Cosmocking: July '11!

Pinkish-purplish cover! Fun fact: unlike all the "rainbow" colors, this color does not exist as a pure wavelength of light, and can only be produced by a combination of wavelengths! Rihanna! Boob tube and like eight pounds of jewelry! "His 6 Secret Sex Spots!" The penis is not that big a secret, Cosmo! "What Men Crave In July!" I don't even whatever okay! "Your Breast Myths--Busted! #1: The Boobgasm Does Exist!" Unclear if they're calling that a myth or not! I mean, I've had some myself, but that never seems to matter in this sort of thing!

One of the ads in this issue comes with a free pantyliner. Huh.

Women's paraphernalia is so revealing--the book she's reading or if she's carrying a bright pink phone. I can tell a lot by the color of her phone, actually!
What you can tell about me from the color of my phone is that I'm clumsy. I drop things, I break things, and because my phone is expensive, I sprang for a mega-resilient everything-proof impact case, which I could only find in black. Read "black means sophistication and thoughtfulness" or whatever into that.

My point isn't that I'm special. My point is that everyone's special. Everyone comes with particular circumstances and backstory that you simply can't read from superficial things. Everyone got their phone color--and a whole lot of other supposedly defining traits--for some idiosyncratic reason with a story behind it.

A girl who can handle a strong drink is attractive. She doesn't have to be slugging a Guinness, but if she comes in and orders a martini, I know I'm going to like her.
I did the tough-guy-drink thing for a while. I'd go for the darkest, strongest, bitterest thing around just to prove that I wasn't some weak little girl. Then I realized that I actually enjoy sweet fruity drinks. Not enjoy like "I'm too weak to stand up under the brutal taste assault of a real drink," but enjoy like "this makes my mouth happier."

So these days, if I want to prove that I can "handle" shit, I order a strawberry margarita and punch myself in the chest a couple times.

In a recent survey, 16 percent of women said they'd trade a year of their life for the perfect bod.
You think I'm going to mock the shallowness, but actually, I'd do this. I'd happily settle for living to 79 instead of 80 if I could have a body that was capable of running without getting winded, climbing without tiring, doing acrobatics without falling, dancing without getting completely discombobulated. Having a body of exceptional ability would easily be worth a year of my life.

Don't give much of a shit what it looks like, though.

We stopped at the food court for lunch and found a table by the entrance. At one point, I looked up and saw my ex walk in. I was feeling good, so I figured I'd say "hey" to show him what he was missing.
This is just part of a long boring story, but it jumped out at me as exceptionally nasty and bitter. I know I come from a different place culturally than Cosmo, but when I say "hey" to an ex it usually means "hey, we're still two people who have things in common and a shared history, and I still care about you as a friend, so how's it going?"

Rowdy has a theory that this "it's normal and funny to despise all exes" attitude comes from a particularly limited view of monogamy, in which it isn't enough to only love one person--you have to only love one person ever. In order to maintain retroactive monogamy, you must declare that all previous relationships were false loves, and thus despicable.

My own theory is different. My theory is that a breakup hurts, so (if you're a little perspective-deficient) you see the person who broke up with you as an attacker causing you pain. Never mind that the only way to avoid this pain is to date one person your entire life--they're still a jerkface for making you unhappy, and concepts of "painful for him too" or "painful but necessary" don't enter into it.

News Flash: Guys Crave More TLC in July
I don't even whatever okay.

Actually, the content of this cites a study saying that people are more likely to be depressed in the summer, then decides that "people" means "men" and "summer" means "July" and "depression" means "kinda bummed," in which case this makes perfect sense! Also, the way to treat a guy in July is to baby him and cater to him and act like you have no needs of your own, but you already knew that.

So, what are His 6 Secret Sex Spots? Why, they're...
1. The shaft of his penis
2. His testicles
3. The base of his penis
4. The head of his penis
5. His perineum

Math is hard.

But, see, this is why I want to be a paid "sexpert" someday. I'm going to tell people that I have the mystic secret of male arousal, tell them "it's his penis," and get taken seriously.

On why you shouldn't talk about dieting with your husband (but you should diet):
Men want hot spouses but don't want to hear that happens.
Yeah, and I want a guy who'll use a vibrator on me for three hours and then go to sleep. Too bad that when you have relationships with people who have lives and needs of their own, you sometimes have to be bothered with their stupid ol' humanity.

There's a whole article on wacky ER stories. Oh boy...
I'll never forget the time the medics brought a couple into the ER, naked and still stuck in the missionary position, with a blanket over them. The guy was wearing a necklace, and they must have been going at it vigorously because the necklace had swung into the woman's eye and become stuck.
And nobody thought to cut the necklace? They hauled two naked people into the ER in a sex position because of an eye injury?

...Okay, I know medics who might do that, but still.

A 26-year-old woman came into the ER because she had lacerated her vagina. She was bleeding quite a bit and required stitches. Turns out, she had a vaginal piercing that had gotten caught on her boyfriend's ring during sex. He didn't realize it, so when he pulled his hand away, the piercing tore out.
Your use of fancy words like "lacerated" is betrayed by your inability to realize which part is the vagina.

Hint: it's the internal muscular tube that--unlike the clitoral hood and labia--is never cosmetically pierced. It is not a general term for "you know, the down-therey bits." (Arguably a Princess Albertina piercing does go through the vagina, but that's pretty exotic. 99 to 1 the author just didn't realize that a real ER nurse or doctor would know what a goddamn vagina is.)

This woman had a broken ankle, and her husband carried her into the ER. When I asked what had happened, she said she slipped in the shower. I knew it had to be something else--she was blushing like crazy and had several oddly placed bruises on her body--so I asked her one more time. She admitted that she and her husband had been doing it doggie-style at the top of the stairs, and he thrust so hard that she fell down the whole flight, bumping her knees and elbows and breaking her ankle.
This one is weird, because I was on a call just like this one early in my career. We had a woman with a lot of bruises who claimed she'd slipped in the shower. Things didn't add up, so we pressed, and she told us she'd really gotten hurt during standing sex when her boyfriend dropped her.

...Course it turned out he'd actually beaten the shit out of her.

I'm not saying that's the case here. I'm just saying that injured woman + overprotective husband (and you'll really think I'm paranoid now, but it is an overprotective thing to carry someone in as opposed to just supporting them on the injured side and helping them hop to a wheelchair) + lies + ridiculous story that makes no sense = Very High Index Of Suspicion.

Play Sexy Slang. This is Cosmo's new favorite game--it's a mixture of charades and Pictionary... but with way racier terms. How would you draw "manscaping?"
I would draw it like (NWS) this.