If you can’t figure out who the Yoko Ono in your group is, you’re the Yoko Ono.

This post was written on Monday, April 20, 2015.


Here’s Todd looking at the Grand Canyon a few weeks ago.

This morning when I woke up, I told my boyfriend (his name is Todd, by the way, something I’ve never actually mentioned on here): “I think I’m your Yoko Ono.”

He laughed and, because he’s not familiar with nor does he give a shit about pop culture, said, “I sort of get that reference.”

So if you, too, are a pop culture novice or abstainer, know that many fans repeatedly blamed Yoko Ono for breaking up the Beatles and negatively influencing John Lennon’s music and career. Some people, even decades after the Beatles’ dissolving and John Lennon’s death, hate her guts, and celebrities from Courtney Love to Taylor Swift have been labeled Yoko Onos after having allegedly sabotaged or muddled the careers of their former significant others.

When I don’t feel great about myself, I don’t write, and if I do, it’s slop. So, judging from the lack of posts over the last several months, things haven’t been too shiny for me in this glitzy city. When Todd was abroad working for five weeks, I squandered away an opportunity to go out, make friends and join social groups or clubs, finish my fucking book, and decrease my dependency on him, instead opting to cuddle up under my comforter like a hermit, copyediting and, only occasionally, writing some slop.

Most of my friends know what Todd does for a living. Or, more accurately, they have a fuzzy idea of what he does. I told him this morning that I can’t remember who I’ve told which snippets about our relationship and life together, because I decide what information to divulge based on my determination of how accepting—or not accepting—each person might be.

My boyfriend teaches and practices pickup, or game. The art of seduction is his passion and area of expertise, and he teaches men how to be more engaging and interesting, more sexual, more aggressive (in a non-creepy, non-molesting way), and more alpha, in order to free them from clinging to the first girl who eye-fucks them and obsessing about what to text a girl and when and how much and Wah, why doesn’t she like me? He and his coworkers see sex as necessary and nothing to be ashamed of for either sex; one-night-stands as something men and women want; and sleeping with hundreds of girls as good practice, the ultimate way to find out what you want and don’t want, and also, as pretty fun.


Hakkasan last Saturday night.

Our relationship, it would make sense, is open. This is okay by me, because I don’t have a preference about gender, and our arrangement allows me to explore that side of myself solo or sometimes with him, without that sedimentary guilt sitting in my gut as a result. If you’ve ever cheated on someone, you know what I’m talking about.

But, of course, because he does this for a living, it’s out there. And I mean, way, way out there. Not just on his social media and his company’s website, but on his YouTube channel, which boasts videos laced with pickup concepts, theory, and in-field footage, video of my boyfriend talking to, picking up, kissing, touching, and sometimes bringing home women. One video exists in which he very clearly has sex with Not-Me in a club.

It would take a pretty secure woman to be cool with all that, right?

While my confidence has never been described as sky high, it has been pretty good since I’ve been with Todd. When you date a guy who can have a Playboy model (because he has) and yet he picks you, you do kind of feel like you’re the shit. That doesn’t mean, though, that the visceral response I get to seeing him kiss another girl—or more—ever goes away.

My version of Yokoness comes out here. My insecurities, my jealousy, my Where were you last night? or Did you fuck some girl? questions don’t really help a pickup artist want to keep doing or teaching pickup. It makes him afraid of hurting his girlfriend at every turn, and it makes him dilute what he does both when she is and is not around. If our relationship were monogamous, the red flags would be obvious.

But it’s not. And Todd has been under the impression that I’ve known for nearly two years now what he does for a job and that I accept it, and he is right to have assumed both. For a while now, though, I’ve let my evaporating self-esteem, my dependence on him, and my inability to truly be open with the people in my life about my life . . . break up the band, so to speak.


Synonyms make me happy (the bathroom at Little City Grill, Boulder City, Nevada).

Todd also said to me this morning, “Kaitlin, one of the reasons why I’m a pretty happy guy is because I don’t have any secrets. I’ve put myself and what I do out there for everyone to see, and I couldn’t erase it now if I tried. And I don’t want to.”

A long time ago, when I cheated on someone (this blog is the honesty blog, in case you haven’t noticed), I stopped my online writing. I didn’t tell my friends what had happened, and so I stopped making an effort to hang out with them, because I felt like what I had done had been splashed across my face. That it was oozing off me. That no matter what I did or said, I was a fraud because a small part of me was hiding.

So what Todd said made me think about my life, his job, and our life, and how my tolerance—or, I guess, intolerance—impacts me. When he first told me what his job was, I confided in my mom only a few days later. I didn’t tell my dad for more than a month and a half. With other friends, I wrote e-mails instead of telling them in person. That way, I could huddle behind a virtual firewall when they told me I was crazy. When I meet new people, I usually tell them Todd is a dating coach/motivational speaker (which is, on a very basic level, true). And when they say, “Like Hitch?” I just nod and say, “Yup. You got it. Just like Hitch.”

It definitely makes things easier.

If you ask my grandmother what Todd does for a living, she’d probably just say that she still can’t believe he wore sweat pants the first time he met her. We’re going to strike her opinion from this blog.

A friend once said to me, “If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered anyway.”

I’ve thought about what some of my friends, acquaintances from high school or college, or my parents’ friends might think. My aunt in her seventies. My cousins. Anyone, really. But the thing is, if I can’t tell people what my life is like without sugarcoating it or smothering the little dirty parts, I have no business living my life, and in many ways, I haven’t been.

Maybe now I can start.


“the only sea i saw / was the seesaw sea / with you riding on it. / lie down, lie easy.”*

back in may, i was in vegas with one of my best friends, as well her husband and another couple who they both knew but who i had met only a day before. the five of us were standing in the taxi line outside encore, and the little bitch of a queue had snaked around the ropes about five times, as the club had just closed and everyone was buzzed and grumpy and horny and ready to go home. for some reason (please don’t ask me, because i don’t know why), i had decided earlier that day to start counting random things i saw in the voice of, who else, the count from sesame street.


for example:

one, two, three drunk idiots!

ah, ah, ah, ah.

one old lady blowing her retirement on slots!

ah, ah, ah, ah.


it was at the time (as well as in my head at this moment) hilarious.

in vegas at around three a.m., if not earlier, in any given venue that serves alcohol, girls not accustomed to wearing sky-high heels are drunk, their feet are swollen, and their formerly sexy-looking platforms have ended up as spiky stumps in their hands. so while we were waiting in line, i started counting girls sans heels. . . .

one, two, three shoeless sluts! ah, ah, ah, ah.

now, i don’t like the word slut, not really, but it worked for the joke and anyone who knows me would have been aware that i was having a little harmless fun. but my best friend’s friend, the female half of the couple i had essentially just met, nodded toward the girl in front of us (shoeless!) and then looked at my friend and whispered, “wait, she knows that girl right there isn’t wearing—”

and my friend simply replied, “yeah . . . kaitlin doesn’t really . . . yeah.”

so i’ve now established that i have no filter. and apparently a severe lack of tact.

at least in person.

because usually i keep it pretty pg for my posts, aside from a few fucks here and there. but today i’ve decided that i don’t fucking feel like keeping it pg!

(and, for the record, that girl in line was sucking face with a large-muscled, overly tanned dude and was so intoxicated, she hardly could have associated her lack of shoes with my barefoot transylvanian muppet parody.)

i have a friend who recently broke up with her boyfriend of insert long, long time that makes most people gasp, and who has been going on a bit of a rampage since. drinking, blackouts, a sprinkle of what she deems promiscuity thrown in there, losing important things like licenses . . . you know, all sorts of responsible shit.

i have become her go-to for advice and reassurance (and i’m more than happy to be, of course), because i went through a similar shitstorm post-breakup, and she knows this because she had the unfortunate role of being my friend during this time. i made lots of “interesting” decisions that caused most people in my life both to worry about me and/or think i was kind of an asshole with no morals.

recently this friend told me that she feels like a whore, getting drunk and hooking up with guys, and as this was via text, i wrote back:


dual punctuation is acceptable in text messaging but pretty much nowhere else. the end.

she said that she gave some guy (who she has seen several times, mind you) a blow job.

ever basking in my slutty glory, i wrote back: that’s it?

then she pinged me some self-hating comments and finally, i’m just not that type of girl.

i wondered, then, what this means: that type of girl.

because to many, you’re either a saint or a sinner. and if you’re a woman, you have sex with no one, one person, or a few people—or you have sex with a lot of people. an in-between exists, but it’s not generally cited when it comes to making sweeping generalizations and stereotypes.

if you’re finding this hard to believe, then i literally can’t even with you right now.

so i’d call myself the s and w words back in the day too, when i went from loyal lover to bed-hopper, and sometimes my response to doing something i deemed too hasty and not well-thought-out was to drink some vodka and eat peanut butter and cry about what a piece of filth i’d let myself become. sometimes i’d just eat ten clif bars, or however many it took until i felt like throwing up.

if i binge, i nearly always binge on clif bars, and any type of clif bar will do. i do not know why.

men are generally taught it’s cool, and expected, to bed binders full of women, and during coitus rehashing, a male will go stifler on his friend in a ceremony of congrats. i don’t necessarily agree with the idea of sex as a prize or a triumph, but i do think that sex, and having it, is a good thing. for both sexes.

i have female friends who’ve never had an orgasm, be it via masturbation or via someone else. and it’s not because they don’t want one, but because they can’t relax or they’re self-conscious. or they don’t know how. they have sex because they’re drunk or lonely or sad or because, at this point, after however many, why the hell not? i’m for why the hell not? as long as it’s safe and fun. if both those factors don’t exist, however, it all just makes me sad.

i don’t think i have to say that i don’t have any male friends with this problem.

and it is a problem.

so after my friend bashed herself as a sexual transgressor, i sent her this text:

you are used to being the girl with one guy, and that’s it. and that is fine. this new way is also fine, though. you should be able to act on impulses and do what you want as long as you’re being safe. it’s okay to have sex or near sex. men do it all the time. give yourself permission.

the whole point of this moment in your life, being single, is to figure out what you really want, and unless you talk to and date and hook up with guys, you might not discover what else is out there. there’s more than you think. whore it up a bit, though i don’t think of it like that at all.

i had originally written four exceptionally long-winded diatribe-like paragraphs about sex after i’d retyped the text message above, but after reading them over i was boring even myself, which is always a bad sign. so now i’m going to close (that’s a euphemism for sex) with five paragraphs that are still long, but i hope not long-winded, yawn-worthy, or pedantic.

my friends have told me, since about middle school, that i think like a guy. i used to believe this was a bad thing, that i was wrong to be so forward about sex and my sexual habits. now i’m inclined to believe otherwise. it’s been said that women actually want sex more than men do; we’re just too repressed and programmed to shun it for pleasure’s sake to realize or embrace it.

or maybe we’re worried that some girl speaking in puppet language will judge more than just our shoelessness.

i want, outside of jokes meant to entertain, for us to stop calling ourselves sluts and whores, and to stop feeling guilty for wanting sex and having it. after all, as betty friedan said, “no woman gets an orgasm from shining the kitchen floor.”

so, friends, go have sex. i just did, and it was tops.


*dylan thomas (the last line of that poem, by the way, is “let me shipwreck in your thighs.” oh, baby.)

“women are the only exploited group in history to have been idealized into powerlessness.”*

recently thoughtcatalog put up a blog post entitled “10 old-fashioned dating habits we should make cool again.” (i’d strongly recommend that you have a go at it before reading this post. also, i added the hyphen to old-fashioned. come on. proofread that shit!). i knew, without even clicking on the link, images of disney characters and rose petals frolicking in my head, that i would disagree with the majority of the list, but i read it anyway. this is probably because i’m a bit of a masochist, but more so because i smelled my post brewing.

everyone is different and expects different things from a relationship at any stage, from the first date to the proposal to makin’ babies, if applicable, but being that this is my blog (mine!), i’d like to talk about what i think of old-fashioned dating habits.

i think they’re old and out of fashion.

i’d say it’s likely that i’m destined to live somewhere only outcasts go, like under a bridge or a remote cabin or las vegas, so i don’t feel too badly about tossing some opinions out there, of which most people won’t be too fond.

my general opinion on flowers as presents has always been that they are dumb—unless, that is, they’re in a beautiful garden through which i can stroll, much like the one my mom has planted to the right of our house. i appreciate the thought behind flowers, like when they come from someone who i’ve known for a while. my ex-boss gave me flowers after i’d been in my position for a year, and that was a lovely gesture. those daisies, however, were earned. flowers on a first date? did we meet in a bar and probably not have a real conversation because that would have required screaming in the other person’s ear? are the only things you know about me the ones in my online dating profile? what did i do to deserve those flowers? oh, i have a pretty smile? i couldn’t feel more objectified. give me flowers once i’ve shown you my sparkling personality. or, you know. never.

i’m obviously assuming that these flowers are to be given from man to woman and not the other way around. i’d therefore be apt to feel pretty silly, having shown up (or, wait—he came to my door, according to cool old-fashioned dating habit number one) empty-handed. i’m for gender equality and, after all, as kristen wiig said in bridesmaids, “this is the nineties.”

“i feel as though i should be bringing the guy something in exchange,” i said to my male friend the other night while we were discussing the thoughtcatalog post. “what would you want for flowers? a subscription to maxim?”

he paused and looked up. “porn?”

ah, i see now why women don’t bring anything to a first date.

a man comes to your door to pick you up so he can make sure you don’t trip walking down your own sidewalk and are able to get into a car properly by opening and closing the door for you. i’m pretty sure the last time someone opened and closed a car door for me was after i’d been placed in a car seat, and i’m fine with having been somewhat nonverbal the last time this chivalrous event occurred. i checked, and i am quite capable of walking to a car, opening the door, and sitting on the seat all by myself. okay, so maybe the “here” text message isn’t too romantic, but how about: “hey, you, i’m outside, waiting in the car for ya, keeping it warm. :-)”? i’d take that over being extracted from my place of residence any day.

and on that note, having the door held open for me so that i can walk into a building or a room first? do i get a prize for being first? am i being put on a pedestal? i’m a person, i don’t belong on a pedestal, and i can open a door well enough on my own.

so you’re on a date. you’re wearing a nice dress. you’re sitting across from your date. you’ve been talking for an hour. you’ve had a glass of wine. the bar is dimly lit and all sorts of romantical. you’re finding your date attractive. you’re thinking, i wouldn’t hate it if he kissed me. and then, just when you think he might, he puts out his hand timidly and asks:

“is it okay if i put my hand on your thigh, on the intimate-but-not-too-invasive place just above your knee?”

well, that was clunky and awkward, akin to the ass-out hug vince vaughn describes in wedding crashers. if i don’t want you to touch my leg, i’ll find a way, quickly, to let you know as much. but don’t approach me as if you’re asking a waitress if you can sub sweet potato fries for regular, because you weren’t sure if that’d be “cool” with the kitchen? is that cool? are you positive? touch my damn leg.

the other day i was talking to a single friend of mine about her dating life, and she said she was seeing a guy, but she wasn’t feeling that into him. i asked how they met, and she gave me a rundown of their brief relationship thus far (they exchanged a few messages online and have since had a number of dates over the time period of a month) and, “of course,” she said, “typical me, i slept with him too quickly.”

i didn’t ask what “too quickly” meant, but i could gather that it meant either dates one, two, or three, because women usually think they’ve exited slut territory around date four (what the reasoning for this is, i’m not sure). i told her that she must stop, quit, cease, and desist feeling as if sex is something to give up, something women aren’t supposed to want or find enjoyable until it’s socially acceptable to want and enjoy it.

the list of ten says, “a date does not have to be a precursor for sex.”

. . .

i have already seen relationships, even the mothers of all relationships, marriages, fail because people have married the male version of their best friend, someone who shares their likes and dislikes, is caring and nice and sweet and funny, earns a good living, likes babies and animals, but isn’t—

  • the guy whose clothes they want to rip off, or
  • the guy with whom they want to stay up all night, talking about absolutely everything.

women will later cite the cause of this breakup as a lack of:

  • “connection,”
  • “passion,” and
  • “romance.”

your partner should not be one or the other—a sexual, passionate man or a reliable, wholesome nice-guy—and it’s a myth that they have to be. your partner should be both. the best friend who tells you when you have a booger in your nose and the lover who kisses you (or touches your leg) without asking, maybe so unexpectedly that you jump in your seat a tad.

sex is really fucking important. for men and women. i said it. if you don’t think of a date as a precursor for sex, why are you going on the date? i can think of a slew of ways to make new friends, but a date isn’t one of them—at least it shouldn’t be at the top of the list. i’ve had friends come out of dates, but this result certainly wasn’t intentional or planned.

the excessiveness and ostentation of engagements, showers, bachelorette parties, and weddings has hit an all-time high, and is one of those often-discussed small-talk topics that late-twenties/early thirties women bring up at dinner or drinks. it sits alongside how texting is ruining relationships and communication, why can’t we be more like canada and have free health insurance, and gosh, everyone on facebook is getting married or having a baby, and i found a gray hair and there’s a new wrinkle on my forehead. the ironic thing is that i’ve heard the same women with high-carat (not karat or carrot) rocks on their fingers poo-poo another woman who spent “too much” on her wedding. side note: i wrote high-carat because i’m not even sure what is considered a large carat diamond on an engagement ring. one carat? two? anyway . . .

when did life become so much about things? women want to be equal. they want the same pay and opportunities as men. they want the same respect. but they also want to be treated like princesses? if you want to make certain that you continue to earn less than men, keep expecting them to buy you drinks all night, bring flowers to every first date, and take you to fancy places so you can waltz your ass around.

if a man were to go on four first dates in a month, he could conceivably spend ten dollars for gas to pick up a woman (or take a cab to get her), twenty dollars (conservatively) for those damn flowers, and fifty dollars (again, conservatively) for dinner and/or drinks, bringing one date to a grand total of eighty dollars, on the low end. times four, that’s $320 a month. and then, i’m sure, if it turns into a relationship, he’s expected not just to keep the status quo, but most likely to improve upon it. shows and concerts and ballets and expensive dinners and elaborate proposals and an engagement ring worth, at the very least, three months’ salary. i make practically pebbles for the work i do and i cannot fathom spending a few k on anything, least of all a symbol for something that should not need such extravagant symbolizing.

“i’ve put dating on the back burner because i can’t afford it,” my other male friend said to me once a few years ago.

i hear ya, pal.

i went to costa rica at the beginning of october, and while i was there, i wanted to get my boyfriend a souvenir. all the usual things—t-shirts, shot glasses, and coffee—oh my god, the most incredible coffee ever—seemed ill-fitting. i’ve rarely caught him wearing a shirt containing any sort of writing; the only shot i’ve seen him take he sipped and then gave the rest to me; and he pretty much categorizes coffee as molten poison. i had my work cut out for me, until i saw the imperial beer–labeled, waterproof drawstring bag my traveling buddy was toting. i flashed to an image of my boyfriend’s suitcase, his laundry kept in one of those plastic, tall, kitchen-dwelling garbage bags, and i thought, that’s it. i made it my goal to find one of those pouchlike bags. when i finally did, i realized it was the first outright gift i’d ever bought him, even though i’ve known him since late february. i also realized that while he’s paid for flights and club covers and food, he’s never once placed a traditional (or old-fashioned, if you please) gift into my hands. i smiled. i smiled again days later when i saw him use the bag exactly as i’d intended it.

then i realized that other people probably think all this is weird—insane, even. but then i realized, oh, right! i stopped giving a shit about what other people think a long time ago.

ladies, go halfsies, i say.

or start bringing porn to your first dates. it’s only fair.

*erica jong