Sex : Night

Sinners and Saints: A Mardi Gras showdown

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 17:40:00 GMT

DRIVING CROSS-country gives you a lot of time to think. You can put miles between you and any insignificant relationship woes. You can master the state capitals. You can become acquainted with the history of "meat showers" in some of our finer states.

But, most noticeably, you can glimpse the warring worlds of conservatism and excess as you buckle in and make your way through the Bible Belt. As you leave the comforts of the Northeast, you go from seeing highways littered with billboards for adult entertainment and sex stores to passing hillsides covered with giant crosses hailing the wrath of an angry god down upon your eco-friendly Prius.

One stretch of road in western Kentucky had me preparing to perish if I didn't repent and change my sinful homosexual ways. "Hell is real," one sign screamed, the "H" painted in flames just in case it wasn't clear. "Jesus Saves," read another, within miles of a billboard listing several of the 10 Commandments. Then there was my personal favorite, a message from our holy pen-pal: "Talk with me. I love you. Jesus."

We saw an 18-wheeler named "The Other Woman" stopped at a gas station that sold vanity plates informing people that "The 10 Commandments are not a multiple-choice question." Next to it was another plate featuring a large set of breasts stuffed into a Confederate-flag bra. This is, apparently, what rednecks call "Dixie Cups."

Roadside attractions along a barren stretch of Texas highway included a sign claiming abortion goes against the Hippocratic oath; a billboard for a gentleman's club called Plantation; and an ad for micro-surgical vasectomy reversal. (Apparently you must drive backward on that bit of road in order for the advertising to be effective.) And - this is the God's honest truth - all this takes place shortly before you reach a town called Turnaround, Texas. That's in case you missed Run For Your Fucking Life, Alabama.

But nowhere is the battle between the saint and the sinner more pronounced than in the city that care forgot: New Orleans. And Mardi Gras, naturally, is the showdown, when both camps come out in all their costumed glory. It is, after all, the last day of debauchery before the onset of the sacrificial period of Lent.

The thing that's interesting about Mardi Gras is that there's no distinction between the people at whom the religious zealots take aim. At gay pride parades, they target the homos. At Planned Parenthood clinics, it's the "baby killers." At Mardi Gras, it's anyone with a sinful strand of beads slung around their necks.

One banner included the following in its list of people going to hell in a handbasket: "party animals," "two-faced people," "pot-smoking little devils," "pencil neck weak-kneed gutless men," and "sports nuts," the latter of which featured little stick figures of a tennis player and a downhill skier. Poor Martina Navratilova, damned on so many levels.

Nearby, a man stood holding a banner that read, "The blood of Jesus washes away your sins." Just feet away, a strip club featured images of lathered women, beckoning potential customers to "Wash the girl of your choice." Sin. Cleanse. Repeat.

A more moderate message was spread by the strip club that warned visitors: "Bottomless. If nudity offends you ... don't come in."

The Mardi Gras revelers certainly didn't miss the opportunity to take potshots at the religious, either. In a gay bar, a man dressed as a nun asked me to take his picture stuffing $1 bills into a male stripper's G-string. Talk about a bad habit. A man dressed as a priest tried to lure me into another bar by dangling his giant fake penis toward me. Maybe it's the recovering Catholic in me, but I always find these costumes funny on some level.

I'm certainly not someone who spends her energies shouting against the messages echoing from the megaphones of martyrs. Nor would I waste my entire Mardi Gras like one man did, standing beside the proselytizers with a sign reading, "I'm with stupid." I guess my greatest act of defiance was to walk right past them into a throbbing gay bar and celebrate the faltering campaigns of both an evangelical and Mormon presidential candidate on Super Tuesday.

Besides, there are far worse sins being committed at Mardi Gras, about which people should be up in arms. Fat women raising their shirts. Little Asian girls burning their fingers stringing beads that get washed into the gutters with beer. Women over 50 flaunting their implants. Drag queens walking the streets shoeless with runs in their stockings. Where is the outrage?

In recounting my Mardi Gras experiences to my dad, I told him about a snapshot that I took from a balcony overlooking Bourbon Street. It was of a group of middle-aged gay men sporting auburn wigs and pink T-shirts emblazoned with the same slogan. "It said, ‘Suck it, Jesus!' " I told him. "Jeannie," my father scolded, stifling a laugh. "It's Ash Wednesday!"

He should know that it's been a hell of a lot longer than 40 days since I quit caring. @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer getting 40 miles to the gallon. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

On the Couch ... with a horny handicapped* hombre

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 18:32:00 GMT

I'VE SPENT many a night with a certain pal of mine, scoping women in bars and bitching about relationship woes. But while complaining about my trivial challenges, I sometimes forget how much more difficult it is for him, a disabled man in the dating world. So I plopped his ass on my couch one day and we got down to the nitty-gritty of sex and disabilities. "I feel like I'm everyone's best friend but nobody's lover," he admitted. (Note: his answers are not to be taken as sweeping generalizations about the disabled population. This is simply one person's perspective.)

Q: Can you describe your disability?

A: I have had partial paralysis since birth. I use crutches to get around.

Q: How has your disability affected your sex life?

A: Very much so. But as I get older, it becomes less of a problem. I can think of various moments, like when I discovered that scars are not necessarily unattractive. I have a body covered in scars from various procedures. To find out that some girls actually find it attractive or cool was a revelation. Up until that point, I would hide. I would be nervous about going to a beach, anywhere where you could see the major scars. I think the other revelation was realizing that I have absolutely nothing to lose by trying the best to do whatever I want to do. It doesn't just apply to sex. Seeing the cutest girl in the room and going over to her and talking to her is no longer a problem, whereas when I was a teenager or twentysomething, I would run in the opposite direction, scared.

Q: Now you're almost overconfident?

A: Now I feel a little bit superior in my own life because I can do everything that a "normal" person can do, with the disability.

Q: Does that bold approach work for you?

A: No, but it increases the odds. What's better: running toward the girl or running away?

Q: I've found that running away helps.

A: Of course there's always the caveman approach. When she walks by, trip her up.

Q: Literally using your disability as a crutch.

A: A crutch for crotch.

Q: Pig. So do you ever feel like people play the sympathy card with you?

A: If somebody appears like they only want to be around me because they have some sympathy for me, my attitude is, I'm not put on this earth to make you feel good about yourself. It's more, you treat me the way I treat you, and I'll give as good as I get. And that's the third cliché in a row.

Q: When's the last "relationship" you've had?

A: I'm not sure I ever had one. It was a few years ago. It was an on-again-off-again that lasted nine months, at best.

Q: What was the last sexual experience you had?

A: It was with a European. It started in a restaurant making out in the bar, and then proceeded to my car.

Q: Do you want to continue with that rhyme scheme?

A: Bite me! On this particular evening, it only progressed as far as my car. She claimed to have friends staying with her, and for whatever reason didn't want to bring me back to her place. And we simply made out in my car, to the point where we got to what most people would describe as third base. It's not exactly easy, when you're two full-grown adults, to shag like rabbits in the back seat of a car. And the other thing about me and sex is it tends not to be spontaneous. It's very difficult logistically if you've got a part of your body that doesn't work well. So it tends to be more of a planned event.

Q: Do you think people are afraid to get physically or sexually involved with people with disabilities?

A: Yes. The ignorant answer is they're afraid of catching whatever the individual has. The more informed answer would be because they are afraid of having to deal with that person's disability on a daily basis. And then there's attractiveness and unattractiveness issues. I stand out in a crowd, but not necessarily for the right reasons.

Q: Do things function properly from a sexual point of view?

A: I think the physical problems that might affect sexuality or ability to have sex have more to do with the body following through with what the brain is thinking. In my case, it's a spinal-cord disorder. Sometimes the messages don't get through. The brain is working fine, but the body doesn't always follow through. It doesn't have any effect on the way you think. You have a healthy sexual appetite, a healthy sexual drive. It's just the fact that the body sometimes doesn't want to go along with that.

Q: You say you're always the best friend, never the lover. How frustrating is that?

A: At times, very. I've grown into a routine of acceptance of that role. And it's not necessarily the best because you find you're attracted to somebody and either they see you as just a friend or you don't say the right things at the right time. Or you come across as asexual or nonsexual, and suddenly you're a good friend and you're never going to be any more than that.

Q: Do you think you'll ever find your "ideal" woman?

A: I don't see why not. If you lose your optimism, you've lost everything. With any disability, I think you can either look ahead, look for the happy life, or you can sit and wallow and wonder why did God make me like this - if you believe in God. The other option is to just get on with your life and enjoy the short time you have on this planet. I very much prefer to live for what I have now, because I know that down the road there's always a possibility that something could bite me on the ass. I could be completely incapacitated and regret everything that I didn't do. That would definitely be a problem. You would have wasted your life. People have goals for themselves - school, college, career, family, nice little house. And some people just want to live day by day and have fun. I'm somewhere in between. And I lean more toward the latter than the former. That's why I never have a penny in the bank.

Q: What are your thoughts on dating other disabled people?

A: I would shy away from disabled people in general when I was younger. But now, it sounds corny, but I wouldn't look at the disability first. I would look at it a little more closely to see what the person is like. And it wouldn't stop me from dating them if I liked them enough. At one point in my life, I wouldn't associate myself for any reason with a disabled person. I didn't want to be put into that little pigeonhole that says, "You're disabled. Sit in the corner. Look happy. Be thankful you're alive." I shouldn't see the disability. Nobody should. @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer whose mouth is often her biggest disability. If you'd like to share your story On the Couch, e-mail her at jeannieg@comcast.net.

*Yes, I know "handicapped" is not an appropriate term. But the interview subject and I agreed we could sacrifice our political correctness for a good literary device.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

Straight Shot: On exploring the opposite gender

Jeannie Greeley — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 22:15:00 GMT

THE FIRST thing that alarms me is the facial hair, dragging across my chin like an enraged porcupine. Then I feel large, rough hands cupped around my face. Then the musky aroma creeps up and stings my nose.

Holy absence of labia minora! I'm with a dude.

Cheap facials aside, I don't really know what I'm doing in the front seat of this car being, quite literally, manhandled. I just remember waking from my lesbian bed one day in a very bad lesbian mood. Suffering from a bout of clitoral despondency, I grabbed a fistful of phone numbers from my dresser and plucked from them the one with a man's name on it.

I was a woman scorned. (Maybe I was a woman desperate, but stick with me on the drama here.) I quite purposefully picked up the phone and, with no fuss, arranged a date. Then I hung up, looked in the mirror, and morphed into Munch's The Scream. "What are you doing?" my gaping mouth asked. "You're gay!"

This "one straight date" is a tactic used occasionally by some of my gay pals and me. Often it's a last emotional resort. We've suffered one too many crazy broads. We've gone catatonic talking about our emotions. We're convinced that if we don't explore the opposite gender, we'll end up with a mute dwarf.

We convince ourselves that we must find something simpler, or at least a little less complicated. We want our doors opened for a change, our outfits complimented, and for God's sake, we don't want to go Dutch on any more tabs. So we log on to dating Web sites as straight girls. Or we give our number to some cute guy at the bar. It's our sexual entremets, one friend noted - a light and refreshing heterosexual sorbet to cleanse our palates between heavy gay courses.

But this little hetero adventure takes a bit of practice. First you've got to reveal your scheme to a few trustworthy friends, just in case your body winds up in a duffel bag at the bottom of the Charles. In my case, I used my sisters as a litmus test.

"Good for you!" one said, convinced by my dating history that lesbians have some unique, crazy chromosome. The other acted as though I was speaking Cantonese when the word "guy" kept coming out of my mouth.

Friends can be a bit less forgiving, and I omitted some of my five-star lesbian friends from the conversation altogether. When I confided to one lesbian friend that I was going out with a man, she was stunned.

"You're the gayest person I know," she exclaimed.

"I can't be the gayest person you know, because you are the gayest person I know," I responded, before reminding her that she had a little bit of a boyfriend for much of the previous year.

Preparation for the one straight date can be grueling. You must scrub your vocabulary of gay thoughts and agendas. Revealing that you're a lesbian could be both the ultimate turn-on or turn-off for your male date, and you don't really want to risk either on a first rendezvous with a total stranger.

"Talk about places like Saint and Abe & Louie's," I advised one lesbian friend who was heading out on a straight date. "And Faneuil Hall. Those are good straight places."

We agree to omit references to Tribe, Toast, and Pure, all popular lesbian bars. And, God forbid, don't mention Club Café; you might as well stir your drink with a strap-on. If possible, avoid the South End, because you're likely to run into an ex or a butch friend with a wallet chain that could lasso the guy to the ground.

Are we deceiving people with this behavior? Some might say so. Others might say we're only lying to ourselves. If you're not so rigid with your sexual labels, you could view it as harmless experimentation, much like all those hetero housewives going down on each other after a few too many glasses of boxed wine.

Someone asked me recently where I fell on the "spectrum" of sexuality. Hopefully on someone's face, I thought. But seriously, I have a theory on my own sexuality. I came out sometime around age 20. Men at that age were a bunch of beer-guzzling dolts. Women were these soft cushions of understanding and emotion. They got me. And I was perfectly willing to let them.

In the decade since, men have caught up. Some of them now even talk about art and politics. And there I am sidelined at a beer-pong match with a bunch of lesbians in baseball hats. This particular guy that I find myself out with schooled me in the language of tequila. Up until now, I thought that consisted of three phrases: lick it, slam it, suck it.

He's what straight girls would presumably call "a catch." Handsome, intelligent, multilingual, well-traveled. But I can't stop wondering what his vagina looks like. While he's talking about his job, I'm eyeing the waitress. And my conversation keeps getting hung up on all the potentially damning gay bombs I'm about to drop.

But aside from the beard burn, I'd actually say the date is a success. Afterwards, though, I freeze. I can't get myself to return a phone call or write an e-mail or send holiday wishes. I think too much about how difficult it would be, and about all the explanations I'd have to issue and the condoms I'd have to buy and the cycles I'd have to keep track of. And I allow myself to get sucked back down the drain of lesbian drama, partly out of fear and partly out of desire.

But it's only been three weeks since our date. I think I should call him. Guys don't care about stuff like that, do they? They're not crazy, right? @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who needs some advice in this department. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

Demented and Sad, but Social: Venturing into the ‘singles’ world

Jeannie Greeley — Tue, 08 Jan 2008 18:35:00 GMT

SIGN HERE. Take a name tag. You're number 41. Now print your number on this envelope. Decorate the envelope with the supplies in the other room. Hang your envelope on the wall over there. Then people can leave you messages. Yay! Have fun!

This is lesbian socialization at its finest: timid, contrived, and crafty.

"You deal with this," I say to my friend. "I'm going to hang my coat." Or myself.

Not one for organized singles events, I arrived at this party after a fight with an ex-suitor, hell-bent on whoring it up with a bunch of hot ladies. Decorating vegan cupcakes wasn't exactly what I had in mind. The lights are bright. The music is nonexistent. And the ladies are men (or used to be) - at least the ones who care to talk to me. We're drawn together by our mutual fondness for mascara and vintage dresses. But we have to part ways when I start getting cheekbone envy.

These kinds of events make my skin crawl. Desperate eyes dart around the room looking to lock with anyone else's. Uncomfortable people jockey for a comfort zone. Body movements are awkward as attendees negotiate a minefield of human wanting. And the sexual energy is as charged as a dead battery.

As if the attempts at forced socialization weren't bad enough, we're later corralled into games of raunchy charades and Spin the Bottle. Can someone please hold me and tell me it'll be okay?

"Oh my God. That's terrible," said a sympathetic friend, after detailing the exquisite marriage proposal her boyfriend had orchestrated on the same night that I was engaging in adolescent games.

"If I don't have a date for your wedding, shoot me in the head," I said.

I'm not having a pity party for one. I'm just terrified at the options I see for "singles" nowadays. Everywhere I go, someone wants to put a lei around my neck or force me to wear a name tag in order to meet other lepers. Eight-minute dating is about seven-and-a-half minutes too long for me. And those gimmicks in which they employ sensory deprivation to see if personality trumps looks fail as soon as you catch a glimpse of the person with whom you're matched.

"Single" is a label I've always worn proudly. But I used it more as an explanation that I wasn't committed to the person or persons I was dating; I wasn't really embracing the actual state of mind or being. I just wanted people to know that I was available. Now "single" feels more like a verb, something I must work to change. Others use the word like it's an ailment: so sad that you've contracted it, and pulling for you to be in the clear.

Taped to my computer monitor are two fortunes. One reads: "The love of your life will appear in front of you unexpectedly!" The other says: "You will never need to worry about a steady income." Together, they are my daily affirmations that absolutely nothing in life happens without effort - and that the Chinese lie.

We must get up every day with the hope that, if we wander the streets long enough, we'll bump into our soul mate. We must work ourselves up for another belabored dinner conversation with a boring stranger. We must keep motherfuckin' hope alive! Because this one, any one, could be "The One."

So here I am, nestled between a lesbian I've nicknamed Robocop (because of the pins holding her arm together after a motorcycle accident) and an Italian girl whom I think is making fun of me in her native tongue. I am not amused by the dancing antics of this Rosie O'Donnell look-alike. And I'm starting to think that I am, in fact, a total bitch.

But I'm trying! I'm here wearing a pained smile and my little name tag. And I'm trying not to think about the girl who recently told me she's emotionally unavailable. I'm trying to forget about all the relationships that I casually discarded for the promise of something better. I'm trying to imagine having anything in common with these people, other than all of us being gay.

Mostly, I'm trying to make it across the room inconspicuously to grab my envelope. Who knows? Maybe there was some cute girl spying on me from across the room who didn't have the nerve to approach. Perhaps someone will crack me up by sticking her credit-card statement in there. Anything is possible. Remain positive. Walk with purpose. Take a quick peek without anyone noticing.

It's empty. @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who doesn't mix charades and dating. You can reach contestant #41 at jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

Post-Coital Paranoia: A little time with my subconscious

Jeannie Greeley — Wed, 17 Oct 2007 18:23:00 GMT

UNTIL RECENTLY, I had been - give or take the random drunken mistake - consistently sleeping with one person for quite some time. We were enjoying all the comforts of familiarity. We knew how to pull off the quick orgasm, the protracted one, the filthy one, the romantic one. Costumes were used and discarded as if Halloween was a weekly holiday.

Then, THWAP! Chapter closed. New scene.

This is how sex lives work. If I think about it too much, it completely boggles my mind. You go from sharing the most intimate moments with a person to having her scream in your ear that she hates you. And just like that, she becomes a memory, a past to cling to until the finer details fade to a vague recollection. One day a stranger's perfume might tug you right back into an imagined naked entanglement, but it evaporates as quickly as it had overwhelmed.

Then suddenly you re-emerge single, cast paranoid, insecure, and vulnerable back into the teeming world of dating. What does my butt look like from this angle?, I now wonder, straining to catch a glimpse in the mirror over my shoulder. Where did that wrinkle come from? I've got to get to the gym, read more, better myself, and catch up on all that lost time spent growing comfortably numb with someone. While I might share the average girl's insecurities when it comes to intelligence or body image, I think I'm hypersensitive when it comes to sex.

"They probably think you're some kind of expert!" my friend laughed, mocking this miscast journalism job of mine.

If you think I'm displaying some sense of false modesty, allow me to recount the 24 hours of my first post-relationship sexual foray, told by my subconscious mind. You tell me if you're not a nervous wreck.

***

"Sorry, my place is a mess." Just close your eyes and go directly to the bed. "My roommate's away." Roommate. I'm such a loser. Total revelation of poverty way too soon. At least there isn't any underwear on the floor. Well, at least they're mine.

Wow, these lips feel good. Different, but good. No teeth clacked together on initial contact. Always a good sign.

"You're tired?" I should totally respect that and let her go to bed. But I won't. Who knows? This could be a one-time opportunity. I should tell her how good I am in bed. That usually works.

"Really good?" she asks.

"Yeah, really good." Wait, you're rushing things. Too late. (Awkward wrestling of tight jeans from over knee caps.) "Yeah, I'll let you do that."

Huh. That's different. She must really be enjoying herself. I am good in bed. Wait, I'm not even touching her. Is she getting off on the sound of her own voice? My God, I'm totally silent. I should start making some type of breathy noises. Breathy noises, good. I should tell her that's hot.

"Freaky?" she asks, her brow furrowing in response to my botched compliment. Holy shit! Did I really just call this girl "freaky" in bed? She's gonna leave. What's the complete opposite of freaky? Quick. Recover.

"Quiet and demure?" she says, just as dumbfounded by my feedback. Why does the stimulation of my clitoris cause the complete dulling of my brain? "No, like, freaky good freaky."

"And this is me tired," she laughs. I will be destroyed.

"Water? Yeah, I'll get you some." I really need to quit smoking. My mouth probably tastes like an ashtray.

My God, that stupid chicken carcass is still in the fridge. I am a bachelor. Water, water. Oh, I know! Ice cubes. I love ice cubes. I hope she likes ice cubes. Wait, are ice cubes like the 1997 of sexual apparatuses? No, she'll like ice cubes. Just be inconspicuous with them.

(Her eyes bulge nervously as I remove a cube the size of Rhode Island that I've nearly dropped down her throat.) "Oh my God, I'm sorry!"

Wow, I don't think I've ever slept with a girl with this much hair on her head. It seems like it's multiplying by the gyration. Actually, it's sort of getting in my way.

"Really?" she asks. "Most people say they like it." Most people probably aren't getting it caught in their permanent retainers at 31 years old. I should really get that removed. I'm sure my teeth wouldn't move at this age. Or maybe they would and then I'd look like . . . oh! What's she doing?

Should I tell her I like that? Should I tell her I don't like that? Maybe I do like that. Ride it out. I do like that. I really like that. Oh my God, Jeannie. Breathe. She's going to think you're a piece of cardboard. Say something. Okay, okay. Too intense. Bring it down a notch. Say something sexy and sensitive.

"Call me when you want a good time."

"So, no strings attached?" she answers. My sensitive sounds more like a raunchy Prince lyric. No, that's not what I meant. What do I counter with? "Strings attached"? That's just creepy. Aww, fuck. Just let her sleep and worry about it tomorrow morning. And afternoon. And evening.

"Bye."

"Have a good day."

"You, too."

(Bolt door. Grab hair in fists. Pound forehead for being such an awkward and insensitive idiot.)

***

Most people tell me that their first sexual encounter with someone new is usually a little uncomfortable. If you think about it, you've probably spent a cumulative six to 12 hours with the person before you find yourself wondering which of his or her orifices are off limits. But personally, I tend to overthink things until I kill them. I needed reassurance.

"Honey, I know this is going to sound so stupid," I pathetically confided in an ex-girlfriend, "but . . . would you say I was good in bed?"

"Baby," she laughed. "We had amazing sex. I thought our first time was sweet and nice. You're the one who freaked out. Just calm down. She'll call."

***

Oh, look: a text message. "Blah blah blah blah loved last night blah blah blah." Loved last night? What does that mean? Does that mean she loved last night? Or does that mean she's texting because she doesn't want to pick up the phone and have to discuss our encounter? Go to bed. Tomorrow is a new day. If she doesn't call, she doesn't call. At least you can laugh about the one that got away because you called her freaky in bed.

Work. Stop looking at the phone. You have a busy day ahead of you, Miss Greeley. Focus. (Phone rings.)

"Oh, hey, Mom."

(Phone rings.) Ugh. Not getting that one. Finish that article. Form sentences on the page.

(Phone rings.) Breathe sigh of relief. That's the newly familiar number I wanted to see. Let phone ring a few times. Act completely composed, self-assured, and confident. That's the impression she might once have had.

"Hey there!"

"Hi!"

And so it begins. Or it doesn't. @

Jeannie Greeley is an emotional train wreck of a freelance writer who might get tossed on her can after this is published. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

Get Real: Venus Envy prepares for Prime Time

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 27 Aug 2007 16:38:00 GMT

LADIES, LOCK up your girlfriends. Boys, break out the hand cream. The lesbian version of the TV show The Bachelorette is coming - and it promises to be as pathetic and unrealistic as its straight counterparts.

"For the first time ever, a major cable network is applying the lipstick, revving the Harley, busting out the wife-beater, and turning dating inside-out," promised the casting agency in its posting for the show.

Lipstick? Harley? Wife-beater? That's the best they could come up with to turn the lesbian dating world "inside-out"? Clearly this copy was written by some straight girl who watched two episodes of The L Word to school herself in gayness.

Tentatively dubbed Venus Envy, the show is set to air this fall on MTV. It is, of course, the only natural progression we could expect as we gays gain greater acceptance in the world. The L Word has made tribadism chic. Jackie Warner's Work Out has convinced millions of people that lesbians are not only buff, but that straight girls are throwing themselves at our feet. It's acceptable social behavior for straight girls to get "gaysted" and feign homosexuality until they sober up. Of course we need our own version of The Bachelorette.

And who better to represent the lesbian population than a former Maxim model? That's all the casting agency would leak when I called to inquire about the show. A former Maxim model? You don't say! That's about as realistic as a one-legged dwarf taking to the fashion runway to showcase Victoria's Secret's new lingerie line.

Or is it? I bitch all the time about the tired stereotypes plaguing the lesbian community. The cargo shorts. The Birkenstocks. The bad mullets (not to be confused with the good mullets). The nesting behavior. Perhaps a smokin' former Maxim cover girl is just what we need to drag us out of the dumps and raise up the ratty-lesbian reputation the world over.

Wait. We already have that. We already have the lipsticked, fake-breasted "lesbian" gaining notoriety while she jabs her co-star's labia with fire-engine red talons. Those are the lesbians people love. They're grotesquely gorgeous by male standards. And they're fucking lesbians, dude! How cool.

I'm not saying this former Maxim model couldn't be a lesbian. Certainly there must have been that one photo shoot where she was asked to pour sudsy water over another female model's white tank top, revealing just enough of a darkened areola to make something tingle downstairs.

Using this centerfold as a representative of the lesbian population, though, is a bit of a stretch, even for a "reality" show. But those are our choices: we either get Rosie O'Donnell and her football field of a head, or we get Barbie dolls who like to touch tongues.

What we don't get is a representation of that enormous gap between the flat-topped lesbians of yesteryear and the over-femmed porn stars of today's Girls Gone Wild culture. And I mean "real" people, as opposed to the actors who play gay people on television. And it would also be cool if they weren't all crazy and consumed by melodrama.

Apparently I don't even meet my own standards. When the casting rep suggested I send in a tape, I assumed the best way to make an impression would be to dance around in a blow-up doll costume and make goiter jokes. I even included a missive about crazy ex-girlfriends, complete with footage of one straddling a mechanical bull. My perception of what constitutes "reality" is as warped as everyone else's. And considering I haven't heard anything from the casting agency since I mailed in my entry, it appears I won't be competing to date a supermodel anytime soon.

But come to think of it, I'm not too sure the TV executives would have been wowed by footage of me in my underwear, editing the same line of this column 10 times over. Or of me on the phone with a friend, bitching about my unrequited love for some straight girl. Or perhaps they just looked at my photo and went, "Blah." Too average. Too normal. Too real.

The show will work much better with all the requisite lesbian stereotypes. They've already got their supermodel. I'm sure they'll throw in a porn star or a stripper. They'll have the gorgeous Southern homo who's been ostracized by her Republican family. Hopefully they won't sabotage the show with straight contestants, as they did on Bravo's Boy Meets Boy, using the program as some type of homosexual litmus test. Of course they'll toss in some big butch for good measure, or a good laugh. And I'll treat Venus Envy like every other "reality show": as a joke.

I guess I should look on the bright side: we lesbians can enjoy the trickle-down effect of yet another pop-culture phenom. If Venus Envy works the same as every other sprinkle of gayness in primetime, it'll make loads of straight girls hip to being a homo. They'll become more open-minded and curious. They'll have too much to drink one night and start asking questions about what it's like to be gay. Then they'll wake up with their clothes in a ball on your bedroom floor and realize their boyfriends have been texting them all night. They'll gather their stuff and sneak out the door, shaking their head at their silly exploit. That was fun for the night. But it was just an experiment. It's not for real. @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who misses the days of Pedro and Puck on The Real World. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by C. Smigliani.]

In the Sack: Hot & Heavy, Hot & Saucy, Irate Euro, and more

Jeannie Greeley — Tue, 31 Jul 2007 16:11:00 GMT

AS EXPECTED, the ladies had a lot to say about a recent column regarding weight issues in relationships (see "Weighty Issues," 6.19.07). People got offended. Boo hoo. And my column got me dumped ... again. Letters have been edited for brevity and clarity. All names of fat girls and wimpy dudes have been changed.

I just wanted to let you know I loved your recent article "Weighty Issues." I've just started dating this guy who is REALLY hot; he has the nicest body. And I'm not going to lie, I'm not at my best right now. So you really inspired me to change my eating habits and to force myself to exercise, because if I want him and his six-pack, he deserves the same. Keep up with your great work. I love coming into work to find a new Stuff@night sitting at the door step.

Hot & Heavy

Dear Hot & Heavy,

If only my partner had reacted as well as you have to the column. Even after reading it to her before publication and making sure to limit the public humiliation, she still dumped my ass. "Did you see that illustration?!" she screamed. "It made me look huge!" Yeah, it also made you look like a Caucasian redhead, I tried explaining to the stubborn Cape Verdean. It's not real. Apparently, her issues are.

I just read your article while eating a breakfast burrito at Herrell's in Allston. I've had a lover for little over a year now who has claimed to love my body. I'm definitely curvy, but have gained a little weight since we met. If anything, he rubs my tummy and grabs on in the bedroom even more now than when we first got together. He has a high metabolism and is naturally muscular. He also thinks that Jessica Biel has a slamming body. He's told me only once that I could afford to lose a few pounds but he never held it over me. Therefore, it IS possible to talk about weight issues and make the relationship stronger. It's hard, but it's worse if you resent your partner quietly.

Hot & Saucy

Dear Hot & Saucy,

You lost me at breakfast burrito.

Great article in Stuff@night magazine regarding "Weighty Issues." I am a European, and looking at all fat, I mean fat - and I am not apologizing for using that category - people grosses me out. Especially the pretentious ones, who think and act as if everybody else has to react, understand, and except [sic] them as equal, even with more rights. Top of everything is when they think they have to be granted more care, more attention, and more benefits, because most fall in the category of disabled. I do not think of taking care of your body as being shallow. How do women spend time and money to have their hair and nails done twice a week, but never place a [bit of thought] in [belonging to] a gym? I am a straight woman and I have a lot of male friends, both straight and homosexual, who share that they do not care too much of [sic] the nail polish color, but clean nails and fit bodies. Isn't there anyone to tell all these women who want to have a decent guy by themselves to stop being arrogant?

Irate Euro

Dear Irate Euro,

I'm confused by this letter. Are you calling these women fat, disabled, and arrogant? That's what I love about you Europeans. Brash, unapologetic, and thin as rails. Of course, you've probably got some fatal flaw like a missing eyetooth or a Russian jaw line that makes you look as if you could eat hub caps. But, go on, girl! You tell 'em.

I just recently moved to Massachusetts from the Bronx. I am so used to the city life and the witty attitude. Being part of the gay community, I would spend most of my time in the Village or in Manhattan. On my trips, I would pick up a copy of free papers to read on the train so I wouldn't just be caught staring at girls. When I didn't find any of that here in Boston, I knew I was in for a hard ride. There were a couple of paper stands, yet the one that truly caught my eye ... was Stuff@night. Somehow, inside I felt as if I was at home. As I started flipping through the pages I just fell totally in love with the magazine. Reading your colon [sic] totally hit the spot. I love your wit and sense of humor. Your articles are blunt yet not hurtful or mean, and they touch on things that people do find themselves thinking about. I have truly been touched by your magazine and feel at home.

The Lost BX Girl

Dear Lost BX Girl,

By "colon," I'm assuming you mean that thing I spew onto the pages of the magazine every other week. I'm glad you're enjoying it. If only everyone could spend more time hanging out with bitter gay men to learn that hurtful insults are just plain fun. Thank you for seeing through to the true, caring, sensitive me. You have touched me.

Jeannie Greeley, shame shame. Please cease and desist lumping me in with those pathetic losers appearing in [the most recent In the Sack feature]. Now I must hesitate in sending a copy to my superficial friends in the "Big Apple" who, by the way, think I'm bowling this town over by leaps and bounds. If you promise to be nice, I'll STOP reading your columns. On second thought, go ahead and do as you please, I probably am a loser.

No Longer a "Large" Fan

Dear No Longer a "Large" Fan,

In the past week I've been referred to as the "lesbian Imus" and received two e-mails beginning with the words "Shame, shame." I know the lesbians can sometimes be a pack of humorless sweat socks, but never in a million years did I think I'd have to explain sarcasm to a New Yorker. So here it is for the fragile, offended masses: I'M FUCKING KIDDING. Jeez. @

Jeannie Greeley really is the sensitive, neurotic, caring soul that people think she is. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

Word Up: A Primer on the Language of Lust

Jeannie Greeley — Tue, 17 Jul 2007 15:58:00 GMT

IT'S A SEX columnist's nightmare to be clueless when a well-worn sex term gets thrown out at a dinner party. When a girl said "road head," I thought it had something to do with helmets. My punishment for being a *** and a cyclist.

Embarrassed by my ignorance and determined to never again be one-upped by an unsuspecting party guest who works in finance, I took to the Internet for a crash course in "sexicon."

Holy crap, there are a lot of sick people out there! Ninety percent of what I unearthed was fresh to my virgin ears. Even more disconcerting was the fact that these sex acts are practiced frequently enough to earn names and definitions.

Rather than hoard all this juicy information for myself, I figured I'd educate the masses. So let's begin our lesson, shall we, kids?

Food for thought or recipe for disaster?

Teabagging

1 welcome mouth

2 sagging balls

Lower balls slowly into mouth from above. Stir gently. This recipe is spoiled if even a hint of tooth is added.

Cleveland Steamer

1 man devoid of morals

1 woman's chest

1 hot bowel movement

Spread evenly. Add immeasurable amount of humiliation.

Boston Pancake

Use Cleveland Steamer ingredients

Add "frosting"

Occasional bouts of shouting "fastah" and "hahdah" can add to the enjoyment of this recipe.

Tossed Salad

1 agile and daring tongue

1 anus

Maneuver in circular motion for best results. Perfect for vegans.

Limp Biscuit

3 or more males

1 biscuit

Standing in a circle, beat vigorously until biscuit is completely frosted. The last person to frost the biscuit gets to eat this hearty, protein-rich snack. (When in Australia, this recipe is known as Soggy Sao. In the UK, it's Soggy Biscuit. When involving men from washed-up nu-metal bands: Limp Bizkit.)

Milk Shake

2 (large) breasts

1 yard

Several boys

Shake vigorously. If done correctly, should be better than everyone else's recipe. Damn right! (Not to be mistaken for a recipe of the same name involving one bum and several parts semen.)

Bumping Donuts

2 flexible women (lesbians)

2 vaginas

Thousands of men who don't know what vaginas look like, to coin this term.

Bump ferociously or until the cops come.

Strawberry Shortcake

1 columnist with weak gag reflex

1 Google search

Hundreds of readers forced to find ingredients and recipes on their own.

Phobias and fascinations: music to your fears

"It's like thunder! Lightning! The way you love me is frightening ... " literally. Because keraunophiles - people who get off on storms - want to knock, knock, knock on your wood, baby.

"I left my hard-on in San Francisco." It's a favorite song of homichlophiles, who are aroused by fog.

"Love stinks!/Yeah/Yeah." The rally cry of olfactophiles, who get off on body odors.

"Let me sleep on it, baby, baby/Let me sleep on it." With their habit of waking a sleeping person with sexual advances, somnophiles might have read more into these Meat Loaf lyrics.

Ol' Blue Eyes really won over the xenophiles with "Strangers in the Night," since they're turned on by strangers or foreigners.

"Dontcha wish your girlfriend threw up on me? Dontcha wish your girlfriend blew chunks on me? Dontcha?" Emetophiles do.

Animal instincts

There are big gay "bears" and young little "cubs." It's up to them what they do with their chubs. Perhaps it's "doggie style," but they could earn a bigger smile. If they reach around and yank, they're practicing "the goat strangler" on their partner's shank.

Squeeze the "beefy curtains" of your "beaver" into tight jeans and you're sure to get a chuckle. You're sporting the well-known "camel toe," or its counterpart, the "moose knuckle."

Drink some "Spanish fly" and you could end up getting "donkey punched" - a blow to the kidney during sex that just might bring up your lunch.

And if you're practicing "the ant-eater," you've just got no class. You're eating the dingleberries out of a grown man's ass.

Strange ... but true?

"The Donald Trump": after ejaculating in one's hand, the person then runs his hand through his partner's hair and yells "You're fired!" (The partner then proceeds to get all Omarosa on your ass, storming out of the room and calling you a racist.)

"The Ninja": a disappearing act, typically used after a one-night stand, where a guy shoots in both his partner's eyes, grabs his clothes, and makes a quick escape, never to be seen again. (The woman, on the other hand, begins taking martial arts after this experience.)

"Poison Ivy": most often performed by two women, this involves applying poison-ivy leaves to freshly shaven underarms, then urinating on the open sores over the span of a few weeks. (Gives a whole new meaning to the seven-year itch.)

There are literally thousands of these terms out there; there's even a book on the subject. If the sexual wordsmith in you in still hungering for more, here's a vocabulary list for homework: Mexican avalanche. Dirty Rodriguez. Italian chandelier. Arabian goggles. Rusty trombone. Cleveland caveman straddle. Glass-bottom boat. Goat on a cliff. Sperm whaling. Potato queen. Jelly doughnut. Blissful baby. 77. Upside down armadillo.

Now don't make me hit you with this ruler. @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who loves expanding her vocabulary. Send your favorite sexicons to jeannieg@comcast.net.

Weighty Issues: Addressing size in a relationship

Jeannie Greeley — Tue, 19 Jun 2007 15:43:00 GMT

IF I WERE to scrawl a letter to an advice columnist right now, it would go something like this:

Dear Incompetent Guide,

I'm skinny. I say that with neither pride nor shame. It just is. I've got good genes and a speedy metabolism. The reason I'm writing is because weight has recently become an issue with someone I'm dating. More so, her weight has become an issue to me. What do I do? Calling her fat and poking at the offending areas only seems to cripple her esteem and lead to tears. She's never even heard of granola, never mind an elliptical machine! At this point I'm thinking of doing the unthinkable and withholding sex. But why should I be punished? HELP!

Slowly Smothering

What I'd give to get a nice, succinct, actionable response to this uncomfortable quandary. But there seems to be no perfect way to address the dimpled pink elephant in the bedroom of any relationship. If you honestly acknowledge your partner's weight gain, you're viewed as critical, demeaning, and shallow. If you don't address it, and withdraw without explanation, frustration grows and your sex life inevitably suffers. And if you address it in the wrong way - through humor and sarcasm, in my case - you can earn yourself a nice tongue lashing.

"It's inside that counts, not outside," I was scolded recently.

My estimate is that it's more like a 50-50 split.

Who are we kidding, pretending that body image and physicality don't matter? Something about them both likely drew you to your partner in the first place. Sure, there are some altruistic souls out there who can overlook a rough exterior. I'm perfectly comfortable admitting that I'm not one of them. Aside from the occasional martini binge, during which I wind up waking on my bathroom floor, I tend to take care of myself. Thinness is likely one byproduct of that behavior. Health is the more important one to me. In a perfect world, I'd like a companion who feels the same.

As with many instances of weight gain, my partner's crept up slowly. A job change led to a more sedentary position. The occasional burger became a regular thing, then got topped with cheese and bacon. Saturdays once spent walking around the city became Saturdays spent lying in bed watching television. Suddenly we're in the middle of a bowling alley with her crying and me apologizing for criticizing her in front of my friends.

"You make me feel like I don't deserve food," she said.

"Don't be crazy, babe," I said, dangling a French fry inches from her nose.

I've tried to address the issue along the way. The new tires I bought for her ailing bike are now rusted from lack of use. Attempts to get her to join me at the gym are rebuffed with claims that our schedules are off. (As far as I'm concerned, self-employed people don't have schedules.) And if I dare comment on what she's eating, the glares from others at the table are enough to shut me up.

For those of you who plan on sending me missives about society putting undue pressure on women to be thin, shut up. Seriously. This woman was "voluptuous" when we started dating, and I like her that way. This isn't about forcing a woman to be a size two when she's naturally several times that. But there's a difference between starving yourself to near anorexia and taking care of yourself to avoid things like clogged arteries, diabetes, and the innumerable ailments that accompany weight gain, including lowered sex drive.

According to Oprah's famous Dr. Katz, weight gain can cause poor blood flow to the genitals, imbalanced levels of estrogen, a dampened libido, and a lowered self worth - all of which can cause problems in the bedroom. In our case, it's probably my sex drive that has decreased in response to her weight gain. And now that the subject has been broached, she's a tad standoffish in bed, likely because she's worried about what I think of her body.

Dread a confrontation though we may, lovers are probably the only people who can address this uncomfortable issue with each another. A doctor's advice is going to sound sterile. Friends lie, especially when it comes to weight. And who really listens to their parents anymore?

So after her tears had dried, I reached deep within myself to find a remnant of sensitivity before sitting her down to have the difficult conversation. I made sure to carefully word my comments, making the issue about her health. And you know what? She was thankful. She wants to be helped. She had no idea how to make healthy food choices, was lucky if she drank a glass of water a week, and thought a muffin was a good way to kick start her day. I've offered to make her lists of foods that she can snack on all day to stave off hunger, reminding her that deprivation is only going to lead to binging.

Throughout the day, I'll send her little reminder e-mails that say something like "WATER." And she'll write back about how there's cake in her office for about the 57th day in a row, but she's not having any. Her coworkers think I'm the devil.

While everyone else is busy being thanked for telling her how great she already looks, I guess I can be the bad guy who actually cares about her. And then she'll get all shapely and fierce and dump my little ass. @

Jeannie Greeley is a carb-loving freelance writer. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

Breaking Up For Dummies: Why do I need a book about calling it quits? Half the fun of a relationship is its demise.

Jeannie Greeley — Tue, 05 Jun 2007 15:39:00 GMT

RECENTLY I was contacted by an author requesting an interview for her upcoming book, The Break-Up Etiquette Bible. Knowing nothing about etiquette or bibles, my original plan was to agree and then spew a bunch of hideous lies, exposing the literary sham that is the self-help genre. But even I'm not that evil. And the author turned out to be cute.

Her mission, I was told, is to try to help people (both dumper and dumpee) prepare to handle break-ups with more grace. Lofty goal, if you ask me. Take a person at his or her most vulnerable, angry, sad, irrational, jealous, and insecure, and ask him or her to act like a tulip.

Perhaps it's the writer in me, but half the fun of a relationship is its demise. Shiv or hacksaw? Hacksaw, then shiv? My eyes actually lit up during the interview when the author asked about my most nightmarish break-ups. There were attempted suicides, naked pursuits down public streets, belongings tossed down stairwells, love notes set aflame. With each glass of sangria that I downed, I could see the movie version being directed.

"Do you have any regrets from your own experiences of being broken up with and how you'd handle it differently now?" the author asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I should have killed the bitch."

Had I been asked to recall the most loving or tender moments of past relationships, I probably would've had to wrack my brain a bit more. The pain of a break-up is so much easier to recall, so scarred and tangible, so seared into our psyches. It eclipses happiness if you let it. In some masochistic way, it's even more fun.

In my opinion, if The Break-Up Etiquette Bible succeeds, it will not be for its therapeutic value or groundbreaking advice, but for its seductive melodrama. Admit it: we all love to hear a good break-up story, and we all love to tell them. Juicy break-up tales have pretty much sustained the business of brunch.

But despite my ravings on the titillating drama of past relationships, I actually learned a lot about myself during that two-hour interview. According to the researcher, I'm "just like a guy," except completely honest and self-aware about my douche-bag ways. Still, the entire transcript of my interview might be filed in a chapter called "Listen to this Demented Bitch."

My one big break-up tip is this: lie like it's your job. No one really wants to hear the truth when you're breaking up with them. So spare the homely, stupid details of their pathetic lives. And if you're the dumpee, are you really going to change your behavior based on the feedback of some noncommittal coward who you now want to stab in the eye?

Probably not. You will most likely change your behavior when you realize how unattractive you've become in your blubbering state of self-loathing. Exhausted friends will no longer want to hear your whining. Co-workers will suddenly be lunching at their desks instead of going out with you. Pets will withdraw in your presence. And then you'll be left to hunker down with little ol' you and figure out how to pick up Miss Polly Pissy Pants and get back out there.

My second tip is this: blame yourself. This isn't rocket science. And it's basically a variant of tip one. The excuse "It's not you, it's me" exists for a reason. If every girl had to hear, "It's you, and this is why," our suicide and breast-implant rates would go through the roof. Personally, I prefer the I'm-not-looking-for-a-relationship line, or the too-absorbed-in-my-career bit. In extreme circumstances, you could always feign a fatal illness and claim to be spending your remaining days in Tibet. That way, you get both an escape and sympathy.

And, God Almighty, please don't cry! I would rather a swift blow to the abdomen than have to watch those iridescent orbs drift down your cheeks like a bleeding glacier. Tears are also more likely to sustain the relationship, thanks to guilt or sympathy. Violence leaves me no other option than to dump your ass, you crazy bitch.

Strangely enough, right when the author's tape recorder clicked off, I got to put all my lessons to use, as my flame awaited me at the bar so we could "talk." By "talk," she meant off-load on me so she could feel better about herself by making me feel like ***. If I'd had the break-up bible in hand, I could simply have referred her to the chapter on self-blame.

The tirade progressed into a full-blown character assault: my competitive ways, my habit of repeating the same stories a thousand times, my annoying Leo qualities of having a personality and being able to command attention.

I allowed my eyes to well for exactly 10 seconds before exhaling and remembering my "do not cry" mantra. I could have lashed out. I could have rattled off a list of her qualities that I despise. All those dramatic movie scenes that play out in my mind could have screened for all to see. But for what? So that we both leave bruised and insecure?

I can take one for the team. Lie. Blame self. Don't cry. There, there, little one. You're totally right. I'm such a self-absorbed asshole. Don't you feel better with that off your chest?

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get back to this group of guys that's never heard the one about my pug eating my thong underwear. Thank you so much for the drink. And - here's a must-have for anyone's break-up lexicon - take care. @

Jeannie Greeley is a dignified freelance writer. She has never had anyone break up with her via
e-mail at jeannieg@comcast.net. To share your break-up tales, visit: www.breakupetiquettebible.com.

Striking Out: If you ask me, dating a sports fan is a losing game

Jeannie Greeley — Tue, 22 May 2007 15:34:00 GMT

I'VE BEEN kept awake lately by a hiss and roar that I wish were coming from something other than raucous sports fans. But 'tis the season of mayhem when you live within earshot of one of the loudest baseball parks in the country. Not to mention one with some of the most notorious baseball fanatics in the world.

So I'm just going to say it right off the bat (stay tuned for more terribly cheesy sports puns): I'm not a sports fan, and I'm definitely not interested in dating one. Yes, I understand the game of baseball - better than many guys do, in fact. But I'm perfectly content to do something other than stare at a television for 20 hours a week while guzzling beer and pondering the future of Manny's dreadlocks.

But, damn, this stance can take a toll on your relationships. The little I had in common with this one girl dwindled to zilch as we sat side by side at a sports bar during a recent Red Sox-Yankees series. While I daydreamed of my impending fame, she waxed poetic about how ugly she thinks A-Rod is, and how much Derek Jeter sucks. I soon became an obstacle between her and the fan seated beside me, as the two exchanged brilliant commentary on why the Sox play worse in their green uniforms. Finally I just got up and left, saying that I had better things to do than watch fat men swing sticks all night.

When I asked friends about the havoc baseball has wreaked on their relationships, my suffering seemed tame in comparison. Break-ups. Sexual activity determined by a game's outcome. Game behavior used to illustrate larger character flaws. Forced separation during rivalries.

Some of my other friends just flat-out refuse to date sports fans.

"If you must wear a baseball hat often, or you must wear it and it bears your beloved team logo on it, please do not contact me," one friend says of her dating philosophy. "Ew, sports fans - gross!"

My die-hard-Yankees-fan friend recently married an equally passionate Sox fan. What does he do during games that most annoys her? "He claps," she says. "It's not like he does it intentionally, but that just annoys the *** out of me." Now the two watch the games in separate rooms and keep a safe distance during playoff season, which will be interesting this year "because I'll be nine months pregnant," she explains. They've decided to split the child in half and raise its parts to root against each other.

Other friends have lost bets to their lovers, winding up with their faces painted with the mascot of the opposing team.

"I'm still hot about it," says the losing lady. "And not hot in a good way."

So this leaves me to wonder: wouldn't our relationships be much healthier without the competitive element of sports? Think about it. In a span of nine innings, you can judge the following about your partner: how he/she acts in public; his/her reaction to loss and disappointment; whether or not he/she demeans you when you don't know something; how he/she deals with adversaries who have pummeled us into the ground for decades; group behavior; how he/she holds his/her liquor; and perhaps the most important: meat-eating etiquette.

"My sweet boyfriend rapidly transformed into a sort of drunken gorilla frequently making guttural noises," one friend says of her boyfriend's game behavior. "I do not eat meat and am normally not grossed out by others eating meat, but watching [him] consume five Fenway Franks and six beers disgusted me."

After hearing many more nightmarish tales, I was surprised to discover that some television producers actually consider the ballpark a dream spot for a love connection. And they're currently casting for a new reality dating show called Sox Appeal, to be set in Fenway Park.

"The idea of combining dating and the Red Sox at Fenway - you're combining three things that everybody loves," says Eric Korsh, the show's executive producer.

Personally, I see sports combining aggression, booze, and the wave - three things of which I'm perfectly happy to have less of in my relationships. For those who see sports as being just like any other interest a couple can share, I strongly disagree. I highly doubt your shared love of classical music is going to end with a late-night brawl that has you fending off some drunken flutist. "Dude, just put down the wind instrument. We're leaving. I said we're leaving!"

Sox Appeal will be structured around one "hero" who'll have a date every two innings until selecting one person during the seventh-inning stretch, Korsh explains. Casting calls have drawn such a diverse audience - though, surprisingly, 75 percent female - that the producers plan to have both a "Silver Fox" episode, with people into the mid-70s age range, and a "Brady Bunch" episode for contestants with children from a previous marriage.

"It's a romantic comedy in a really great venue," says Korsh.

Or, based on my research, it's a televised tragedy.

So what's the solution? Should sports fans not be in relationships with one another? Is your relationship doomed if you're in love with a rival? Maybe not doomed, but certainly stressed beyond necessary levels. And if we relegate sports fans to each another, we non-fans are free of them entirely - but then we'd have an entire population of competitive couples who, even when happy, turn into a bunch of car-tipping lunatics.

I think the solution is a simple one: less baseball. Just think what you could do to improve yourself if you weren't slumped in front of a television for all those innings. In the course of one baseball game, you could learn simple Spanish. With the money you just spent on those tickets, you could probably fly to Barcelona to practice. You might even improve your communication skills beyond simple statements like "Jeee-ter! Jeee-ter! YOU SUCK!"

Personally, there are tons of things I'd rather be doing with my life than watching baseball - like what many of you are probably telling me to do right now. So I'm going to go *** myself. Battery up! @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who should be the *** contestant on Sox Appeal. The producers can contact her at jeannieg@comcast.net. For more information about the show, visit www.sox-appeal.com.