Being a Guys’ Girl is great in your twenties—you can go to bars with men and feel safe. Plus, your pals usually have a hot friend or two, so you can make a move or try to set your girlfriend up. Once in a while you also forge a bond with men that actually transcends sex. Recently, I took one of my best friends, Mark, on the road with me. I had to change in a hotel room for a gig, so we went upstairs, and he watched TV while I changed in the bathroom. It occurred to me that the only time men and women are in a hotel room together platonically is when they’ve haphazardly botched a kidnapping or bank robbery and have to form a strategy. Unless of course you have a history of being a Guys’ Girl.
I can definitively tell you, though, that being a Guys’ Girl isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, especially as you get older. In your thirties, do you really want to be the only girl surrounded by drunk sweaty dudes at a Super Bowl party talking about all the chicks they banged but didn’t care about? Do you want to be the girl your guy friends only opt to hang out with when they’re between relationships? Do you want to be bloated from two decades of chugging beer and find yourself with absolutely zero women to relate to because while you were out high-fiving bros and eating hot wings, the other girls were forming lifelong bonds with each other thanks to ClassPass?
I spent my twenties competing in a mostly male environment, working alone on the road. I had missed baby showers, weddings, and kids’ birthday parties, and now, rounding my thirties, I found myself coming up short in the female-friends department. I still had my best childhood girlfriend, Michelle, who lived in Texas, and my best friend in Los Angeles, Jodi, but I wasn’t drowning in brunch buddies. I needed a core group. All women need other women in their lives. I was finally seeing women for what they were: gorgeous treasure troves of shared experiences, knowledge, and understanding. I was getting lonely onstage, talking about the girl experience but not living enough of it.
When I was about twenty-nine, I remember getting dressed for an important meeting, and I froze because I had no clue what to wear. I FaceTimed a girlfriend in New York to consult, but no answer. I scrolled through my phone: Mark, Steve, Marc, Josh, Mark K., Chris, Mark P., James. One thing was clear: I knew too many guys named Mark. Another thing? I didn’t have enough women friends! All my life I had been a Guys’ Girl by default, and now I found myself with very few women to talk to about real grown-woman shit like:
• Why having a sugar daddy makes sense and doesn’t necessarily make you a bad person.
• What it’s like to have vaginal tearing.
• Being hopelessly in love with a man who will never love you back.
• How to treat hemorrhoids.
• Where did this hair come from?
• Why can’t you stop pooping when you’re on your period?
• What it’s like to meet the man of your dreams but still be in love with an ex you despise.
• Why it’s unfair that we got educations and took care of ourselves, and now there’s absolutely no quality men left to date.
• Why am I starting to hate everyone?
• Seriously, why is there a hair on my nipple!?
• Is it bad to fuck a guy who rides a skateboard?
The fact is, Girl Logic starts to shift gears as you grow into an actual adult. In your thirties you become more selfish, in a good way. You begin to put yourself first, whether it’s being upfront about wanting a relationship, craving more alone time, or needing to sleep all day. You gain a sage new perspective, and you can look at twenty-three-year-olds freezing outside a club in heels and minidresses and think, “God, I remember doing that, and I’m so glad I’m not doing it now.” Also, if you don’t know the owner of the club by the time you hit your thirties, then you’re doing something wrong.
In your thirties most relationships take a serious turn (even if it’s, uh, a wrong turn), and all your guy friends pair off and start getting married—even the gross ones you wrote off as incapable of holding down a legit relationship. All of a sudden your best guy friend is dating a graphic designer who isn’t all that bad looking, and they’re flying to meet her family in the Bay Area over the holidays, leaving you alone on your couch on Christmas Eve, thinking, “How is this happening?” Yup, one by one, all your closest guy friends start to move on and pair off.
For all these reasons I’ve grown out of my all-dudes-all-the-time days. Over the past few years, I’ve made a concerted effort to make more girlfriends. These days, I want someone to get a pedicure with. A friend who will watch me try on five black shirts in a row and give me her uncensored opinion about the minute differences of each one. A friend to bemoan about the awkwardness of sex—“OMG, WHY was he moving his hips in a circle?” Someone to listen while I insist that I’m “totally over Derek” as I proceed to gush about him for thirty minutes straight.
This is part of why women are important to each other—because we all share Girl Logic, and a beautiful arrhythmic heart, and topsy-turvy emotional brains that tell us we need to have it all. We should be drowning in guy friends and girlfriends, and have a fulfilling career, and a hot boyfriend, and ALL THE THINGS. But in reality? Most of the time we’re just pining to talk to another female who gets us… and who also hates everything.
4
Sex: A Comprehensive Guide—JK, but I Did Write a Lot
When it comes to sex and dating, Girl Logic can get a little messier—and more messed up—than in other areas of life. Sex is particularly fraught for us because Girl Logic causes us to constantly question our bodies, our impulses, and what we really, truly want.
A lot of times, I really just want to sleep. Sometimes I want to make out. Occasionally I will have moments like “OH MY GOD I JUST WANNA FUCK,” but then I spend so much energy examining the what-ifs that it leaves me exhausted and I end up aborting the mission. That’s all Girl Logic, the detailed surveying of every emotion as it passes through. But next time you’re in the moment, ask yourself: Do you actually want to FUCK, or is that just because everything you see on TV suggests sex should be aggressive and primal instead of slow and awkward, the way it is in real life? You’re supposed to want to wear Agent Provocateur lingerie and be “made love to” on a kitchen counter, but in reality marble is cold, that underwear is expensive, and orgasms can happen on a bed with your sweatshirt on. (I have them all the time, both alone and with my fiancé.)
Part of the problem is that what we think we want—especially when we’re young—and what we actually want are not the same. GL is the voice of insecurity when we’re in our twenties, that battle of “I’m drunk and I want to touch someone but what if I do and he rebuffs me? What if I do and he sleeps over and then never calls or texts me again? What if I get hurt? Can I just be sassy and not care?” GL causes us to think we want to act like dudes and casually sleep around, but, oops, that whole oxytocin thing kicks in like gas on a fire, spurring crying-in-the-shower and spontaneous-new-haircut behavior.
A lie our Girl Logic likes to tell us when we’re younger is that if we just fuck him, things will go more smoothly and he’ll like us more. The thing your GL didn’t tell you is that no one has ever said, “He wasn’t into me, then he broke down and had sex with me and fell in love with me.” Nope, it’s usually, “He wasn’t into me, we fucked, and he still wasn’t into me… but I was even more into him.” OR, “He wasn’t into me, we had sex, and he was terrible and now I’m not into him.” OR, “He wasn’t into me, we fucked, I got pregnant, now he’s a father to my child and he barely tolerates me.” OR, “He wasn’t into me, we fucked, I got pregnant, and he quickly found a new girlfriend, dumped me, and now I’m an angry single mom and the villain in all his life drama.”
Wanna know why dating is so hard for women, though? Because we aren’t men. We don’t think like them, we don’t date like them, and we don’t communicate like them. Fortunately, by the time you’re older and more experienced (and are properly exhausted after years of worrying about what you look like, what others think), you eventually realize wh
at really matters and what doesn’t; you start caring less about what other people think. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty of stumbling blocks for every woman, of any age, when it comes to sex.
If you find sex frustrating—no matter your age—you aren’t alone, you aren’t weird, and you aren’t doing it wrong. Getting off is easier for guys, no secret there. The secret is that women don’t get off, oftentimes, because sex is just more personal for us. After all, we’re the ones hosting a stranger INSIDE our bodies. It takes tons of time and dedication to know what you want sexually, and it takes the right guy—maybe not the love of your life but the guy who will put some work in and actually wants you to get off. Point is, you won’t know you aren’t having good sex until you have good sex.
Good sex may be hard to come by, but women shouldn’t be ashamed of their desires or their mistakes as they strive for it. Shitty sex and heartbreak are relatable; everyone’s been there. And choosing to hook up with strangers does not make you bad, nasty, or “slutty.” (Whatever, church ladies still use that word, right?) In fact, I encourage women to have as many partners as they want so they’ll figure out what they like. But there’s the rub (yeah, rub it good): when you’re young, it’s rare to know what you want sexually, and it’s often in hindsight that you can see you might have slept with someone for the wrong reasons.
To find a partner who actually cares if you get off is a beautiful thing. Women are taught to consider their orgasm as a secondary priority, after the guy’s. And sometimes, when ours is elusive, we just roll over and say, “Whatever, I’m fine.” I’m thirtysomething and I still do that! “You got off? Great, get me a towel and bring me a Snapple. I wanna watch House Hunters.”
Now plenty of women will read that and think, “Oh hell no, I am not fine until I get mine!” But I doubt you were always so empowered. When you’re younger, your Girl Logic leads you to believe that you’re pretty much solely there to be sexy for the guy.
Of course you want to enjoy sex, too, if you can manage it—but you’re also aware that if your own orgasm is not incredibly likely to happen, you don’t want to bore him by making him go down on you, right? Or you’re afraid of what he’ll think of your vagina, or you don’t want to take too long?
You can’t blame young women for being self-conscious about their bodies. Dear God—if you take a minute to bask in the sophomoric treasure trove that is Instagram, you’ll see all kinds of garbage women-shaming posts like, “If her pussy be lookin like a tired roast beef sandwich.…” And then all the douchebag idiot followers adorn the comments section with “crying laughing” emojis, like any of them would turn down any kind of vagina, EVER.
Male genitalia has become synonymous with fun, strength, and power. But how is it we’re meant to ignore people’s lack of decency, grammar, and overall comprehension of labia, but we’re supposed to be chill about how 100 percent disgusting ball sacks are? Not only that, but we’re supposed to accept the use of “balls” in everyday conversation (balls to the wall, balls out, suck my balls, have huge balls), the implication being that these nasty hanging alien brains are somehow synonymous with a fun, bold party time? BALLS TO THE WALL! Fucking gross, dudes. And so easy to make fun of. (I admit I’ve been known to occasionally scream, “SUCK MY DICK!” But no one gets called a pussy unless he’s a sad coward.)
Anyway, the younger you are, the more likely you are to let adolescent commentary seep into your brain and allow absolute idiots who have probably never seen a woman naked to make you feel insecure about your own body. And while it’s trying to ultimately steer you toward good shit, Girl Logic is not always your friend here. Women’s sexuality is such a vulnerable thing, even something as simple as one insensitive comment can scar you for life. When I was in my early twenties, I had a boyfriend who loved me… but told me my vagina was too big. His penis was average and so was my vagina, but he made this diagnosis and substantiated it with “it’s not your fault, it’s probably from playing sports.” Apparently playing JV outfield can really come back to haunt you. The insanity and inaccuracy of his statement didn’t matter. The idea stuck with me, and his insecurity about his penis gave way to my insecurity about my normal vagina.
Honestly, enjoying sex is a bipartisan effort. I have been in serious relationships where I was rarely getting off but the guy claimed to adore me. You have a responsibility to stand up for yourself sexually and let the dude know: “You gotta spend twenty minutes down there. Bring a flashlight, pack a lunch.” You have to know that your pleasure (I hate that word) is just as important, if not more so, than his. Because when the only sex you have is bad, you start convincing yourself it’s good sex. And then you keep spreading around terrible sexual experiences until someone takes the time to teach you better. I remember almost freaking out when, at thirty-two, I had sex with a thirty-six-year-old man whose kisses were so wet I needed a spit bucket. I had to take a break halfway through and go to the bathroom so I could wring out my face and hair, and abstain from murdering him while naked. All I could think was, “Who’s the bitch who let him get away with kissing like this?”
I’m a comedian, so of course I have to talk about sex. It’s the lowest common denominator for relating to people because everyone has a relationship to sex, even if they’re not having it. Laughing about sex comes easy; it’s almost innate. But being crass about sex feels sophomoric; doesn’t sitting around chortling about lube mishaps instantly remind you of depressing, Bud Light–drenched college parties where the girls all peal about how rough they like it and the guys brag about their impressive five inches of fury? I don’t even know if I got off during college. But if you asked me back then, I would have told you I loved sex—whatever sex I thought I was having.
Speaking of which, I remember telling my freshman-year boyfriend, Alex, that I wanted to have “rapper sex.”
“What are you talking about?” he laughed, rolling down the window of his black Pontiac in front of his frat house. The problem was that I didn’t know what I was talking about. I was eighteen, and I knew almost nothing about anything, despite the fact that I was managing to have tons of sex with Alex (who, in retrospect, had a really small penis. Sorry, dude, you’re a psychopath and your dick was subpar. MAN, THAT FELT GOOD!).
I’m Jewish, though, which means I’ve been listening to hip hop since I was eleven, and rappers make sex sound like an ice cream sundae and a Carnival Cruise rolled into one. In my fantasies, there was just enough masculine heat to keep things interesting, as well as champagne fizzing on naked bodies, and massage oil, and hot tubs, and everyone was getting off all over the place without the need for a vibrator or real-time fantasizing about someone else, like that kid in my psychology class… who I wasn’t having sex with but we were like, kissing and stuff, all while rationalizing that I wasn’t cheating on Alex, the psycho. God, I was awesome. I mean, dumb. I was dumb.
This was all bound to remain my little fantasy, though, because massage oil is nasty in the bedroom AND because no one in college has a clue what actual sex is actually like. Women just don’t get off at the slightest touch of a man—the second he grabs your boob or puts his hand on your thigh. Nope. For most women, having an orgasm is going to take a little (meaning: approximately thirty minutes, give or take) time and effort and a lot of check-ins: “Are you bored? Is it gross? Tell me if you’re tired.” That effort is obviously worth it—don’t give up, my young friends. And for the love of God, please don’t fake it! FAKING AN ORGASM IS LIKE CHEATING ON A TEST. Sure, in the moment you get an A and look good, but if you don’t actually possess the knowledge you’re being tested on, you’ll just fail miserably when a bigger, more comprehensive exam comes along.
And don’t think orgasm-faking isn’t GL-related; it totally is. GL can go into hyperdrive during sex, telling you to do more, feel more, look sexier, come faster—all in a passive-aggressive attempt to make the dude think you’re irresistible enough to fall in love with, thereby ultimately fulfilling your GL-fueled fantasy of pe
rfect forever love and validation. The thing is, faking orgasms is lying to yourself as much as it’s lying to him. Not to mention, next time the dude’s gonna think, “Wow, she really liked it when I called her ‘baby boo’ and clacked my teeth against hers while we were making out! I’ll do it again. And again. And again.” He never learns what you like, and it’s an orgasmless vicious cycle that ends with… wait, it doesn’t end, it’s a cycle. What a nightmare.
Something that tends to change for women moving from their twenties into their thirties, though, is our definition of “promiscuity.” From eighteen to twenty-two, you’re probably in college, and, although you are meeting new people, you are still in an enclosed environment and moving in a group. Groups have gossip. Groups have history. Your business is everyone’s business. You are all navigating your new social playground together, and you haven’t shed the habit of gossiping intimately about each other’s lives. Girls get called sluts because too many people know too many stories about them. Guys get called “players” for the same reason. But the older you get, the more you take charge of your own life, and the fewer opportunities people have to judge you because they don’t know what you do on the weekends. They’re busy with their own lives.
So, with any luck, by your thirties you’ve outgrown this groupthink mentality of labeling people for their sexual habits. You just might be having sex more and caring less. Plus, you’ve spent the past decade figuring things out, dating and fucking and being judged and learning. Your Girl Logic has naturally evolved and changed with you, and now it’s less concerned with your friends’ sexual pastimes—or fulfilling some idiot’s fantasy in bed (“oh my God, please wear a red lace nightie”)—and more concerned with making your own dreams into a reality (whether that’s fucking a quarterback, falling in love again, dating a twenty-two-year-old, testing every single one of America’s top-selling vibrators, or getting thyself to a nunnery).
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