ourselves to regularly make sure that it doesn’t happen, we want that to be acknowledged (Ex: “High five for not getting pregnant out of wedlock because that’s not really your life plan, girl. Appreciate you stepping up”). If we yell at you for no reason because our hormones are out of whack, but then apologize and recognize our illogical outburst, we want that act of valor to be appreciated. If we have zero energy, ache, can’t wear anything but yoga pants, and are breaking out like a before picture in a ProActiv commercial, and you ask us to go out and meet up with a few of your friends at some bar that may or may not be filled with hipsters and not the fun kind, and we squeeze into jeans and a cute top and execute winged eyeliner, throw a salute. I don’t want to be there, but I’m faking it, and I’m faking it for you.

 

 

If you considered yourself a connoisseur of the female reproductive system before reading this, I hope you now realize that you were not, in any capacity. Feeling like a big shot because you only slightly flinched when buying a box of tampons (and not even the right ones) in the self-checkout line (because what if they think they’re for you?!) is nothing to brag about, and I don’t admire you for it. Hopefully you’ve been enlightened to our actual needs during this trying time. Now leave me with my jar of peanut butter and my spoon and get lost.

The Fuber

Yet again, I should not be alive.

I know, I know, I should probably start blaming myself for these things, but really, again, this wasn't totally my fault. Who shames the victim anyway? Don't be that guy.

Let's start at the beginning, where everything always seems normal and pleasant:

This weekend I was out in the Upper East Side grabbing drinks with a friend. Great night, great bars, great drinks, great times. Neither of us were in the mood to truly rage, so 1 a.m. rolls around and we go our separate ways.
Seeing as I just moved to the city like, two weeks ago, the Subway system still terrifies me.
Seeing as no one cares about my neuroses, and weekend track construction is a thing, changes to the late night lines are an inevitably confusing problem.

I hopped on the 4 train only to discover that my connection to the E would not be happening as I originally planned, and I needed to take the 6 back to Grand Central to get on the 7 to connect to the E later down the line.
If the previous sentence makes sense to you, you're either a saint or sober. At the time, I was neither, and although four drinks don't exactly do me in, they make any trip involving that many numbers and letters turn into quite the production. Still, I managed to follow directions reasonably well, and got off at my transfer station in Jackson Heights.

As soon as I stepped off the train and it pulled away I knew I was in the wrong place. The two trannies I encountered a few seconds later confirmed it. Luckily, I'm used to this shit by now, and I calmly stepped off to the side to consult my phone and the many transit apps I had installed the day I moved here.
Suddenly a stout man with grease stains on his shirt appeared by my side out of nowhere, speaking to me in Spanish. I ignored him and silently apologized to Señora Baker for spending both Español I and II in high school doing my homework for other classes. I noticed him gesturing towards the trannies standing close by and realized he was either asking if I was part of their clique or wondering if the one on the left was a natural blonde (Answer to both: no. I was wearing a sundress and gladiator sandals for God's sake. Harsh roots though, girl). I glanced at him, shook my head, ignored him while he yelled something that was definitely not, "Where is the library, friend?" and put my full attention and trust back into Moovit.

To get to a station that would take me back to Queens, I would have to walk nine minutes. Not a substantial amount of time at any other point of the day, but at 1:45 a.m. when you're tired, have lost your buzz, and have just been made aware that you have mannish features, nine minutes is a lifetime. Couldn't do it, so I called an Uber.

Amrin and his Toyota Highlander would be there to pick me up in six minutes. Perfect! I would definitely be thoroughly creeped out by the produce vendor on the corner making sexy eyes at me by then! My phone notified me that I had just hit 10% battery life, which is pretty standard for these situations, so I put it away and awaited my chariot's arrival.
Two minutes later a shiny black SUV crosses the intersection and the driver gestures at me. Amrin apparently replaced Paul Walker in Fast and Furious 7 and I could not be more pleased with the casting choice.
I approach the car's open passenger window.
"Uber?"
"Yiss."
And so commences a potential episode of Dateline: Missing in America.

The driver is very pleasant, asking me how my night was and making the usual Uber small talk that is typically cut short by one of my friends in the backseat screaming, "CAN YOU TURN ON THE RADIO?!" We discussed the humidity, how I used to live in DC, how driving in the city is a nightmare, and how cigarettes were a gross habit that I should definitely join him in on our ride because "You are eh-young, is no problem." Valid point, but I passed anyway.

Then my phone rings. Unknown number.

"Hello?"
"Hi, it's Amrin. I'm outside Bank of America in the black Highlander. Do you see me?"
Uhhh...fuck.
I glance at the Driver Formerly Known As Amrin, who is distracted by the gay bar on the corner blasting Skrillex.
"Well I thought I was with you already but apparently not."
"What?"
"Yeahhh...I've got a ride right now but I might be calling you back."
"What?"
"I'll call you back."

I hang up and look back at Stranger Danger.
Buzz: gone. Nerves: ignited. Game face: on. I have way too great of hair to disappear into someone's basement for a decade, okay? This was not going to happen on my watch.
"I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again?" I asked.
"Alex." Shit. "What is yours?" 
"Jessica."
"Is very nice to meet you."
"You too!!!"

My overenthusiasm was a ploy to scare him into briefly forgetting which Taken dungeon I would soon be inhabiting.
"So you are married?" Translation: Who will come looking for you when you're gone?
"Nope."
"Never been married?" Translation: Did your ex-husband love you enough to come find you when you're gone?
"Never."
"You have children?" Translation: What are we working with down there?
"No."
"You have boyfriend?" Translation: Sweet Allah have I hit the jackpot?!
"YES!"
"You do?"
"Yes yes yes."

(As every girl who has encountered a sketchy bro at the bar knows, the answer is always yes. Always.)

During this transaction I go to my recent calls and dial everyone that is not my parents. Three separate people, multiple redials, no answers. THANKS A HEAP GUYS, REALLY APPRECIATE THE FRIENDSHIP. I am simultaneously watching Alex's every turn and making note of the streets we are on, realizing we are, in fact, going in the opposite direction of my apartment. Classic.

"Uh-oh Alex, I think 67th Street is the other way!"
"No no, we are taking short cut to avoid lights. Is faster, trust me."
"Ten blocks the other way is faster? That's so weird."
"Yiss."

Meanwhile, I'm still haphazardly dialing each number in my recent call log, wondering why I associate with lame-o's who aren't up, out, and about at 2 a.m. on a Friday.

"Alex why don't we just go the regular way. You can drop me off at 67th Street, then there aren't lights to deal wi-"
"Is no problem."
"Actually it kind of is. Just drop me off at 67th Street."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"Is no problem."
"67th Street, please."
"....Hokay."

We pull a death-defying U-ie and Alex is chain smoking like an Indonesian toddler, visibly displeased with how this night has turned out. That makes two of us, pal. He casually misses the first opportunity to turn onto 67th Street, holding onto hope that I'll change my mind and be the drugged out Princess Leia to his Jabba the Hutt.

"Right there."
"Huh?"
"67th Street is right up there. You can pull over."
"Is okay, I take you the whole way."
"No no it's really, really fine. Right there is fine."
"You sure?"
"Riiiiight there."

He stares at me for a solid ten seconds and then slowly pulls over, passing over the first option of the vacant fire hydrant space because that would be illegal.

Before he can child lock the doors and strangle me with his Brooklyn Nets lanyard, I say, "Alright well great thanks so much have a great night!" leaping out of the car and race-walking in a zig-zag up the street, as you are supposed to do to wild predators. I never looked back, but I know he waited in that spot until I was completely out of sight.

And that is how I escaped the Fuber, or the Fake Uber. As always, I'm sure a certain level of naïveté contributed to this mess, but I can't help but wonder when my nine cat lives will run out and I won't have the opportunity to write about my death-defying adventures for you folks.

I need a chaperone.

Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - Rate My Date

After the story of my embarrassing life hit the internet, I was inundated with texts and Facebook messages from other girls who had experienced similarly catastrophic dates. In the interest of group commiseration, I decided to create a series that would tell other girls that they're not alone, and tell weird guys that maybe they should pump the brakes a smidge. If you have a story that you would like shared, feel free to send it my way!

 

In the Serial Dating System, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups: the bros who do creepy shit and the ladies who have to text their friends, "SAVE MEEE." These are their stories.

 

My friend had tried for a year to set me up with this guy she had dated a few times before she met her current boyfriend. I finally agreed, and she gave me his number so we could start talking.

 

We agree to meet for drinks one night at around 7 p.m. He texts me at 6 saying he is having dinner with his dad and will be late so we would meet at 9 instead. At 8:55 he calls to say he's almost there and he will text me as he is walking in. He actually doesn't end up getting there until almost 10.

 

I had made an effort to look nice, wearing heels and a nice top. He was in ratty Pumas and an Under Armour hoodie. He proceeded to talk about himself for three hours, all while we were sitting outside on a patio in the cold and not bothering to ask if I was chilly (not that I wanted to wear the hoodie, but it's the principle of the thing).

 

I finally gave him the hint I was ready to go home. He kept texting me asking to meet up again, and told me I was a "solid 8.5 to his perfect 10," and felt that with time I could "rank even higher."

 

--Bo Derek

Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - John Mayer

After the story of my embarrassing life hit the internet, I was inundated with texts and Facebook messages from other girls who had experienced similarly catastrophic dates. In the interest of group commiseration, I decided to create a series that would tell other girls that they're not alone, and tell weird guys that maybe they should pump the brakes a smidge. If you have a story that you would like shared, feel free to send it my way!

 

In the Serial Dating System, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups: the bros who do creepy shit and the ladies who have to text their friends, "SAVE MEEE." These are their stories.

 

I dated my first bearded musician for about four months in college. He was a character from a romantic comedy come to life, and I ate that shit up like birthday cake. Have you ever been on a horse and carriage ride along the waterfront on an April evening? Like, that happened. Wasn't even my idea.

John Mayer was his idol, and he liked to [try to] play guitar for me, which always made me uncomfortable but I felt obligated to love it because that's what Rachel McAdams would do. I, too, was a huge Mayer fan, and we spent a lot of our time doing gravity bongs and then having in-depth conversations about the significance behind the albums and how the songs interconnected. The fact that I made it out of this relationship without dreads shocks me every day.

Unfortunately, he was super clingy and had a Chinese symbol tattooed on his calf, so I was forced to cut him loose. I really didn't think it'd be a huge deal, but he flipped the fuck out. Like, ugly crying, "you'll never find anyone better"ing, slamming doors IN MY APARTMENT, crazy-girl madness. I half-assed an apology and got him to leave so I could go to the bars with my friends.

That night, and for several days weeks following The Break Up, he would randomly text me John Mayer lyrics that I guess he found applicable to our relationship.
"Can we plz talk tmrw? I cant let just let u walk away. There I just said it, Im scared ull forget about me."
"Id like to think the best of me is still hiding up my sleeve, so Im not gunna lose n e more sleep over u."
"Ill make the most of all the sadness. U'll be a bitch becuz u can. We were slow dancing in a burning room r whole relationship, I shoulda seen this coming."

It was fucking hilarious. And also sad. My friends couldn't get enough of it, and to this day I can text one of them something like, "Do you want extra cheese on the pizza?" and get the reply, "Twice as much ain't twice as good and can't sustain like one half could. But ya!"

 

-- Her Body is a Wonderland

Kasually Kidnapped, Part 2

[cont'd from Part 1]

"Wait, turn the cab around, I think I left my phone on the table."
"No you didn't, I checked the table before we left."
"Can we please just turn around and check? I need my phone."
"It's not there."
"Can we PLEASE just turn AROUND to get my PHONE. PLEASE. PHONE. PLEASE."
"We'll find it."

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck, I was stuck in a cab with a full-blown sociopath. I was digging in between the seats when the cab stopped in front of a place that was not where my friends were.

"Where are we?"
"My place."
"Okay better question: Why are we here?!"
"I thought we could hang out and watch a movie."
"I need to go back to my friends right now, you need to take me back to them right now."
"Let's just chill a little longer."
"My phone is gone and I have no idea where I am or any way of telling them where I am. They're going to be worried, we need to go back there."
"Eh."
"No. No 'eh.' Take me back to where they are right now."
"Do you wanna play with my dog?"

I wanted to cry but couldn't. This had gone from bad to way, way worse, and I was desperately wishing I had attended that Krav Maga class with one of my friends a few years ago. I knew how to break someone's nose (shove up with the heel of your hand), but that was the extent of my self-defense training. Why hadn't my brothers and I held Wrestlemania in the living room over Christmas for old times' sake so I could brush up on my skills?

I quietly stood/sat on the arm of the sofa while Gavin obliviously played tug-o-war with his dog, Griff. Griff kept shooting me looks as if to say, "The back door's unlocked, save yourself." I shot looks back saying, "Please be gentle when you gnaw on my freshly-murdered flesh."

I asked Gavin if I could use his phone to call my friends (forgetting the fact that memorizing phone numbers is a thing of the past so I was still screwed), but his was conveniently dead. I was visibly defeated.

"I hate it when you're upset like this."
"What do you have to compare it to?"

I told him that I just wanted to sleep, clarifying after his eyes lit up that I would be doing this relationship activity by myself on the couch. He said I could take his bed and he would take the couch, once again being sure I realized how much of a gentleman he was. I ignored him and walked back to his room to lay on top of his covers and stare at the ceiling. Of course, he followed me and stood in the doorway.

"Yes?"
"Is this our first fight?"
"Yes it is."
"I'll make it up to you."
"Please go away."

Trouble in fucking paradise. I'm typically a pretty good problem solver and quick on my feet, but this was a situation. I laid there for a while, going in an out of sleep, not worrying about Gavin coming in and attacking me because I had locked the door. At one point I got up and walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water and saw Gavin and Griff canoodling on the couch, probably plotting which section of my body would be buried in which part of the yard. Gavin had taken off his sweatshirt and thrown it to the side, and there was something sticking out of the pocket.

Yep.

"Is that my phone?"
"You're awake?"
"Did you take my phone??"
"Oh cool it's here."
"ARE YOU CHARLES FUCKING MANSON WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?! I'm leaving, you need to drive me to my car."
"I thought we were gonna chill?"
"You hid my fucking phone from me you psycho, nothing is happening here. Let's go."
"I can't drive, I've been drinking."

Nice try, Beyonce.

"It's four in the fucking morning you idiot, at this point you probably have half a buzz but you are not drunk by any means. Get up and get your fucking keys, you're driving me to my car. I can't believe this."
"I have a company car, Skylar, I can't get a DUI."
"You told me yesterday you drive the truck given to you by the construction company, Gavin, it's not a fucking Rolls."
"You know my name?"
"Jesus Christ."

This exchange went in circles for the better part of ten minutes until he finally begrudgingly got up and put on shoes.

"Babe, I hate it when you're this upset."
"You've known me twelve hours. Stop talking."

He insisted on bringing Griff along, so the happy little family climbed into the truck together. I felt exhausted, guilty, and extremely stupid, and this was only amplified by Gavin continuing to speak to me as if "this" would continue past him dropping me off.

"Babe I'm sorry."
"Do not call me that."
"But we're dating."
"No we're not."
"Didn't we have the exclusivity talk last night?"
"Stop."
"You have my number right?"
"Sure."

Praise the Lord and His miracles, we made it to my car and I still had all of my toes. As you can imagine, he definitely tried to kiss me good-bye, to which I shoved Griff in his face and jumped out of that truck as fast as possible. I know that most people struggle the morning after Sunday Funday, but I think I beat anyone's hangover by leaps and bounds today.

Moral of the Story: Stretch Armstrong might've looked like a circus freak, but at least we can guarantee he loves Creatine more than he'd ever love me. Better safe than sorry.

Like what you read? I'm this entertaining 24/7 on Twitter. Follow me @BTDubs_Skylar!

Kasually Kidnapped, Part 1

Yesterday's Sunday Funday turned into a hostage situation.

My friends and I were drinking brunch, and since I'm both a conservationist and a giver, I was foregoing the orange juice part of the mimosa equation so that everyone else could have some (I know, right? So selfless). We were having an awesome time when I noticed a group of visually appealing guys walk in.

Six mimosas glasses of champagne had inevitably given me a boost of confidence as well as a dire need to haul ass to the ladies', so I took the long route around to walk by this group and examine the prospects. There were five of them: Bradley Cooper, Stretch Armstrong, Sasquatch, NotMyType, and Gavin. I returned to our group to find that all the champagne was gone, so on to red wine we would go, which called for a trip to a bar and OH HOW CONVENIENT these boys were in a prime spot.

I was gunning for Bradley Cooper but unfortunately he was standoffish (such a waste of a good face) so I swiveled and met Gavin. He was a solid 7.5 to the 10 that Bradley had established, but at least he didn't have the lumberjack beard that Sasquatch was rocking and wasn't at eye level with me like Stretch Armstrong and his roided out biceps were, so he had earned five minutes of conversation.

In that span of time we somehow established the "We're dating" shtick, which seemed a lot more clever at the time. All of what you're about to read aside, the guy's kind of a genius, because this gave him the perfect segue into asking me on a coffee date right on the spot. We left brunch and started walking to a place down the street when things took a turn for the What The Actual Fuck.

As we walked, he started asking me about my past relationships. 'Taking this shoddy inside joke a little far, buddy,' I thought, but I just kind of glazed over it with some response about how all of my exes are now friends so I was pretty lucky. This did not satisfy him.

"You've clearly never had a real man show you what you deserved."
"Wait what?"
"If you'd ever dated a real man you would have been treated like a princess."
"Wait...what?"
"You'll see."

Yikes. I suddenly remembered that I don't even like coffee, but we were there, and I figured the sooner we got this done, the sooner I could say thanks and then go back to the comfort of my friends. Unfortunately the love life interrogation only intensified.

"Are you ready for a relationship right now?"
"I mean with the right person, yeah, but I'm not really-"
"I am very ready."
"Yeah?"
"Very ready."
"I believe you."
"Are we dating?"
"Haha."
"No seriously, are we dating?"
"Wait what?"

ABORT ABORT ABORT. The "where r u??" texts from my friends had started rolling in so I recommended that we start heading back, as pleasant as this experience had been. Gavin claimed he was now starving, and I had getting the sense that he wasn't one to get hangry, so I said we could grab something really quick at the place next door.

"But like, really quick, my friends are waiting."
"Are you one of those girls that doesn't eat?"
"Haha no I'm just not hungry right n-"
"Get something to eat, I hate girls that don't eat."
"I can and have demolished an entire veggie pizza by myself, man. I'm not in the mindset for that right now, I'm good."
"I'm taking you on a date, you should eat."
"OH MY GOD I'LL GET NACHOS."

Before I was just annoyed; now I was getting a little scared. This was like the opening sequence of Law and Order: SVU in so many ways, and Gavin was starting to strike me as someone who had an expansive collection of windchimes made out of ex-girlfriend's bones. Benson and Stabler, save me!

Throughout the meal, he continued to inform me that I had never been "treasured" by a "real man" and described all of the activities we would do together now that we were dating. These included going to wine tastings (he was a self-proclaimed connoisseur), joining a couples' flag football league, making me his amazing Stuffed Tilapia ("I'm not a huge seafood fan, actually." "You'll love this." "Allllrighty then."), and taking his puppy on walks. Yay. After the mention of each of these activites, he would ask, "We are dating, right?" and I just laughed nervously because it was my only defense.

We finished eating and I hightailed it for the door, wondering how I always seemed to get myself into these predicaments. It was getting dark, so Gavin called a cab because I apparently looked cold. He made sure I understood how chivalrous this was and how he was such a thoughtful boyfriend. Cabs move faster than feet--he could've called me a rickshaw and I would've been grateful. I made this quip; he did not find it amusing.

I reached for my phone to text my friends that I was coming back and could we please not mention what a dumbass I was when I realized that it was gone. My phone was not here.


[cont. to Part 2]

Like what you read? I'm this entertaining 24/7 on Twitter. Follow me @BTDubs_Skylar!

Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - John Tucker Must Die

After the story of my embarrassing life hit the internet, I was inundated with texts and Facebook messages from other girls who had experienced similarly catastrophic dates. In the interest of group commiseration, I decided to create a series that would tell other girls that they're not alone, and tell weird guys that maybe they should pump the brakes a smidge. If you have a story that you would like shared, feel free to send it my way!

In the Serial Dating System, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups: the bros who do creepy shit and the ladies who have to text their friends, "SAVE MEEE." These are their stories.

Last summer I started hanging out and hooking up with this 27-year-old babe who appropriately earned the name John Tucker. We got along great and the sex was awesome, but he never fully wanted to commit, and I knew he had another girl that lived in Philadelphia. Proximity and convenience trumps everything, so I had the upper hand (except when she would come to visit. Whatever).

This past July was about the one year mark of us doing whatever we were doing, and I asked him about this girl--who we'll call Philly--and what she was to him. He promised me it was nothing.

Wrong, obviously. He ended things with me to be with her, and she ended up living with him for the summer. WELL, we all played on the same softball team together and as much as I wanted to be a bitch, I really did like this girl because she was actually super nice. Fuck me, right?

Fast forward to the end of July, and John Tucker left Philly at one bar to come to another bar with me, a minor detail I wasn't aware of until later. She ends up meeting us at that bar anyway, and while we're all standing in line he breaks up with her with me standing right next to him, telling her he's not over me. So. Awkward.

So Philly moved back to Philly, and everything between John Tucker and I was great. It really seemed like we were a legit couple...up until he went an entire weekend without talking to me, that is. It was Labor Day Weekend and I get on Facebook to discover that he went to the beach with her. Spectacular.

Safe to say that things were over for good when I screen shotted him a pic of them together and he responded with, "Yeah I need to talk to you about that." Yeah, don't bother.

--Fresh Princess of Bel Air

Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - Bad Teacher

In the Serial Dating System, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups: the bros who do creepy shit and the ladies who have to text their friends, "SAVE MEEE." These are their stories.

When I was in 4th grade I had a smokin' hot teacher. Alas, I was fucking 10 and didn't realize the opportunity set before me. A stroke of luck occurred when I was 16 and had the chance to become his teacher's assistant. Naturally, I jumped at the chance to see this hot piece of ass every day.

I had finally grown boobs and Bad Teacher definitely noticed, telling me, "If I was your age I would totally be dating you." Maybe I should note that he was 42, married, had two children and was an elementary school teacher. Moving on.

In June of that year, my family moved very far away, and I never thought I would see him again. SIKE. Jump to four years later, Christmas break of my sophomore year of college. I was feeling particularly naughty and decided to shoot him a "hey" message, asking if I could pop by his class so he could see the hot girl I had become (humble, I know). He immediately called me back and wanted me to meet him for coffee at Panera. Of course, I did.

We sat there for three hours and he was unabashedly hitting on me the entire time. Everyone dreams about this shit but it actually coming to fruition was freaky and I didn't know what to do. He ends our conversation with this: "I know the real reason why you contacted me...you want to sleep with me...and that's what I want too. I have fantasized about this for so long and I think we have something special." I AM SORRY, COME AGAIN?! I was totally freaked out and said I had to go brush my hair or pluck my eyebrows, anything to get out of that situation. He walked me out to my car and planted a kiss right on my lips. I pushed him away, got in my car and sped the fuck out of the parking lot.

I never thought I would hear from him again, and I really didn't care either way, but lo and behold on Christmas Eve I get a telephone call from Teach. He said he has the perfect spot where we can meet up and have the best sex ever. He also made sure to mention that he'd definitely bring his boner meds to keep up with me because I was so young and hot. I tried to remind him about his wife and kids and tell him that I just couldn't do that, but he proceeded to talk to me about how special it would be and how he would "rock my world."

I was dying.

Teach then sent me drunk texts all night from his flip phone and texted about as slow as a grandpa, using way too many ";)" and ";P" faces. He clearly thought it was still 2006. I tried to shake it off and not reply but he just wouldn't let up. Finally at 4 a.m. the day after Christmas, he calls me crying, saying he wants to leave his wife and that he would make me the happiest girl in the world with the "pleasure" he would give me. THE FUCK.

I told him that it just wouldn't work out and it was creepy so please stop calling me. He finally hung up and the texted me some Usher lyrics saying "goodbye" the next day [Skylar Side Note: Obviously, the lyrics were from Confessions. Now, Part 1 or Part 2? Discuss].

That following summer I accidentally texted him instead of my friend saying, "Hey babe! We are at the party where are you?" He replied with, "My wife knows I am sorry can't talk."
...I laughed for days. Luckily I haven't heard from him lately, although he hilariously still follows me on Twitter.

--Straight A Student

Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - Justin Bobby

In the Serial Dating System, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups: the bros who do creepy shit and the ladies who have to text their friends, "SAVE MEEE." These are their stories.

I was walking to the bus stop one day when a guy approached me and struck up a conversation. He seemed very indie and mysterious, so of course I immediately dubbed him Justin Bobby a la The Hills.

Justin Bobby got my number and asked me to meet him after class for dinner two days later. I told him I was a vegetarian (lie) but he took me to a Mexican restaurant that had little-to-no vegetarian options. Thanksss...

He proceeded to tell me that he strongly believes in reincarnation and that people had "past lives." He believed that he was a lonesome cowboy in the past life, possibly like Jesse James. He thought I was a quilt maker. When I commented that my past life sucked, he went into detail explaining how cowboys needed quilts for under their saddles, and he was certain he and I had met before. Apparently, I had made him a quilt for his saddle and I was essentially meant to help him in this life.

Needless to say that date was cut short and his number was deleted ASAP.

--Crafty Audrina Patridge

Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - Pug Luvr

After the story of my embarrassing life hit the internet, I was inundated with texts and Facebook messages from other girls who had experienced similarly catastrophic dates. In the interest of group commiseration, I decided to create a series that would tell other girls that they're not alone, and tell weird guys that maybe they should pump the brakes a smidge. If you have a story that you would like shared, feel free to send it my way!

In the Serial Dating System, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups: the bros who do creepy shit and the ladies who have to text their friends, "SAVE MEEE." These are their stories.

 

After my boyfriend and I broke up from our approximately four-and-a-half-year relationship, I went on a blind date with a guy who was 26. I figured older, more mature, distraction, all good. Let me just say THANK GOD we went out for drinks because if I wasn't drunk I don't know what I would have done.

 

So he's starts out seemingly normal, everything is going well. Then he proceeds to tell me that he's never had a girlfriend--not even middle school, hand holding, not-a-real-relationship relationship--so I figured I'd switch the subject and randomly talk about how I really want a husky. He tells me he hates big dogs (he's 6'4...) but he is obsessed with pugs--not because he thinks that they're so ugly they're cute, but because he thinks they are the most beautiful creatures in the world. He even has an "I love pugs" t-shirt that he frequently wears out to bars (amazing that he's never found the right girl, right?).

 

For whatever reason, I agreed to a second date, figuring I could just take shots beforehand. He took me to P.F. Changs, and all of a sudden he started asking me personal sex questions like, "What's your favorite position?" and, "Oh you were a gymnast? I bet you're real flexible!" "Do you like it dirty?!"

 

Needless to say the ride home was extremely awkward. And I proceeded to immediately defriend him on Facebook.

 

--Balto Babe





Female Body Inspector? FBI! You're Hysterical: Male Halloween Costumes, Explained

I love me a clever Halloween costume. As evidenced by last year’s “sexy” costume post, I’m all for creativity, but you really do walk a fine line between looking hot and being the butt of everyone’s joke the whole night (Sexy Bacon? You’re making breakfast time taste like lap dances and a father’s tears).

 

For the guys, it’s really not about looking hot as it is being “funny,” a term we will use very loosely throughout this entire post. “Look ladies, I’m wearing my personality! Could it be any easier to find someone else to talk to tonight?” How many costumes can they really make that either suggest that the wearer has a ginormous Krull the Warrior King or force hoes to shove their boobs in his face, and what exactly does the costume say about the guy as a whole? Let’s find out:

 

Wholesome Disney Character Costume – You either have kids, or are in the complete opposite direction and have never been laid. Ever. More than likely you are wearing this to a neighborhood costume party where your wife is a big puffy version of Buzz Lightyear (because who does she have to impress anymore?), but should you find yourself at a bar at 1 a.m., you will definitely only be taking one and a half Gummi Bear shots and drunkenly telling a Sexy Ninja Turtle, “But I like, respect you, you know what I mean?” right before you go home alone.

 

Rub Me Genie – Get it? It’s like asking for a hand job. Because at 26 years old that’s exactly what you should be going for. Your friends really don’t like you or else they would have talked you out of this horrendous get-up. Rub your own lamp, weirdo.

 

Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man – You’re a heavy drinker (read: alcoholic) and a man with a plan; I admire you. You’re aware of the fact that you will be getting unbelievably trashed tonight, so when you’re swaying around and falling into people, you know they can’t get mad because you’re just staying in character. This is genius. Carry on. Also, Family Guy references are always crowd pleasers, it’s just a fact of life.

 

Weed – Nothing says, “I’m unemployed!” like a marijuana leaf costume. You’ve also just placed a big target on your back because if a group of guys come stumbling out of a bar, who do you think the cops are going to zero in on first? You guessed it: the bro who looks like he dropped $75 on a ticket to The String Cheese Incident concert.

 

The Joker – It’s been done. You’re either lazy, completely oblivious to any advances in pop culture, or a Bar Dad. To be fair, it’s most likely all three. Seriously though, there’s even been another Batman movie to come out since this one, you really need to get with the times.

 

Charlie Sheen – Can’t wait to hear you yell out, “Winning!” all night with your buddy The Joker. Go home.

 

Robin Thicke – You, sir, are doing it right. Culturally relevant in every possible way, this costume could either be a happy accident or the ploy of an extremely strategic young man. Women will flock to you for one of several reasons: 1) Every Woo Girl in the place will assemble when the DJ plays “Blurred Lines” for the umpteenth time. “OMIGAHH I LOVE THIS SONGGGG YOU SING IT SO GOOD!” 2) You have un/intentionally invited multiple ladies to twerk all up on ya throughout the course of the night. If you play this correctly, you can start a twerking contest in which five skinny white girls will drunkenly grind on your junk trying to outdo each other, and one black girl will step in to show them how it’s really done. Major, major kudos.  

 

Zombie Hotdog – Goddammit, is nothing sacred anymore?!

 

Banana – Have you been anything new for the past seven years? Be honest. Whatever, you don’t even really like Halloween and will still pull based on this blatantly obvious nonchalance. You can also revel in the fact that Sexy Big Bird will definitely text her friend Sexy Cinderella in the morning, “omg i think i got gang banged by a fruit basket last night, can u come get me?”

 

Zero Fucks Given T-shirt – Can you just go in a corner and watch Portlandia on your phone the rest of the night? Like, please? Your rose gold oxfords and grandpa cardigan are really putting a damper on everything. No, I don’t think the DJ knows any Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

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The Worst Date I Have Ever Been On

Let’s call him Not John.

We had met a few weeks before at the winery I occasionally work at on the weekends. He was very smart, super cute and actually appreciated my vulgar sense of humor; such a trifecta is not easy to find, believe me. I had agreed to go out with him one time before on an excursion that led to Annapolis, MD and a photo on his Instagram with a caption reading “My baby ;)”. This is why I can’t have nice things.

Despite that photo and several warning signs that I was too lazy to pay attention to, I consented to a second date. I’d set Not John straight this time: we’d take it easy, see what happened, nothing serious. This would work! Only girls are the psycho ones, right?

I was meeting him at a park by the Potomac River right after work at 7 p.m. It was May, aka spring dresses were in full swing, and although my typical date outfit includes heels of some kind (so I stand a small chance of making eye contact with a person), I opted for flats since we would be in nature.  I pulled in right at 7 and sat for a minute to let Rihanna finish belting out Rude Boy. At 7:10 I gave him a call, and he said he was “so sorry, on my way, just picking up food, be right there.”

Food had been mentioned so I was totally fine with it. This gave Rihanna and I more time together to collaborate on Umbrella, S&M, and Love the Way You Lie (of which I also rapped Eminem’s part. Renaissance woman over here). I had been so taken with this personal concert that I was shocked when I checked the clock. 7:40. What the actual fuck. Where was he?

I’m not typically a serial caller, but Not John was forty minutes late, I was hungry, and since the long days of summer hadn’t quite kicked in yet, it was starting to get a little dark. “Haha (what’s so funny?), I just had to shower real quick (well I appreciate that), I’ll be right there (déjà vu).”

If I was a bigger bitch, I would’ve said, “Don’t even bother” and driven home to a trusty plate of Bagel Bites, but unfortunately I don’t have that particular bone in my body so I overenthusiastically said, “Okay!” and awkwardly sat until he pulled in a few minutes later.

He immediately won back a few points by telling me how pretty I looked and showing me the bags of food.

“We just need to walk a little to these picnic tables right by the water,” he said.

For once, flats were the right decision. We walked with our bags of yummy and chatted and he laughed at my jokes and everything was just peachy. However, as I said before, it was technically still Spring, where the sun goes down at an understandable 8 p.m., and we were on a path in the woods with no lights. We had already been walking for a little over ten minutes, so I casually asked, “So where are these picnic tables?”

“Just a little bit longer,” Not John said.

Chatting continued, fighting off gnats began, and weird nature sounds became louder. Fifteen more minutes went by, and I had a mental flash of my story being used on an episode of CSI.
“He lured her into the woods saying they were going on a ‘date’. He shot her in the head.”
“I guess it’s true. Love… *takes sunglasses off*…hurts.”

“We’ve gotta be getting close, huh?”

“Uhh yeah I think it’s right around the corner.”

Stop. Just fucking stop. “Think”? You “think”? I followed you into the jungle on a guess? Thank god we weren’t paddling on the river or else we would definitely be recreating OpenWater.

In an uncharacteristic twist of fate, I managed not to flip out and calmly suggested that if the picnic tables weren’t around the next corner we should probably turn around. Not only was I totally over it, but it was now officially dark and the rabid toads were on the prowl.

Shock of the century: the picnic tables weren’t around the next corner. We turned around, using the glow of his phone as a flashlight and my heightened survival instincts to lead us back as quickly as possible. Again, my lack of dramatic bitchiness did not allow me to bring up the fact that this was a poorly executed excuse for romance and instead, I just talked about anything else that came to mind. We covered my love for The Wedding Singer, when I got my tooth knocked out in a soccer game in sixth grade, and my disdain for Taylor Swift when he suddenly chuckles and says, “I’m so glad we’re at the point in our relationship where we can just laugh about things like this.”

Let me reiterate for anyone that’s been scanning this post for the part where we hook up in the woods (P.S. sorry to disappoint): this was our second date. Relationships take several more dates and conversations and actual feelings before they can come to fruition, and we could not have been farther from that point.   

I was shocked into silence. For the first time in my entire life I literally didn’t know what to say. I might’ve blacked out for a while because I really don’t recall the rest of the walk back to civilization, but finally we made it back to the parking lot.

“We can eat in my car,” he said.

“Exactly what I wanted to do!” I accidentally yelled, a side effect of regaining consciousness and a potential indicator of PTSD.

We ate in silence. He might have told a story or two, I’m really not sure as my sole focus was on escaping the confines of his godforsaken Acura and the night as a whole. I was forced out of my “Mmhmm”’s and nods when he says, “So I have a surprise for you.”

I swear to you I was fully prepared for an engagement ring to be pulled out at that exact moment, and my stomach fell directly to my toes in terror.

“What’s that?” I asked, wondering if the plastic knife I was using would properly sever my left hand off and if that would be an appropriate “no” to his proposal.

“I got us tickets for The Great Gatsby in Frederick at 10:20!”

Crisis somewhat averted, but a new issue emerged. From where we sat at that moment, Frederick was at least another 25-30 minutes away. Gatsby was almost two and a half hours long. My patience had already worn thinner than Nicole Richie circa 2006. I just couldn’t do it.

“Ya knowww…” I began, my go-to conversation starter phrase when I don’t feel like doing something, “…I have to work really early tomorrow, and I was going to try to get some stuff done beforehand so I’d be waking up even earlier, and I wouldn’t want to fall asleep during the movie, and…”

At this point I just trailed off and gave a fake sorry smile. This was exhausting. He sighed “Okay” and was visibly disappointed, and said we should try again the following week, which I agreed to but which I immediately knew would never happen. I couldn’t take the risk of any other costs factoring in to our divorce.

After speeding home, I showered the unfortunate nature of the evening off of my body and prepared myself for just how uncomfortable our future interactions would be. Perhaps giving the turn-your-head move went he went in for the good night kiss was a twist of the dagger in his already wounded heart, but seriously? He tried to take me on an uninformed picnic to a mystery location in the middle of the woods and then assumed he had wifed me up before I even had a chance to send a “Bail me out of this nightmare” text to my best friend, leading me to eat salad in the front seat of a car while Ginuwine crooned softly in the background.

I thought things like that only happened with people you met off of Craigslist.  

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The Five Commandments of Legging Season

Let us remember in this transitioning season of cooler weather and not having to shave our legs (except on weekends) that although leggings are both comfortable and cheap ($8.80 at Forever 21, cha-ching), there are certain rules that we need to be mindful of.

And Skylar spake all these words, saying, "I am the Fashion Police, who has brought thee out of the land of unfortunate highlights and quesitonable trends, out of the house of ill-fitting clothes."

1. Thou shalt not wear leggings as pants - If they were supposed to be pants, we would call them "pants." It is that simple. They're spandex and/or cotton and are basically a step up from actual skin, the world would really rather not be forced to experience your inevitable camel toe. Buy longer shirts.

2. Thou shalt not reveal a VPL - Do you know why guys lose their minds over legging season? Because of unadulterated views of our bootays. If you're going to offer it up, have some respect for yourself and for your audience and make the event run smoothly, aka without visible panty lines. 0.00% of people find granny panties sexy, therefore the line dissecting your donk is an immediate boner killer. Channel your inner Sisqo and invest in some thong tha-thong thong thongs.

3. Thou shalt not get colorful - Story time! Once, at the beginning of my senior year of college, I was walking to class on a particularly warm September morning. Technically Legging Season had begun, I guess, but it was like 85 degrees before 10 a.m., so clearly Skirt Season was still alive and well. A particularly shapely girl was walking in front of me, and had embraced the season full-force. Unfortunately, she had done so in light grey leggings, and hustling across the street before the walk sign timed out was particularly stressful. This led to back sweat. And crescent moon sweat (a delicate semicircular patch right below the tush). And I could see it. Had she been wearing leggings in the standard and universally acceptable hues of black, navy, and daaaark grey, my eyesight wouldn't have been accosted, but as it was I was made involuntarily aware of the fact that her leggings had never been worn for athletic purposes. Don't be like Betty McButtsweat; stay on the dark side.

4. Thou shall stay in thy legging lane - Let's get this straight: ladies of all shapes and sizes are absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. There, that's done. Now let us all agree that leggings in a size 3XL might not be the most responsible decision by society. We can refer to commandment #1 for the main reason why this is a bad call. If you question whether or not you should be wearing leggings, chances are the answer is, "Nuh-uh." Spandex is a privilege, not a right.

5. Thou shalt not expect a miracle - If you've gained fifteen pounds and put on your black leggings with the hope that they'll suck everything in, you look like you stuffed fifteen extra pounds into a very unwilling sausage casing. If you're trying to abide by commandment #2 but overstep your boundaries and go commando, thinking no one will know the difference, you're overestimating the opacity of stretch cotton. If you have zero butt whatsoever and put on your leggings with the hope that you'll all of a sudden reach Kim K status, you not only need to aim a little higher, but you're also going to be extremely disappointed. Leggings are like the guy who has a fun sense of humor, a great job, and clean fingernails: he seems perfect in theory, but there's definitely some underlying cocaine addiction or toe fetish happening there. Too good to be true.

So that's that. Break out your leggings and your boots and your infinity scarves, but do so properly. Skylar said to the people, “Do not be afraid. Legging Season has come to test you, so that the fear of VPL will be with you to keep you from looking truly heinous.”

Amen.

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Ugly Boybanders of Yesteryear

I went to the Backstreet Boys concert this past weekend. Needless to say, it was one of the best nights of my year, if not my entire life, and my best friend and I couldn’t say anything but, “Oh my God! That was amazing!” for the majority of the ride home.

At the beginning of the concert, the boys’ faces flashed up on the big screen one by one, causing pandemonium that, in hindsight, was probably a little embarrassing for a crowd of 23-30 year old women. Nick pops up? Vocal cords exploded. AJ? Everyone realized that the bad-boy phase they went through when they were 18 wasn’t totally over. Kevin? The girls who go for bar dads and/or appreciate thick eyebrows had a field day. My best friend and I personally lost our shit when Brian appeared, because we were wise beyond our years back in elementary school and inherently knew that he would forever and always be the hottest person in the band alive.

And then came Howie’s face, and we were all reminded of something that just seemed to be a fact of life when we were young: no one likes Howie. Like, there was barely a woo. It’s nothing against him personally, and it’s not like he’s a completely unfortunate-looking guy, but every boy band of the 90’s needed their token boring ugly dude, and for BSB, Howie was/is it. I think he accepts it now and uses the lack of attention to do whatever he wants on stage aka drinking a random fan’s Bud Light and throwing in inexplicable cha-cha moves. I chopped off my cholo ponytail and still no one loves me?! Fuck it, my only solo is a verse in “Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely;” give me a beer.

Not helping your case, bro

I felt bad for the crowd’s lack of enthusiasm for Howie, but I realized that he simply got the short end of the boy band stick, and was a part of an elite crowd of once-famous male performers from the late 90s/early 00s that everyone knew existed but that no one cared to remember the names of. Quite frankly, Howie should feel pretty great about himself, because I think he might be one of the most popular ones on the list of Ugly Boy Banders of Yesteryear. It’s the little things in life, everybody.

Chris Kirkpatrick (*NSYNC) was also ugly. Historically, regardless of if you’re a guy or a girl, you have to be pretty mind-blowingly hot to be white and rock dreads; instead, Chris looked like the creepy human version of a Muppet. Think about it: Lance was obviously not totally “into” all the girl attention from the get-go (but was a terrible dancer? One of life’s many mysteries…) yet I knew plenty of ladies that preferred his likeness to Ellen Degeneres over Chris’s goatee’d doublechin and obtrusive oversize ball chain necklaces. Not even his sweet falsetto could save him then. I drive myself crazy thinking of you, too, Chris, but only because your terrifying face is haunting my dreams and I haven’t slept in weeks.

Justin Jeffre of 98 Degrees really just didn’t even stand a chance. The Lachey brothers were buff and gorgeous, and Jeff Timmons was destined to become a Chippendale, so what role did that leave Justin to lead? You guessed it: the role of the chubby Danny McBride look-a-like with a white trash, bleach blonde Caesar haircut and a convincing air of pedophilia. Singing all of those songs about Jessica Simpson was probably the closest he got to a woman in the band’s entire five-year run. 98 Degrees was supposed to be the band that could beat up all the other bands, which I guess meant that Justin was the lazy friend/hype man in the back who just yelled, “YOU DON’T WANT THIS! YOU DON’T WANT THIS!” while nudging Nick forward and hoping everyone would just call a truce so he could go back home and finish playing PS2 all by himself.

In theory, I suppose Dan Miller from O-Town isn't a complete dud. However, when you compare him to the beauty that was Ashley Parker Angel or Erik-Michael Estrada, you realize that his misfortune lay in two key factors: his boring, white-bread, three-syllable name, and the fact that his chin strap made him look like a rapist. In fact his whole oral region really bothers me. He's got thick lips that appear to perpetually have lipstick on them, and it's almost like he's got lock-jaw and can only open his mouth wide enough to creep me out as he explains his liquid dreams.

Devin Lima from LFO looks like a fucking vampire, straight up. I have a moral opposition against any male who obviously gets his eyebrows waxed, and between his perfectly-sculpted arches and presumably collagen-filled lips, he's completely crossed the line from metrosexual to potential drag queen. You know in "Heavyweights" where Tony Perkis goes crazy at the end of the movie and somersaults off the chandelier? Devin looks like that on an everyday basis. Apparently he has a new band now called The Cadbury Diesel, which just sounds like a really unfortunate thing to find in your Easter basket.

There is a reason you probably haven't heard of the majority of the guys on this list, and that is because they were outshined by their sexy frontmen, therefore garnering themselves very little (if any) real estate on your locker door. These guys were the DUFFs of their bands--it's unfortunate that they had to suffer the trauma of being no one's favorite, but it had to be done, and for that, the guys who went on to have successful solo careers thank them.

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