Today we address a reader question:

Question: I had a question about something I observe every time I'm in NYC and wanted to hear your thoughts on it. For some inexplicable reason, I see a lot of mediocre looking men with absolutely stunning women in Manhattan. Of course, a few of them are escorts, but I'm sure most of them are not. NYC is the only major city where Ive noticed this phenomenon. Everywhere else, the couples are more or less physically "well matched." Am I wrong about this observation, or have you noticed this as well?

Answer: I think youre probably correct in your observation. I wouldnt know since Ive been living in New York too long and have therefore lost sight of any kind of relationship reality. This question made me think of a recent conversation I had over sushi with my father near Columbus Circle. He gravely put down his green tea and pronounced that he had something awful to tell me. I was expecting to hear detrimental news involving something about a hospital visit, instead he just said:

I read an article today about how there is a disproportionally high amount of women over men in New York.

Yes, I added, simultaneously relieved and annoyed, and of those men, a substantial percentage are probably gay.

My dad remained more perturbed than I did. This transitions us to theory one.

Theory One: Slim Pickings. There are a lot more women in NYC then men. Therefore, if a woman gets a non-douchey, heterosexual, unmarried male talking to her in a Manhattan bar, shes probably focusing on the miracle and less concerned with the fact that hes an asshole, overweight or bald.

Theory Two: Escorts. Lots of escorts. Lots of women that arent technically escorts in the scandalous Spitzer sense of the world but in essence, are. Like the ladies I had a run in with at a club the other night.

Theory Three: Baby Models. Sure the lives of Gisele and Heidi are money-heavy and fab, but the reality is that most models trying to make it in New York live with seven roommates, are most likely being exploited with high fees from their agency, rarely booking substantially paying jobs, and have families back home expecting them to send cash. So if a guy comes along offering friendship, financial support, or just a free glass of Rose or a Panini, these ladies will jump on it regardless of whether the guy could star in an Armani Perfume ad with her. This is essentially the same as:

Theory Four: Ridiculously High Cost of Living in Manhattan. Beyond models, many female college grads are making $30,000 a year or even less if they work in the creative industry. Maybe its morally wrong, but accepting a lot of dinner dates with Elmer Fudd look-alikes so you can save money on groceries and therefore afford to pay your electric bill is probably an equation thats calculated more than anyone would like to admit.

Theory Five: Gold diggers. Nuff said. They flock to New York.

In conclusion, Id observe that New York is a city in which the sexes use one another perhaps more effectively than anywhere else in America. Big-honcho guys want attractive women around them when they go to dinners with clients or frequent clubs. In exchange, attractive women get to enjoy moments of luxury their starter jobs would never afford them. In essence, this is why New York couples are perhaps perceived as physically unmatched. Because the match itself has nothing to do with sexual compatibility, physical attraction, love or even sex. Its just about survival.

Ill end with the question: Is physical well matched-ness even that important? Even in cases in which true love is concerned? This is a completely separate issue which warrants its own post at a later date.

A reader recently wrote in that she felt my recent posts were lacking my usual wild abandon. I thoroughly appreciated her insight and in an attempt to redeem myself, figured Id divulge a recent experience below.

Since my emotional state of well-being often resembles the sine graph (for those who you who dont remember what that is or failed high school math, click here for a visual), its not uncommon for me to spend one night in, alone, wallowing in misery and the next sporadically strapping on stiletto boots and singing annoying things to my girlfriends like the Party All The Time song, which FYI is also a highly amusing video.

On this particular night, I was feeling pretty neutral but forced myself out since Id promised my friend Femme that Id help her model / promote these clothes (dont ask) that a designer friend of hers had wanted us to wear out. We were going to Lollipop (which I just wrote a review of here), but getting together at her apartment first to drink and don our outfits.

Ive written before about pheromones and how Im utterly fascinated by them. Technically defined, pheromones are a chemical secreted by an animal that influences the behavior or development of others of the same species, often functioning as an attractant of the opposite sex. Well, my pheromone alert button starting wailing at an emergency level the moment I entered Femmes apartment. This isnt something that happens often. I had to do a 360 scan to visually locate the apparent object of my desire. I looked right, left, then BOOM dead center in front of me beyond Femmes open kitchen, I saw my guy.

Next I was confused because this guy was not my type at all (an article discussing my type available here) but its essentially classy, euro casual, long hair, slightly taller than me but not too tall. The man my pheromones directed me too, while goodlooking, was outrageously tall, non-euro, and sporting a shaved head.

Huh?

Pheromones have a way of bringing people together quickly, so it didnt take long until we were talking and I learned he was from Brasil. Suddenly, this made slightly more sense. I recently caught South America fever and in the past six months have traveled to Uruguay, Argentina, and Brazil. We therefore had a lot to say to each other. We chatted until I was dragged upstairs to change my outfit. My girlfriends stripped, prodded and changed me, warring over whether I should wear this stylish headband that I felt made me look like a pirate.

This headband was so tight that by the time we got to Lollipop, I felt like it was molesting my brain. I took it off so I could focus fully on chatting with the Brazilian the only social activity either of us had been engaged in for the past hour. Now however, wed dangerously entered bottle service land. It was also a Saturday so there was no reason not to consume drinks with bravado. Id been switching between vodka and champagne all night and stared at the Brazilian aghast when he proceeded to pour a flute of Vueve into my mixed vodka drink. As if I wasnt already wasted, now I was drinking vodka flavored champagne.

As I emphasized in my review, Lollipops shoe box level small so its practically impossible not to invade other peoples personal space. So put the equation of pheromones, Saturday night, drinks, and small space together and you get touchy-feely with someone pretty fast. Whats amazing about the Brazilian people is their utter directness in regard to love/sex. Its not uncommon for someone just to look you square in the eye after knowing you ten minutes and proclaim:

I like you.

This often leaves Americans dumbfounded because we feel you should go on a date, hold hands, watch football and attend a barbeque before making blanket statements this bold. Its hard to take a comment like that seriously because the person barely knows you. The flip side is: In all seriousness, dont we form a subconscious opinion on someone in about ten seconds flat? We are animals. Our general instincts about somebody are usually right.

So in Brazilian style, after what must have been at least three hours of get to know you time, he moved for a kiss, which I darted. Im always out seeing people I know and truthfully pretty shy about sexual things, so never engage in the public make out move. I find PDA of all forms annoying so remain super hesitant to engage in it myself (unless of course Im madly in love and accidently flaunting my happinessthat doesnt happen often either.) I did my best to explain this to him and he smiled at me with warm eyes:

Dont worry. I totally understand, he said. Before I could heave a sigh of relief he added, Ill wait for you in the bathroom.

He then disappeared down the stairs while I double-taked.

I responsibly labeled myself incapable of handling the situation so deferred to my ever faithful roommate Tatas, who naturally let out some sort of squeal when I told what just happened.

Go down there! she urged.

I felt pretty uncomfortable because while some may think its not a big deal, its just a kiss, I am one of those people who doesnt kiss lightly. I dont recreationally make out. If I go as far as to kiss you, it means Im all the way in, and would probably be pleased to do many other things together as well. So for me, a kiss is essentially my mental point of no return. Which is why I was quaking in my heels as I crept down the stairs.

His strong arms instantly appeared and swept me into the bathroom. Before I even had a chance to open my mouth, his lips were on mine in a pheromonal frenzy. The best part of this story is that he was wearing / modeling this designers clothing as well, and therefore in dress pants and a dress shirt. Since Im a fan of checking out what youre dealing with ASAP, I began unbuttoning his shirt (I mean, that just seemed like the correct next move when youre in a bathroom making out with a Brazilian.) Then I had my second head spin of the evening when underneath the designer linen I revealed tattoos, nipple piercings, the works. I think I physically took a step backward and made a Time Out hand signal.

I had no words.

The formal attire was just such a shocking contrast to what I found underneath that I felt helplessly confused.

Yeah, he explained, I used to everything pierced. He motioned to his ears and face. These are all thats left cause no one can see them.

I remained dumbfounded and uncomfortable, but finally turned to confront our paused reflections in the bathroom mirror. For some reason it hit me that my mother would utterly disapprove this man without his shirt onand that is perhaps the steamiest, sexiest thought in the universe. So I just grinned glided back toward his mouth, then helping him rebutton before we rejoined our friends upstairs for a long night out.

Who hasnt been there?

The throes of passion. Four in the morning. Youre fantasizing about what a fabulous couple youll make at brunch. Hes fantasizing about his favorite porn and wondering if he can play it on silent without you noticing. Its romance out of a fairy tale. Everything seems perfect, until someone realizes youre missing condoms.

This discovery can put a lot of pleasurable activity to a jerking halt. The good news is guys will do pretty much anything for sex, so usually end up disheveled at Luckys 24-Hour Deli or Duane Reade at dawn, only to return home and find their partner happily passed out in a cocoon of bed sheets that would take large scissors to get her out of. So he scowls, leaves you to sleep and becomes especially embittered upon realizing he still has to go to brunch with your friends. The next day over breakfast, he acts like an asshole.

Sad story.

So in the era of the internet where everythings available online, why not check out a service like CondomJungle.com? Not only do they carry every major brand (Trojan, Durex, ONE, LifeStyles and eighteen others Ive never heard of) they have every size and style that you can peruse at your convenience without feeling like that loser mesmerized by all the condom options in aisle 4. Exploring their site, I actually learned that different condom companies use slightly varying recipes to make their product, which makes sense because while Im clueless, Ive noticed most guys become attached to one brand over another. I mean, youre putting these things on a pretty sensitive part of your body. Shouldnt you take the time to find one you really like?

While Im a confident adult, condoms at the cash register still make me feel sixteen. Im not sure why, but buying lubricant is even worse. No, men arent the only gender who needs lubricant. When youre newly in love and having sex five times a day, women need it too. The good news is that CondomJungle.com sells lubricants as well (again, so many varying brands and options!) Oh, and all these items are at a sharp discount from what youd find in stores. On orders over $29 you get free shipping, and even get free sample condoms with your order. Theres no embarrassment factor since shipping is Secret Ops level discreet so no one knows whats in the package. Plus you can leisurely get aroused reading the nitty-gritties about products before buying.

So:
-Discount prices
-Free shipping
-The privacy to peruse
-Free condoms
-Non-descript packaging

Versus

The everybody loses at 5 A.M. deli pissy brunch situation?

Sign me up!

They even have a cute purple finger puppet called the Trojan Vibrating Touch Her Pleasure. I like anything with the world pleasure, especially if said with a Brazilian accent. Sadly, Im an infant and still terrified of sex toys, but someone more courageous should check it out and get back to me.

Model Behaviors an avid supporter of safe sex. Since its officially spring, its just a fact that well all be getting it on more. So bulk up on condoms now. Happy love making!

Getting in touch with my inner crazy, I recently forever spurned Mr Grey, for real this time. Remember? The shmuck that inspired to write high literature such as The Grey Relationship, My Dating Ego, Please Dont Be Nice, and Grey Grey Grey. Yeah, see theoretically that ended a long time ago. That was, in essence, a lie, since we continued to see each other as friends, which come to find out (shocker!) doesnt work at all.

At least it didnt work for me. My current theory is that theres no way to be friends with someone you used to like in a Model Behavior way unless youve moved on to the extent that youre so sickeningly happy with someone else that the Ex couldnt penetrate your aura of calm with a industrial strength machete. Needlessly to say, Im a long road away from being a female relationship Buddha. In fact right now, Im more likely to be wielding a machete myself. Id come home from friendly nights out with the former object of my affection and realize I was:

1. Alone
2. Angry
3. Miserably unhappy.

Not while we were out. No, in chaos of going out there was still the mirage of hope that this story might finish somewhere over the rainbow. Its rather the moment I entered my humble residence after another failed fantasy sequence (and a ginormous waste of time) that Id get irrevocably sad. Seeing him was essentially a fail proof way to make me more and more like someone who needs a straightjacket. Because even if during the day I could recognize that I didnt even want him, the minute you dimmed the lights, gave us some wine, and turned on Ministry of Sound, Id get overcome with (as lame as it sounds) nostalgia. Nostalgia for what exactly is unclear since we were never technically happy in the first place.

Plan A in coping with this problem was to pull a disappearing act. Never again take his calls, emails, texts, block his number (if only the tech freaks who created the iPhone took the time to include this break up feature) etc. I figured Id be a master at this since men do it to me all the time. Unfortunately, Im too soft hearted and found it eventually impossible not to respond to him. So after coming home ready to star in one of those where does your depression hurt commercials for the ten zillionth time, I knew a drastic course of action had to be taken. I couldnt resist his friendly advances (which ultimately made me suicidal) so my only choice was to cut off this masochistic game at the source.

So after splitting a cab home and saying goodnight in the happiest of spirits, I sent what I like to call the Death Text (which is sort of like the emotional equivalent of the evil Death Star in Star Wars). Its an inevitably melodramatic and over-the-top text message that says something like, Im begging you please, never contact me again, EVER! Because heres my new analogy, guys:

Women are like a house. Get a realtor, look around, but if you dont want to buy and move in, GET OUT. Its not fair to live in the house when youre in town or when you feel like it or to rent out a room when its convenient to you if the girl has serious feelings for you. If you dont want to invest and start a mortgage, get the Hell away and let the poor house go back on the market. Because if youre a part time tenant the piece of real estate has zero hope of finding a true owner. And thats just cruel, whether you do it under the guise of friendship or business partners or hook up buddies is irrelevant. Be the bigger person and find a house you actually want to move into. Or just wander the streets a homeless player with no place warm to sleep at night.

Now Im not only equating my gender to property, it seems Ive come full circle and am asking guys to do the disappearing act (the exact thing I dreaded in college). Further proof that women are irrational and crazy.

My new motto: Im crazy and I like it.

Late on a weekday night, I found myself at my friends elegant New York apartment enjoying a cup of herbal tea after an utterly uninteresting night out. Well call my friend Rio because his background includes a decade long stay in Brazil, as well residence in several other South American countries. As we sunk into the sofa listening to Portuguese love songs we got to discussing (surprise surprise) the enigma that is male-female relationships.

Describe sexy, he prompted me.

I went on to pause, gather my thoughts and illustrate sexy as:

Confident, independent, and strong.

Interesting, he replied. Because Id describe sexy as vulnerable, dependant and warm.

Thus ensued a conversation in which we dissected our theories about the difference between Italo-Latin and American love.

In a nutshell, Rio made the point that Brazilian woman are experts at being feminine theyre used to relying on men. They constantly ask men to do things for them with the charm of a child and males relish in attending to their every need since it makes men feel like the shit. Interesting, right? Because as girls growing up in America the mantra is that we can do everything ourselves, should strive for utter independence, and never rely on men for anything. Ever. To which Rio responded:

Youre never going to keep a man like that. Okay, youre never going to keep a Latin man like that. Men stick with the woman who makes him feel like hes the man. He wants you to ask him to do things for you.

Wouldn't I be bothering him?

Are you kidding? If he loves you and can fulfill your needs thatll be the high point of his day. Thats the feeling hes going to crave and come back for: Validation of his worth.

Me: I guess that does explain why so many guys I like end up with stupid, silent, needy lapdog girlfriends.

Rio: Those girls arent as stupid as they look. Theyve learned to use their feminine vulnerability to keep men. Again, if I want someone independent who didnt need me I could hang out with my co-workers. That isnt what male-female relationships are about.

But dont you want a best friend? An equal?

Best friend, yes. An equal

OMG this so wrong.

No, no, no. Youre misunderstanding. Yes, an equal. But American women often seem so busy proving their independence that they miss out on the whole tango of love thats about how men and women fundamentally need each other.

You just said tango, didnt you?

Why would I be interested in a woman who doesnt need me?

I thought men liked the unattainable. That they like to chase things.

True. But once hes got you, he doesnt want to hear about other guys and how independent of a superwoman you are.

So basically I gotta get vulnerable, when my life mission since puberty has been to never appear vulnerable.

Yeah. And get feminine.

I gesture to my outfit, I am feminine!

You look feminine. But you dont act it. Youre so guarded.

Because men are assholes!

You came in here and just made yourself your own tea. You never even asked me if I wanted some.

You were in the other room. And since when do non-British guys like tea?

Being feminine means focusing on the five senses. Scent, smell, touch. Slow down! Enjoy life. Be caring like a mother, innocent and playful like a little girl.

Gross." I stop to think, "I have no idea how to do that.

Americans get divorced cause they got it all wrong. Women are meant to be feminine. Embrace it. Use it in your work life too. Youll get ahead and manipulate men even better. Doesnt mean you arent smart.

Does this femininity project mean I cant talk and make jokes? I mean, thats a big part of my personality. I verbally run a mile a second.

Of course, be yourself. Although at least at the beginning, with women, less is more.

I cant believe Im hearing this.

You act the way you do right now and go to where youre going on Brasil, not one guy is going to talk to you.

That would be tragic.

Cater. Ask him to do things for you. Play along. If he loves you, hell feel great accomplishing your tasks. He doesnt pull through, means hes not into you. Men will slay lions for the woman they love. They wont make dinner reservations, but theyll slay lions.

Okay. Lets try: Rio, will you drive me to JFK when I leave next Monday?

Rio: Absolutely fucking not.

Off my twisted face

The asking to do stuff doesnt include airport transfers.

Me: Huh. Good to know.

Yet another theory to stuff in my carry on.

Those who want to learn more should be directed to the simultaniously ingenious and ridiculous concept of wikiHow which actually has an article about how to be feminine. I'd be lying if I said I didn't skim it.