The Gentleman's Guide to a One-Night Stand

Congrats! You're going home with someone! Better yet, someone who miraculously wants exactly what you want from this encounter—a no-strings-attached (unless bondage straps count?) night of sex. But instead of enjoying this rarely realized fantasy, you're paralyzed with anxiety. Siobhan Rosen lays out how to be a stand-up guy throughout the stickiest, most mistake-ridden sexual escapade of them all

In theory, a one-night stand should be as easy as its sexual congregants. You want sex. She wants sex. Commence passionate no-commitment sexytimes. Finish passionate no-commitment sexytimes. Wash face. Sleep. Part. Thanks for the memories, you!

Angry Nerds And How They're Terrorizing Our Women

Lately we've come to think of nerds as alpha dogs: They're the shareholders in every Silicon Valley start-up, the stars of every Apatow comedy, and the nice-guy ideal for single women everywhere. But dating grown-up geeks, Siobhan Rosen reveals, isn't all spooning while binge-watching Fringe over a long weekend. Nerds aren't looking for love, they aren't grateful to get in a girl's pants—and they're still really pissed off no one slept with them in high school

My very first boyfriend, Stonefist Murderew (not his real name—his Dungeons & Dragons moniker), was a proud member of our school's computer club. And the mathletes. Stonefist was an underweight nerd who collected Japanese comic books. I was an overweight nerd who'd had a Star Wars-themed bat mitzvah. Love is simple in high school ("You like ketchup on your fries? Me, too!"), and in our case, being two ostracized geeks with opposing genitals was enough to convince me that Stonefist was the Mulder to my Scully. And for about three years, that's what he was. We'd spend most afternoons watching one of his beloved VHS tapes while we fooled around, an activity we dubbed Monty Python and the Holy Hand Job. Hard to believe, but before I came along, Stonefist had never had sex with anyone. Now he was getting daily five-fingered sonatas from a girl who could rattle off every species native to Tatooine. He was pretty psyched. I was pretty psyched, too.

So Stonefist and I continued in a state of mutual psychedness. Until the first semester of college, when he dumped me for a "physical therapy" major named Traci, a former high school cheerleader with lots of unironic kitten posters on her dorm wall. You might be thinking: Why would Stonefist want a cheerleader when he already has a kindred dungeon master? I wondered that, too. "Well...she likes me!" he told me over the phone, with a kind of joyful disbelief he'd hoped I might share. This was my first glimpse of a very important truth: In matters of sex, nerds are no different from any other hormone-addled dude in possession of a penis.

Now, this revelation may seem obvious to you. But it's not obvious to womankind. Women like nerds. Sure, not every woman (Kim Kardashian) and not every nerd (Stephen Hawking). But as a general rule, very much yes. Especially now that nerds are experiencing something of a golden age. It wasn't so long ago that being a nerd meant getting folded into trash cans and hung from flagpoles. Now it's basically a Purple Heart. Who are today's captains of industry? Nebbishy dweebs who spent their youth unpacking computers instead of unhooking bras. And Hollywood is run by grown-up geeks (ahem, Apatow) who cast roly-poly beta males like Seth Rogen and Jason Segel as leading men.

We also go for nerds because we assume that they're going to be the "nice guys." The flawed logic here is that the type of dudes who prioritize brains over brawn will be less superficial when it comes to the opposite sex—that the torments of their youth have enlightened them, made them sweeter, more sensitive, more loyal, than someone like, say, the star quarterback who grows up entitled, well sexed, and generally thinking of himself as God's gift to womanity.
Ever since the fateful day a health teacher first referred to our nether region as a "treasure box," we've been urged to seek out a guy who will appreciate us always and forever (i.e., stop flirting with the fucking waitress). And we've been taught to think this way by everyone from our well- meaning bubbes to Cosmo, the magazine seemingly penned by a drunk brothel madam. A 2010 article titled "7 Reasons to Date a Geek" contained this stunning piece of advice: "Sure, he may secretly want to get it on with his super hot neighbor, but knowing that you're the hottest girl he's ever been with will probably keep him from cheating." In other words: Nerds will treat you like the Second Coming of Christ because it may actually be their second time coming. (Inside a woman, at least.)

But as someone who has spent the past decade dating a whole bunch of nerds, let me tell you: It's all a lie. Of intergalactic proportions.

Just to be clear, I'm sure there are plenty of nice, normal, devoted guys who have blown both literal and figurative loads on Kids in the Hall collector's items, just as there are probably some porn stars with dads who took them to the zoo every Saturday. But they're much rarer than you think. As it turns out, the dark childhood shit that makes nerds nerds—the years of rejection and humiliation, cross- pollinated with a quietly simmering superiority complex—makes them, go figure, total disasters to date as adults. Because nerds tend to nurse their high school wounds with the dedication of war widows. Sure, sometimes that makes them more sensitive. But just as often, it makes them more vengeful. Lots of sweet teenage nerds grow up to be huge adult nerd-holes.

Consider my smart, beautiful friend who dated an ex-nerd turned successful comedy writer, who incidentally looks like Michael Cera if Michael Cera were a lesbian. He was mistaken for a girl throughout high school and, as you might imagine, mercilessly bullied. He finished their first bumbling dinner date, she told me, with a "messy, goal-oriented lunge." He continued with the unwelcome mouth jousting and prom king-y pressure to "go all the way" for three more dates. On the fifth, he insisted, with all the smoothness of a bonobo, that they have sex before dinner lest he get "too antsy." My friend was surprised to find so much angry sexual aggression bottled up inside such a slight, "pencil-shaped" geek.

Another friend dated a nebbishy programmer (fun fact: he named his first computer "Pamela") who was shy and nervous and constantly told her how lucky he was to be with her. That didn't stop him from breaking up with her every six months, the minute any other female gave him the slightest inkling she wanted to have sex with him—really big obvious signals like, you know, sending him a Facebook friend request. And every time he launched into the breakup conversation so that he could boink his way up the social ladder, he would start to weep. Because even when he was being cruel, he couldn't entirely shake his harmless-nerd persona. After all, it's the nice-guy-who-never-gets-laid shtick that gets guys-who-never-get-laid laid. Like, all the time.

If you suspect you might be one of the unsavory types of nerds, ask yourself a few questions: Do you see yourself as a perpetual underdog in life's great battle to get action? Do you believe your underdog status entitles you to enact a sort of psychosexual revenge against those who have historically prevented you from getting laid (i.e., women)? Congratulations! You are probably a nerd, and also kind of a dick. Please let me offer some unsolicited advice: There are better ways to work through your childhood torments—like, say, bouncing a basketball or visiting a nice lady with a soothing voice and a prescription pad. You might also consider dropping the whole sensitive, emotionally intelligent, unlucky-in-love mensch act if you're really just looking to add another stain to your Transformers sheets. Women don't mind the occasional cad, if we know what we're dealing with from the get-go. In short: Be honest about who you are. Real men might talk about Jedi mind tricks, but they don't use them.

Siobhan Rosen is the pseudonym this author is using so her coder-nerd ex-boyfriend doesn't hack her phone and leak the "Wookiee photos."

Sex Trade

Want to take the sex in your relationship to eruptive new heights? The hottest and most salacious mom in Canada, Kelly Oxford, proposes that it's time to put sexual favors on the table and start negotiating

In the beginning, every serious romantic entanglement is an electric, superconducting, steamy, fleshy hump festival. New sex partner = new sex, and new sex = lots of sex. That's sex math. You're in the kitchen making pasta sauce—bam!—you're having sex on the floor. You're parking the car in the garage—bam—you're having sex in the car. But inevitably, invariably, it wears off. Soon all your conversations, once so filled with erotic promise, are about bills and barfy kids and how that swollen knee makes your leg look like Jackie Gleason's.

Then, one night, she's sitting next to you on the couch, perfecting her mock-Piers Morgan accent, when she stops and says, "Man, I really want a Slurpee." Meaning, of course: "Will you go get me a Slurpee?" But by now you're way past the white-knight stage of the relationship, so you don't budge. And then it occurs to her.

"Will you get me a Slurpee if I give you a blow job?"

And everything goes silent for a moment. Then she raises her eyebrows and does that blowie-pantomime thing with her tongue inside her cheek. The one she hasn't done since, oh, month four of the relationship. With a single gesture, an arousing new world has busted open. You are—let's face it—whoring, but with a safe, committed partner. In no time, you're trading tricks for trips to the dry cleaner. You're making dinner for the kids, and later that night you're coming twice.

The negotiation process quickly becomes its own thrill. But know the terrain, boys. Example: Your woman proposes that you pick up a box of ice cream sandwiches, a copy of W magazine, and a bottle of Essie nail polish (Lollipop color) in exchange for a three-position sex session. Analysis: That's not a good deal. Renegotiate. For that price, she'll also put on those thigh-high black stockings. And trust me, this is fun for her, too. A gentle spanking in exchange for taking out the trash during a rainstorm? A brief experimentation with a ball gag for two weeks of laundry? All this can be yours.

Sex bartering has been a part of my married life for so long that it's hard to believe there are couples who haven't thought of this yet. Now when I see a father at the water park with three young children and no mother in sight, I no longer think, "What a cool dad" or "How sad—widowed so young." Instead I think, "That guy's getting fucked for hours tonight." One of the biggest "deals" my husband and I ever "closed" was over a handbag that I wanted after our second child turned mine into a paint canvas. Among other things, I agreed to a Brazilian wax. Yes, I could've just bought the bag and skipped the bartering (and the wax). But what the hell fun is that?

There are, of course, ground rules. Number one: Only agree to sex acts that you're both actually interested in trying. If she doesn't really want to do the reverse cowgirl, dangling a pint of Cherry Garcia is not cool. Resentment will creep in. Number two: No reneging. Back-outs are the first sign that your "deals" are no longer in kinky air quotes, that the whole game has turned bloodless and one-sided.

Sexual heat in a marriage is a funny thing; sometimes it roars back when you least expect, and sometimes you have to light your own match. Last month my husband and I were out to dinner, and our waitress giggled and flirted with him the whole time—I could practically see her ovulating. And yet watching her eye-grope him snapped my libido wide awake. Our deal later that night was simple and unspoken: He could have whatever he wanted, and all he had to do in exchange was spend the rest of his life with me.