Next Superhero Blow-Up Doll Boyfriends goes live next week, till then you can check out
Ep. 1 Bad Date TV – Blow-Up Doll Boyfriends, Dogs and Dan the Drunk Guy here

Click here to take the sex survey

Dear Sasha,
This is a very personal matter–but no matter how excited I get with a girl (I’m 24), I can only stay hard for about 15 minutes. It has made me not even want to date, what should I do?

Sincerely,
My private parts

Dear Mr. Private,
I don’t know who implanted men with this fallacy that sex needs to go all night long—though I assume Lionel Richie is to blame—but 15 minutes sounds right about perfect for me…just as long as there’s a round two.

The truth is, excitement is exciting for everyone. Think about it; when you make a girl moan, it makes you way hotter, right? If a girl knows you can barely keep it together because she’s so irresistible to you, she’s going to be flattered and turned on.

Still, learning to maintain your composure is something you should do and it will get easier as you get older.
First off, are you using condoms? Usually that barrier of latex creates a dullness that allows men to perform longer.

Second, slow your breathing and pretend you’re Sting. Tantric sex is all about slow, steady and sensual, which women prefer anyway. When you think you’re getting close to climax, slow down—or even pull out—take a few breaths and then get back into it.

And finally, and this is the most important lesson of all, get really good at going down on a girl.

No, I’m not kidding.

Since it obviously doesn’t take much to bring you to the finish line, do the same for your lady and ensure everyone is having a grand ol’ time.
Forget all that spell-the-alphabet-with-your-tongue stuff. Every girl is different and you have to address her needs. The sexiest thing you can say in bed is, “Tell me what you like.” Make that your go-to phrase and you’ll be just fine.

-Sasha

*Feel free to email us with any dating, relationship, love and sex questions you may have for Sasha.

Dear Sasha,
I think that I’m a sex addict. I don’t seem to be able to stay loyal in a relationship. Every woman I have ever dated I have cheated on multiple times, and I constantly think about sex. The woman I’m currently dating could be someone that I would like to build a life together, however I have already cheated and I’m afraid that I’ll do it again.

Sincerely,
Perplexed by my sexual appetite

Dear Perplexed-
This is a tough one for me. Constantly thinking about sex and wanting to act on your urges just means you’re a man, but the wandering eye is troubling. To be totally candid, I have never been faithful in a relationship either and it’s something that really worries me. I can’t speak to the nature of your desire, but I can tell you that for me, the reason I cheated was two-fold:

First, I was young and stupid, not thinking about how hurt my boyfriends would have been if they discovered I was stepping out on them. Second, I wasn’t getting what I really wanted in my relationships—be it love, affection, support, intellectual stimulation—so I sought it elsewhere.

As I’ve gotten older, I realized just how destructive my behavior was and it scared the hell out of me. I haven’t been in a serious relationship in several years and sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to be with just one man. I want to believe yes, but you never know until the moment arises. That doesn’t make me a sex addict, it just makes me human. In recent years, the question of the viability of monogamy has been roundly raised and, for the first time, people started to admit that perhaps it wasn’t the most natural urge to follow.

Here’s what I’ve come to believe; being with one person isn’t natural, it’s a choice, a really difficult, demanding choice that you have to make every minute of every day, the same way an alcoholic takes it one day at a time.

You might not be ready for monogamy and, if that’s the case, you have to be honest with yourself and your girlfriend. Having already cheated on her, the sad truth is your relationship is doomed. Once you tell her, she won’t be able to trust you, and if you don’t tell her, she shouldn’t anyway.

Give yourself some time and some space to be single and decide if being in a committed relationship is right for you and, if it is, that you’re prepared to be in it 100%.

-Sasha

*Feel free to email us with any dating, relationship, love and sex questions you may have for Sasha.

By Jennifer Kelton

Let’s get straight down to the hard and fast (yes, the sexual innuendo is intended) bottom line—none of us would be here if not for sex and it’s genetic, primal, and uncontrollable driving force.

Sex is the motivation and behind many great movies, raunchy porn, music, and art.

Sex has created multi-billion-dollar business empires like Video Exclusives and Girls Gone Wild, not to mention the glossy and not-so-pin-up-girl pages of Playboy and Hustler magazines.

Words such as sexting, smushing (via the term originally from MTV’s Jersey Shore, meaning to have sex; see smush), and hooking up are as commonplace in 2011 as the word for one of the oldest professions on the planet: prostitution.

But even with the newest verbiage, it all boils down to the one primitive word—SEX—and I’ve had plenty of it!

During my 20s and 30s, while I was working in fashion and music and living a very Rock n’ Roll lifestyle, my overactive and carefree sexual life led me to a great number of “sex-for-the-sake-of-sex” encounters. I’m not thinking of just one or two occasions but, in all honesty, many more than I could count on two hands or actively recount the dirty details of now.

Yes, it felt good in the moment, with all those female DNA-hardwired bonding chemicals rushing to my brain and body. And it felt good in those moments of afterglow, naked on a kitchen counter or in the bathroom stall of a smoky nightclub. But I can say that 60 percent of the time these experiences actually made me feel pretty gosh-darn sexually empty, lonely, and worried about STDs.

What’s most interesting to me now, looking back some 20 years later without seeing through beer goggles or the lens of carefree sexual experimentation, is that despite the heated passion of those moments, I can only remember a very small number of the men—both for good and bad reasons.

Now that I’m in my 40s, I still am presented with plenty of steamy, random sex-for-the-sake-of-sex situations that, in the end, may or may not get my and/or his rocks off, especially when I’m traveling.

This just happened last week. After a few beers, he was looking hotter and hotter. I even had visions of what he may look like naked, wondered whether he was a good kisser, and whether he “trimmed.” I was in a Colorado mountain town, after all. But when he texted me after our first encounter, I bypassed seeing him, along with any naked sex-for-the-sake-of-sex bodily action.

Sex feels good—so it’s not that I was not tempted by an inviting booty-call text! However, knowing my own personal sex-for-the-sake-of-sex odds, I realized something after looking at the text. With my busy, happy, and fulfilled life, I don’t have any need or desire to potentially feel lonely or empty just for the sake of sex.

What do you think, does sex-just-for-the-sake-of-sex ever make you feel lonely or empty?

Dear Sasha,
I have herpes that I got from my very first long-term boyfriend. I’m now seeing someone new since we broke-up last year. How long should I wait to tell him – we have not had sex yet?

Sincerely,
Herpes Tell All

Dear Gift That Keeps on Giving-

I once had a friend who had herpes and was very ashamed of it. Unsure how to handle the subject, she decided the best way to let her partners know would be to wait until they were both naked, hot and bothered, and rarin’ to go before breaking down in tears and blurting out, “I have herpes, we have to use a condom!”

Needless to say, it always went over like a fart in church.

There has long been a great stigma attached to herpes, especially when women are the carriers, because people like to believe it means you’re “dirty,” a “slut” or you’ve “gotten around.”

The truth is; one in five people over the age of 12 have herpes and no one wants to talk about it, but I’m afraid you have to. Unlike HIV or syphilis, herpes can be spread merely through skin-on-skin contact even before an outbreak produces acute symptoms and you certainly don’t want to get into a conversation that begins, Him: “Hey, what’s that uncomfortable new thing on my penis?” You: “Uhhhhhh.”

A recent study found out of 200 people with herpes, those who revealed their diagnosis were able to keep their partners free of the disease for about nine months on average, compared to the two months it took when it was kept a secret.

Couples who spoke openly, agree to use condoms, hold off on sex during flare-ups, avoid skin-to-skin contact around the affected area, as well as some who took prescription drugs to relieve and lessen symptoms, had far greater chances of success when it came to keeping the relationship transmission free, which also led to happier, longer lasting couplings.

It’s scary and awkward, but your only option is to be honest and upfront, the sooner the better.

Good luck!
-Sasha

*Feel free to email us with any dating, relationship, love and sex questions you may have for Sasha.

By Dani Katz

I may have been a freshman, but I wasn’t naïve enough to think that the gorgeous star of our Division 1 NCAA Championship basketball team wasn’t screwing other girls. But, beyond comparing cleavage, waistlines, bone structure and fashion sense, I hadn’t given it much thought.

Until, the itching, that is.

It intensified over a week or so, until finally, I locked the bathroom door, dropped trou and folded myself in half, determined to see just what the hell was causing such a sensational ruckus down there.

And then I saw it – them – EWWWWWWWW!!!!!! An entire eco-system of tiny, insects had made themselves at home in my panties, and it took everything I had not to freak the fuck out.

I knew what they were because we’d just learned about pubic lice, aka: crabs, in my Human Sexuality class, the very same one in which I met the freakishly tall lothario who gave them to me. Still, I knew I needed a prescription, and I wondered what other sort of disgusting viral entities he’d gifted me, so I asked my roommate to drive me to the ER, and because I was quivering and teary-eyed, and she was rad anyway, she did.

“Yup, it’s crabs,” announced the ER doctor, peering at my pubes beneath the world’s brightest spotlight, while surrounded by half a dozen interns peering at the spectacle that was my infested girl parts.

“See how they hang on to multiple follicles at once?” asked the doctor, parting my forest with a pen, giving the herd of curious med students a better glimpse of the bugs populating my pussy.

Drowning in shame, feeling slutty and dirty and cheap and tainted, I got dressed, paid the bill, filled the emergency prescription for anti-crab shampoo, dropped the glass bottle on my toe in the shower and watched all sixty-bucks worth run down the drain. That was it; I’d hit my limit. I collapsed under a stream of scalding hot water in a pool of my own blood, and burst into inconsolable tears.

After I shaved off the entirety of my insect-vile pubes, I went about washing the sheets and the towels and every stitch of clothing I owned, and it still took another year before I started to feel clean.

I didn’t blame him or hold it against him because I was young and green and figured everything was always my fault, even though I hadn’t been with anyone else and I knew that he’d been with just about everyone else. I guess part of me knew how icky it was, and just felt bad for both of us, for all of us, who had to deal with the shame and the yuck and the inconvenience and the expense. It was a gentle lesson, as far as STDs go, and I consider myself lucky.

Over the years, a few people have asked how I got that scar across my toe.

“Crabs,” I say.

By Jillian Weingart

He was holding my hand gently as we walked up to my front door. I turned to face him expecting to receive a hug or a simple good bye. Before I knew it, he thrust me up against the door and we were engaged in a make-out session so intense that it could make a porn star blush.

This guy had come into my bar earlier that day for lunch. Him and a friend were taking the train to see some sports game. However, this young gentleman had such a nice time, that he decided to skip the game and hang out with me until I got off of work so that he could buy me a drink. Romantic, right?

I pulled away from our kissing fest and gave him one last smooch on the cheek, wishing him goodnight.

“Good night, Jillian” he said with a smile.

I looked longingly at my beau, checking my drunk memory for the name to match the face. Hmmm. Not a single name came to mind, and I rushed into my apartment to avoid potential embarrassment.

Bartenders don’t get to see this “forgetting” stage very often. We are the people that get you to forget. The OBVIOUS solution is to just ask. But, for some reason, humans find this embarrassing. There is a stigma that comes with making out without asking someone’s name. “Thank you for searching the back of my mouth for treasure. Now please identify yourself.”

But what do you do, in the parlance of my profession, when you’re in the middle of mixing a cocktail and can’t remember what’s inside your mixer?

Like the dude from Memento, I had to piece together the clues without help from my memory. Asking Bartendress Jane who served us the night before would be the best option, but she wasn’t working again for a few days and I needed the answer immediately. Looking at the credit card reports might yield some answers, but I couldn’t easily match drink totals to his name. And unless his name happens to be “Cute Guy at Bar,” the name I put in my phone wasn’t helpful.

Well, that was that, I ruined another potentially awesome relationship. I really liked this guy, too, and we could have had a great relationship; eventually it probably would have turned serious. We could have made a happy couple, walking our matching Bedlington Terriers through Santa Monica on the way to picking up our lovely twins Oliver and Olive from the Montessori school. If only.

Right at that moment, he sent me a text. “Hi.” My mind started to race. How could I trick him into telling me his name without revealing that I hadn’t caught it in the first place? I took a shot:

“I totally think you went to school with my friend. What’s your last name?”

He was on to me.

“Why?” He texted back, “I told you last night.”

Well, hell. I felt my face get red. How embarrassing was this going to be? Before I could respond to him, I felt my phone buzz. I looked down at my phone and read this:

“Look, I really like you. All you have to do is ask what my name is. And it’s Trent. It’s nice to meet you ☺”

So what is the etiquette for this socially awkward dilemma? For people who like to hook up with a stranger and could care less about names, just leave in the morning. For people who want to see their mystery man or woman again, just ask. It might make you feel like the rapture is coming and you just got left behind, but in the end you will have a cute story for your grandchildren. And also, you won’t have to bug your favorite bartender about it. She can now concentrate on making you and your new hubby your favorite martini.

By Dani Katz

Infinitely better for them, I’d like to think.

I’d been crushing on an Austrian Occultist with upward slanting kitty cat eyes and a veritable gallery’s worth of sacred geometry inked on his arms for months, to no avail. While we shared a heady, geeky passion for Tarot, Nirvana and sacred plant medicine, he continued to eschew every opportunity I proffered to tear off my clothes and have his way with me. Still, we shared road trips, and movie nights and plenty of laughs.

I invited my best friend, Jo, along for a three-way lunch date, as I wanted her to finally meet the man who was inspiring so many lengthy conversations wherein she patiently listened as I dissected the minutia of his every word and gesture, and shed some wisdom on our frustratingly platonic dynamic. I introduced them, and watched as the cosmos exploded in fantastical shapes and colors between their sparkling gazes and warm, easy hugs. The chemistry was obvious, and off-the-charts. Still, I hadn’t yet lost my shit, as I was digging on their connection, excited to see I wasn’t so far off in thinking the Occultist was all that, and then some.

When Jo told me he’d called to ask her out, I felt my belly tie itself into a dozen jagged knots. While some shrunken, wounded part of me whined through the motions of jealousy, I was glad she told me, and that she said yes to the date, and that she presented the whole scenario to me so casually, as though I was evolved enough to handle it, which – in that moment, at least – I was.

The next morning, Jo called to share the juicy details. A mild freak-out ensued (mine). I told her I had no interest in hearing about the hot sex she had with my Mystery School crush, and demanded to know how would she like it if I hopped into bed with the music video director she’d been chasing all winter. She quietly listened while I expressed all my petty, co-dependent complaints, and as I spoke aloud the craggy grains of insecurity that had been scraping the edges of my heart and my belly, I felt lighter and better. By the end of my three-minute rant, the charge had worn off

“Okay,” I said, heart beat slowing, breath calming. “I’m ready to hear about your date.”

And, just like that, it was done. Jo dated the Occultist for the next few months, and we all grew closer from having navigated the awkwardness and the oddly angled corners of our relatedness so openly. The Occultist and I spoke freely about it, just as Jo and I had, and it didn’t take long for us to fall into an easy flow, wherein my friends were making love and sharing space and having fun, and I was genuinely happy for them.

Book Excerpt – Don’t Use My Sweater Like a Towel

By Jennifer Kelton

‘What is love?’ Shakespeare mused.The Great bard was not the first to ask. I suspect our ancestors pondered this question a million years ago as they sat around their campfires of lay and watched the stars.
—Helen Fisher,Why We Love

IT WAS ANOTHER picturesque summer night along the Southern California coast. I sat at the bar of the Mercedes Grill, one of my favorite work spots, while listening to freshly downloaded hip-hop on my iPod and reading over a massive stack of notes about the chemical reactions that occur during the various stages of human love. A man sporting a huge, unkempt mustache and tacky, black rayon Hawaiian shirt sat down next to me and asked what I was doing. He was somewhat gruff—certainly no Johnny Depp. But not wanting to be rude, I answered him.

“It’s research for a book I’m writing.This chapter is about how chemicals in the body are released during each stage of lust, attraction and love. Such as dopamine, phenylethylamine, testosterone, and oxytocin.

He cut me off impolitely and said,“Love does not involve chemicals. Testosterone is the only chemical involved with love.” Okay. Whatever you say, mustache guy. I began to explain further, but he cut me off again, resolute that I was incorrect.

His opposition shocked me. In front of me were numerous articles and two books by Helen Fisher, PhD that report- ed otherwise, but this man insisted he was right.There were no ands, ifs or buts as far as he was concerned. Not only was his protest puzzling, his closed-mindedness was uneducated.

It was turning into an argument, so I moved to a stool at the other end of the bar.
Months later, I attended a family wedding; all my nieces and nephews were there. I was bowled over at how much they all had grown since I last saw them. My niece Megan had gone from a kid to a teenager seemingly overnight.

We were sitting around talking when the subject of puberty and hormones came up: cone tits, pubic hair, the works. Listening to what they knew, which was very little, I realized that many of us are still operating with the same information about hormones that we got (or did not get) when we were eleven. I thought of mustache guy, who was no more informed than my eleven-year-old niece, or as I was up until a few months ago.

This is not the stuff you learn in health class. Hopefully after you read this you won’t think love is just about testosterone, but will have a better understanding of how hormones influence our brains and bodies. The next time you have that I-just-can’t-get-you-off-my-mind feeling, you’ll know it’s the chemical network built into your DNA.

The truth is, falling in love is equivalent to being on drugs, and I am talking hard drugs. As Dr. Susan Block says, “Falling in love is a natural high finer and smoother than anything you could inject, smoke, snort, drink or swallow. Of course, love is not something you can pick up at the pharmacy or even on the black market. It strikes you like a mystical gift from god, or a practical joke from tricky, fickle old Hot Mama Nature. Then it stirs up the euphoric, love-juicy chemical goo that permeates your cells, creating a place within you where hormones meet holiness, wildflowers bloom, angels dance, and the city never sleeps.”

Hormones 101 At any given time, hundreds of chemicals course through our bodies and affect our behavior.They control everything from eating and sleeping to laughing and crying. Hormones are chemicals that act as messengers, bringing information to and from cells. Neurotransmitters are chemicals that send electric impulses between the neurons of the brain to other cells in the body.

Androgens and Estrogens are steroid groups found in both genders that act primarily as sex hormones.While men and women produce hormones from both groups, women have higher quantities of estrogens, while men have higher quantities of androgens. Testosterone is a member of the androgen group. It enhances libido, increases energy and buffers the immune system in both men and women. Estradiol, estriol, and estrone are estrogens produced when androgens synthesize with enzymes.These hormones, excreted by the reproductive organs (ovaries in women and testes in men) and the brain, intensify the drive to mate and procreate.

Dopamine is a neurotransmitter often called the pleas- ure/pain chemical. It is closely associated with sexual desire and addiction. Dopamine also affects the brain functions of movement and emotional reaction. Dopamine increases sex drive by boosting the release of testosterone. According to Helen Fisher,“It’s the neurochemical dopamine in particular that allows us to maintain romantic love’s unique, intoxicating properties, even as we tread water in the tranquil sea of long term attachment.”

Norepinephrine is a neurotransmitter that also acts as a stress hormone, affecting attention span and impulsiveness.

Book Excerpt – Don’t Use My Sweater Like a Towel