Hi there, reporters, journalists, writers, reviewers and other media types!
Thanks for visiting. You’ll find all kinds of goodies here that I hope will make your job a little bit easier, should you decide to give me some love for On Being a Bachelor: Thoughts on Dating, Mating and Relating.
As many of us in the media know, attention spans are shrinking at light speed these days. Attracting – and keeping – readers has become a top challenge for editors, reporters, writers and everybody in between. It’s even tougher in the dating/relationship genre, where everybody and their hamster has something to say.
That’s where I come in (with On Being a Bachelor tucked under my arm, of course). For two years, my column was among the top-read stories in The Sunday Paper. It was popular because readers, both men and women, liked its brutal honesty about subject matter they could relate to – and because it made them laugh.
And I’m betting On Being a Bachelor: Thoughts on Dating, Mating and Relating will have the same effect on your readers. Here are just a few snippets of what it’s all about:
* On guys who stop calling out of the blue: “It’s fair to say women are more often on the receiving end of the Disappearing Act, after the guy slips off into the night like the Dickless Horsemen, never to be seen or heard from again except in dating horror stories.”
* On why bridal showers suck: “Why should I have to cough up $50 for a scrap of silk the bride will wear for exactly 2.4 seconds before her new hubby rips it off?”
* On a first-time Brazilian: “It felt like I had just done the splits onto a sizzling George Foreman grill.”
Think this sounds like a book just for gals? Think again. There’s plenty in here for male readers, too, like:
* Premature Emotionation : Are you unwittingly driving away dozens of women with this dangerous affliction?
* How to improve your hunting skills in the dating game
* The unexpected $30 purchase that will get you more attention from women than you ever dreamed
Want more? Take a look at the sample chapter, or contact me for a review copy.
Blane Bachelor is an internationally published writer and author of On Being a Bachelor: Thoughts on Dating, Mating and Relating, based on her popular and long-running column in The Sunday Paper, an alternative weekly newspaper in Atlanta. Blane has written hundreds of articles and columns about dating, relationships and pop culture for outlets including Marie Claire, Women’s Health, People.com, Modern Bride, Zink!, the Christian Science Monitor and USA Today. And yes, Bachelor is her real last name. Visit her website at www.askabachelor.com.
Last weekend, C. and I went to North Carolina for a relaxing getaway at a rustic inn. The trip was supposed to have been an early birthday surprise for him, but in my eternal idiocy I left brochures of the inn lying around, and of course he found them. So I had to devise some other way to make his big day special.
The idea hit me when I was visiting a friend in L.A. As I contemplated getting my first-ever brow wax, I thought: Why not wax something else instead? Back in Atlanta, several friends directed me to Quetada at the Midtown Spa Sydell, a woman renowned for performing a treatment that is simultaneously the source of wet dreams for many a man and nightmares for their girlfriends: the Brazilian bikini wax.
Let the record show that I’m not one of those women who preach that beauty should come at a painful price. I don’t own a pair of stilettos. I’d rather receive a tourniquet than wear an underwire bra. When I had my ears pierced at age 12, I seriously considered wearing just one earring, pirate-style, after that wretched gun punched its way through the first tender lobe.
But I kept hearing that something about a Brazilian – or even a racy bikini wax – is so empowering that many women keep them up regardless of whether anyone else sees the results. I also had the motivation to trump the spoiled surprise of a trip to North Carolina. So an aesthetician’s first-time visit to my southern regions seemed just the way to do it.
Determined to keep it secret, I returned to Atlanta from L.A. with several days’ worth of unchecked pube growth. But I had to devise a way to explain this, since I normally try to keep the area nice and trim. And though we were both jonesing for some action after our time apart, I still had two days’ worth of growth to accumulate. So I told him the only reason I could think of for why we had to hold off: that Aunt Flo was in town.
The morning of my treatment, I gulp four ibuprofen like a pillpopping Hollywood starlet and head out the door. I’m normally floating in zenlike euphoria when I go to the spa, but today I’m as nervous as a minor buying liquor with an older sibling’s ID. I sit in the waiting area and sip a cup of chilled water, wishing like hell it was tequila.
Quetada calls me back, and her down-to-earth demeanor and warm smile immediately put me more at ease, despite the fact that it looks like tarantulas are sprouting from my underwear. I take a deep breath and take them off, and as she smoothes hot wax along my inner thigh with a tongue depressor and pats down a piece of cotton muslin, we chat about work, her new baby and the fact that she never expected to be in the business of Brazilians. “When I was first asked to do this, I was thinking, ‘No way am I going to be all up in some stranger’s crotch,’” she says gaily.
Indeed, life sometimes takes us to unimaginable places, and here we both are, my most intimate parts laid out on the table like they’re being offered up in some sadistic ritual.
I ask which is worse: a Brazilian wax or labor. A long, agonizing pause ensues before Quetada finally replies “labor,” and as soon as the word is out of her mouth, she rips off the muslin with the force of an F5 tornado. As white-hot pain sears through every follicle and sweat drips down my body, I vow never to have children.
The agony continues as Quetada moves inward, strip by strip. It feels like I’ve just done the splits onto a sizzling George Foreman Grill. After one particularly painful yank, I jerk my knees together and howl for mercy, a string of profanity bellowing from my lips (the ones that are still functioning). I glance at the piece of muslin in Quetada’s hand, half-expecting to see a mangled chunk of skin. Instead, all that’s there is a thin line of dark hair, like a costume mustache ready to be affixed.
“That’s the worst one, and you’re halfway there,” she says, patting my thigh comfortingly. Sure enough, just a few yanks later, I’m bare as a toddler, save for one thin womanly strip. When I finally get dressed and leave the spa, Quetada and I hug like bosom buddies, and rightfully so – she’s seen me more of me than my closest friends.
A few days later, I shared my experience with my friend R., who also recently had her first Brazilian. She compared it to getting hooked on drugs, and considering how smooth, sleek and randy I felt, I could certainly see the possibility of an addiction – but to a whole other kind of crack, that is.
As far as C.’s reaction, it’s an understatement to say he liked it. The surprise to North Carolina may have been ruined, but thanks to Quedata and her Brazilian magic, the weekend was definitely a very smooth ride.
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TK TK TK!!!