Men love their lovers more in relation to others in their life. Several researchers at Yale University polled male and female participants from age 18 to 70 and asked, "Who do you like, and who do you love, most in your life?5"2 The choices were lover (or spouse), best friend, parents, and siblings.
Men, it turned out, lovedandliked their lovers more than their best friends, whereas, with women, the rankings were about equal. Many women liked their best friends more than they liked their lovers!
Gentlemen, the next time your lover complains, "You men are so unromantic," just show her these statistics and say, "Yeah, who says? Huh, huh,huh?" (On second thought, just say, "You know, dear, you have a good point. I'm sorry. I'll try to be more romant ic. I love you.")
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Individual as a Thumbprint
Hunters, huntresses, let me slap a discreet warning label on my previous recommendation of watching porn flicks. You might get the idea that every man wants a wanton woman slithering all
over his body and every woman wants to be swept away and seduced by a handsome stranger on Tahiti's shores. Not true. As with so many aspects of life, just when you think you've got the solution, you find the exception. When it comes to sex, the exception is more common than the rule.
Notwopeoplearealikesexually .
I learned this the hard way, the first time I fell in love, even before The Project's research confirmed the tremendous diversity in sexual desires. Some years ago, I was visiting an art gallery in Chicago.
Christopher also happened to be visiting the Windy City that day, installing a show of his own art. I first spotted him across the room, hanging a curious abstract canvas on the wall. I was instantly attracted to him. Everything about him fit my Lovemap. He was artistic, sensitive, and brilliant, and he had lovely, lovely buns.
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We met, we hit it off, and fortunately he was from New York, too. We started dating back in the Big Apple. It wasn't long before I fell in love with Christopher. Of course, I wanted to do everything I could to make him return the sentiment. My relationship with Christopher was almost ideal. We enjoyed the same activities. We liked the same friends. We both loved going to the theater, skiing, and cycling. Sometimes we would stay awake all night talking. I felt Christopher wtahse one . As time went by, we fell into a wonderful love affair.
Christopher never said, "I love you," but since everything else about our relationship was ideal, I figured our problem must have been the sex.
Christopher never lost himself in the throes of passion. He didn't go wild in bed the way I'd read a man should when a woman really knew how to turn him on.
Our sexual scenario was always the same. After dinner, usually at his apartment, we would be talking.
At some point in our conversation, Christopher would get a cute little grin on his face, put his hand on my shoulder, slide it down my arm to my hand, and stand up. Sometimes he'd wink and say, "C'mon, little girl." Then he would lead me tentatively into the bedroom. He acted as though he had to proceed gently, cautiously with the seduction. (As if I'd say no?)
Christopher's lovemaking was warm and loving, but also predictable and lacking passion. I figured that would change if I just knew how to push his buttons.
I decided I needed to spice things up to make him fall in love with me, but I didn't know exactly how.
One afternoon, while pondering this dilemma, my eyes happened to fall on an ad in thVeillage Voicefor a three-hour course called "How to Strip for Your Man." It promised to "put some spice in your relationship and drive your man wild." Just what the love doctor ordered, I thought.
I donned my sexiest underwear and hopped the A train to a stripper's sixth-floor walk-up apartment in a cheesy suburb. That evening, in her one-room flat, four other women and I learned how to
swivel out of our skirts, provocatively let them drop to the floor, and then step seductively out of them.
We got step-by-step lessons on how to slide our bra straps down
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teasingly, flash first our left breast and then our right, and fling the discarded bra across the room as we gyrated our hips. She taught the more agile among us to stretch out on the floor and teasingly whirl our legs around in the air.
At the end of the class, our teacher went into her back-of-the-room sales pitch. Optional purchases were a cassette of stripper's music and a set of tassels.
The tassels twirled amazingly well on the more well-endowed students; unfortunately my equipment was not sufficient to get one good spin out of them. However, I bought both products and, with strains of "The Stripper" dancing in my head, took the train straight to Christopher's apartment.
I couldn't wait for his cute little grin, because that was going to be my cue. Sure enough, about 10:45, the corners of his lips went up. "C'mon, little girl," he said as he took my hand and we started toward the bedroom. But tonight was different. Tonight, I had a surprise for Christopher.
The moment we entered his bedroom, I pushed my astonished lover into a chair, slipped the cassette into his stereo, and leaped promptly into my routine. A little fancy footwork around his
dresser. One, two, three. Va-va-voom. Peekaboo, one breast. Four, five, six. Va-va-voom. Peekaboo, the other breast. Then my bra went careening cup over cup across the bedroom, making a perfect two-point landing right on his lap.
But my stripping coach had neglected one critical performance skill: It is crucial to keep constant eye contact with your audience to know how you're doing.
As I was writhing around on Christopher's carpet, twirling my legs dangerously near his favorite lamp, I neglected to look at his face. If I had, I would have seen a horrified expression.
Christopher calmly stood up
