Once more into the breach!
When blood flows into his shaft, the excess settles in the upper part of his thighs.
Oh God, there's more of this. Anatomy actually means something, Cosmo. It's not like sex and relationships where you can make up stuff that sorta sounds good and no one can technically call you wrong. Without even getting all smarty-pants know-it-all never-gets-laid on you, Cosmo, I'm just going to point out that men with erections are not known for their swollen red thighs.
Tickle his feet with your nipples: climb on top of him in reverse cowgirl position, then bend over until your nipples reach the tops of his feet.
Apparently when "your breasts called", this is what they wanted you to do. I would check the caller ID again.
Q: I enjoy watching porn online, but the content on a lot of sites is so hard-core, it turns me off. Do you have any female-friendly suggestions?
A: I have some softcore suggestions. I don't have any "female-friendly" suggestions, because there's three fucking billion of us and I think two or three of them might be individual humans who actually like different things.
I kept trying to come up with an absurd analogy for this one, like "can you recommend a food all women enjoy?" or "can you name a movie all women will like?", but every time I tried, I realized that a corresponding stereotype actually exists. Ugh.
Q: Using lube makes sex so much better for me, but my guy gets offended when I reach for it--it's like I'm saying he's not doing a good enough job on his own.
A: Jam his dick against your crotch--hard, his pain doesn't matter!--when he's completely flaccid. When he objects, throw a shitfit about how he's calling you inadequate by implying that he was soft.
Cosmo's answer is that you should claim you need lube because he's so darn big, or, if that's not plausible, to use lube during foreplay for fingering or handjobs so it'll still be there when you fuck. That's not sex advice, that's survival tactics.
[If your friend passes out drunk] Since her life may be in jeopardy, your only option is to call 911 for an ambulance pronto. While you wait for the EMTs to arrive, check her vital signs for two minutes. Use the first minute to see if she's taking between 12 and 18 breaths, then check to see if her pulse measures between 80 to 100 beats during the second minute. Should either be off or if she's gasping for air, she's in the danger zone. Know CPR? Start administering it now.
No. You don't start CPR because someone's vitals are "off." You start it because their vitals are nonexistent or close to it. If someone has a heart rate of 60, or is taking 24 breaths a minute, please do not break their goddamn ribs.
(I did CPR last night. A rib snapped right under my hand. It was nauseating.)
Also, calling an ambulance for drunkenness is massively overdone. 98% of the time it's a huge waste of everyone's time and money. I would check this: can your friend be woken up? Is she truly passed out, or just sleeping? If someone is so out-cold that you can't wake them up, they may need help protecting their airway. If they're just drunk and sleepy but arousable (by which I mean you can get them to talk and react in a way that suggests actual consciousness; groaning and twitching doesn't count), put them in the recovery position and let them sleep it off.
Nothing's worse than buying an inflated plane ticket--only to have the dude next to you invade his space with his big fat elbow. To fend him off, prop up a magazine against your side of the armrest. You'll create a wall that he can't infiltrate.
And for the price of only looking like a complete uptight asshole! I can sort of understand this as the last step in a passive-aggression war with someone who's stuffing their elbow in your gut and just doesn't care, but just sitting down and putting up your little Wall Of Prissiness is an uptight-asshole move.
[If a coworker asks you to take her shift] Say jokingly but firmly "Nice try, babe, but it's not happening! I requested the time off weeks ago."
That's not "joking." That's "asshole" again, babe. "Sorry, but I can't," or even just "no," convey the exact same message and don't make you sound like you're patting them on the head and laughing in their face.
Step 1: As soon as you spot Mr. Hottie across the room, look him directly in the eye and smile wide. Guys are more likely to approach women who seem open and easygoing--an enthusiastic smile conveys this perfectly.
Step 2: Once you make eye contact, divert your attention to someone or something across the room and let him watch you stroll toward it. As you do, keep your shoulders back and allow your arms to swing freely to project laid-back confidence and sexiness.
Step 3: The second you see him break away from the group, quickly position yourself in his immediate vicinity, and let him make the first move. He'll have no idea what you just did.
It seems like Step 3 could go on for a while. Like, maybe a long while. Like maybe forever because, indeed, he has no idea what you just did. "This woman existed in the same room with me! She existed herself right at me! I HAD TO HAVE HER."
But I guess this kind of thing is your only option at "all the women have duct tape over their mouths and don't know sign language" theme parties.
And that's pretty much that for this issue of Cosmo. The more I read in Cosmo, the more two things strike me. One is a form of gender determinism that's almost gender exclusionism: if women do a certain thing, not only do they all do it, but no men do it. If women like chocolate then men must not like chocolate. If men are good at fixing cars then women must be bad at fixing cars. Gender roles aren't just fixed; they're fixed as opposites.
The second thing is the romance of silence. There's this idea, which seems eerily prevalent in American culture in general, that love and sex should go without saying. You should lock eyes across the room and just know, and going up and introducing yourself isn't romantic. Then you get in bed and with one meaningful gaze and one kiss you just know which sex acts you've just agreed to. To do otherwise, to say what you want, is to acknowledge that you aren't magical telepaths, and that's soul-crushing. Love should make magical telepaths of us all, or you're doing it wrong. And as with lube dude above, the real failure only comes when you admit you're doing it wrong.
Of course, another part of the romance of silence is just the idea that women should be seen and not heard. Your job is to look pretty, honey, not to be having all these goshdarn opinions.