The Smallest Penis . .

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/12/smallest-penis-contest_n_1962514.html

  Yes, there is a small penis contest.  Can I enter a Gorilla? The king of the harem comes in at a whopping 2-3 cm--or the size of a cigarette butt.

You can possibly win an iPhone or ipad if you have the smallest erect penis -in Denmark.  The average penis is 5.5 inches and there is a lot of variety out there.  The cocky collaborators of this stunt think that it will open dialogue for men who thinks they don't measure up. From a scientific point almost all women are completely satisfied with their partner's size but almost all men think they don't measure up. And boy do they obsess over it, spending millions on pills, stretchers and pullers--none of which work.  But men have good reason to think this way.  The only erections they see are on porn sites and there is just no market for the average.  And science tells us something else men should know--when women love them, they love all of them, tiny, teensy, bent, crooked, blue, pink, dark.  It only makes me wonder what other crazy things we can dream and scheme up. 

   

 

The Love Lost Generation: The Problem with On-line dating and all that Choice.

The Love Lost Generation:  The Problem with On-line Dating and Choice.   

Love-lost genration?  Sadly we are more confused than ever.  Our cave life made it all much simpler. A hundred possbile dates?  Are you kidding?

 GF Becca calls.  Disgusted with on-line dating- too much time, too much work, too little results.  Is she alone?  Hardly. The industry calls it "one of the best tools," but unfortunately our cave brains see it as a massive stimulus overload.  You just have too many choices!  It might seem great to have hundreds of potential matches but then again our mind plays some tricks with all that information.  First, it gives us a false sense of confidence that we are in more control than we are.  Then we make the next mistake, thinking we have control we maximize our pay-off.  So when Becca saw Tom, a heart surgeon who took a liking to her pic, she chose him—Not for nothing but Becca is a cocktail waitress and wouldn't know an artery from an arterial. 

What she doesn’t know is that our brains get irritated when we are faced with too much choice.  Oh how we hate to be wrong, indecisive and leave tings to chance.  So she makes her contact.   Now her brain decides to screw her over again—she becomes convinced they are destined.  She goes back to his profile and works over all the reasons they are a couple.  We call it post-decision dissonance and without all the science gab, it's a way that we make ourselves feel better after we make a choice.  We feel more confident.  Those dating sites know this.  They know you might do all the things that Becca did and that's why they give you certain information and then smack it with a percentage.  He was 97% her match.  For the next day she read, reread and presumed that they had everything in common.   Now effort- justification kicks in.  What's that?  It's when we amp up our confidence that our efforts are well-justified.  After all, she spent two solid days filling our questionnaires and another weekend responding to questions and queries.  Our minds don't like to think our efforts are worthless and Becca was absolutely convinced that there was a pay-off in there for her.  Of course her mind filled in all the gaping pot-holes in her path—after all with hundreds of choices and a 97% match, what could go wrong? Plenty. 

The date was a disaster.  He, like 67% of men use on-line dating as a hook-up tool.  After plying her with gin he proceeded to tell her about his other vein—She bolted from the restaurant. 

But even if that last scenario didn't happen all that choice lends us to experience some big disappointment. So what can you do?  First you just learned something about how thinking can undermine our efforts.  However in the next weeks  I'll set out some great rules that can help in maximizing on-line dating efforts. 

 For more information:   Online Dating: A Critical Analysis From the  Perspective of Psychological Science, by Eli J. Finkel, Paul W. Eastwick, Benjamin R. Karney, Harry T. Reis, and Susan Sprecher

Men, Women, Relationships,Relationships, Sex, Orgasm and Showing Him How - a Mini Blog

You have to teach him and show him what you need- don't expect him to know it himself, say's Dr. Ruth and Dr. Dawn.
http://www.hlntv.com/video/2012/08/29/dr-ruth-show-your-man-what-you-need
You need to show him, without words, what to do. It's pussy-tale boot camp and the subject is your clitoris and vagina. Seems so intuitive, but it's not. Women often say nothing and do nothing, and men, well alot of you have had some poor training, because no one has told you or you think you know. It's up to women to take charge. Now for this mini blog I'll go a step further; satisfy yourself in front of him (that comes-no pun intended- from Dr. Ruth)   I'm sure he'll agree and do the same.    Show him what you like. If you are apprehensive, well, drink a few glasses of wine first and in the morning blame it on the Pinot Noir. Dr. Dawn Hopper

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder- Especially When You're in Front of the Mirror

Beauty matters. It took mother to remind me of this—she’s 87.  Seems like all the years trying to get her to look at the computer were in vain—it  was her vanity that took her to the mouse in search of a lipstick she had to have—hers was on its last lick.   She sat all afternoon savoring www.beautynewsnyc.com, in my construction-zone of a house while my husband hammered away above us.  She never noticed--him in his short shorts or the pounding.  Mesmerized by pages of beauty tips and news she finally broke the spell and spoke. 

“Beauty matters,” said. 

All of a sudden I wondered if she thought I’d forgotten; in 90 +  degree weather, putting a new roof on ourWoodstock house, I nixed the make-up and hair for a week—my bare ass hadn’t seen the shower either.  “Mom, of course I know it matters.”  She sensed my concern.

“No, I don’t mean you, I mean you psychologists—you know, they think it all comes from inside.  You can’t forget that no one likes the gift that comes in a brown paper bag.” She laughed and added, “We all need a little gift wrap.”

How right she is.  Beauty is not a nasty word; it influences what other’s think of us and what we think of us.  I’m not talking about ravishing beauty, I’m not talking about obsessive beauty—everyone is beautiful; we need to take pleasure in enhancing our appearance  A refined face belies a refined person.  Sure we judge books by their covers; are you supposed to read the damn thing standing at the bookshelf?  Taking care of our outer self is very crucial—one of the first signs of depression is a lack of regard for one’s beauty.  Have you ever left the hair dressers feeling on top of the world?  Sure you have.  My grandmother would practically hop and skip on the sidewalk after—and she left with a purple head.  Did you know the hottest selling female product in recessions is lipsticks and beauty products—why? Oh, how great we feel with a new face.  

There I sat, on wood floors heaved from the rain that in puddles while I was dining in Italy, staring up at  a hole in my roof that now revealed the big dipper, while watching the dollar bills being transformed into plywood, shingles and sheet rock.  I went into the bathroom to see what I could scrap off of my cruddy mosquito bitten body and see what I could scrape up—in the make-up department.  I spied it on the sink.  Mom had left her prized lipstick, nearly dead, but just enough so I could feel like kissing my misery away, with my construction foreman, who wanted to fiddle, but not on the roof.  Thanks mom.  

Italy is for Lovers

Apologies for my absence but I have been getting fodder from my travels.  Yes, I was in Italy exploring the world of sex and love, food and wine and vista's and scenery with my husband David.  ans our college age son, Matthew. All of those I listed are aphrodisiac's in one way or another.  You can't help feeling sexy after devouring plates o mushrooms, stretching mozzarella with your teeth, while sitting on a terrace overlooking a castello. The Italians know this; there are condom vending machines even next to the Vatican. Even in the small Village my family lives in, the condom machine is mounted on a wall in the piazza.  From our window, during the last week of our stay I kept count of all the local lovers, whose twist of the handle caused a ratchet sound which echoed off our walls.  I counted 52 in one night, and that is in a village of 350.  Then there is the wine.    

Italy is wasted on beer drinkers.  Wine is truly the best Viagra. After a bottle I felt sinfully sexy, nixed any idea of plastic surgery.  I began fluffing my hair, batting my mascaraed eyes and speaking with a slight Italian accent to my suave husband, in his fedora and banana hammock- by the private pool at our rental. Actually I bribed him to wear my black jockey microfiber hipsters.  Yes I did and as soon as I can bribe him for the photo evidence it will be posted.  Anyway, David agreed about the wine thing, said it was an airbrush.  I was insulted because he never noticed I shaved my legs and prepped (you know what I mean) for our adventure.  My kid noticed it.  "Look," he exclaimed. "Mom shaved!"

We went with our two best buddies, Cristiana and Laurie and their kids- they noticed our absences a couple times a day.  But Matt shared our room.  Of course it was really hard and we couldn't act on all our impulses with him in the next bed.  By the way, I did mean that pun and if you don't get it re-read the last sentence.  Nevertheless, the car, shower, rolling hills of Tuscany, my aunts bathroom and the swimming pool all provided opportunities. Wine loosens tongues and bras, lubricates the mind and opens up all sorts of fantasy.  We had a ball.  Best of all, the night I found him in the bathroom showering, and slipped in, telling him I was a hooker, from Rome, I blamed on the bottle of Chianti the following morning.

My theory is this: The test of a great relationship is the vacation.  If you can leave the stress of life behind, devour the pleasures of their company, enjoy, your relationship is sound.  We came home soo happy....  Oh, have I told you all the things Italians do with olive oil?

I missed you-  Dr. Dawn Marlena Hopper. ..or Donatella ...my new name.
Tell me about your love holidays- ---

Match.com: Plenty of Fish in the Sea

It seems all my friends are trawling these days on dating sites and I have a lot of chum to chew about.  I’ve vowed that if I ever have a single life, I will never go out to sea.  Take Bob, by far the best fisherman out there and my gf’s ex.  She left, he wasn’t ready, and with a broken heart, a heavy dose of sexual rejection,  he did exactly what men do to heal—they fish the sea of women.  He’s not into the catch and release program and he’s floundered the last month with at least a dozen fish,  some still on ice, in his walk-in-cooler.  I know he’s not exaggerating; my cousin, an experienced fisherman has told me many times the lure can be a phone call, a cheap dinner and a bottle of wine.  “Dawn,” he said, “there are so many women out there!”

So when Bob showed me his line and hook, and made his cast, I had no doubt they’d feast on his bait.   He listed his income in the 99% that most of us 1%er’s despise yet covet and then characterized himself as loving, generous and out for a long term relationship with a woman who could travel the world with him and visit exotic places.  They swarmed.

Bob responded, and with a heavy heart telling them he was still in love with his scornful wife and terribly lonely.  Men, he cast the perfect line.  This wounded guppy created the perfect feeding ground for bottom dwellers.  Woman #1 responds.  He tells me she is self-made, a professional gambler,  living with her aged parents, who she lovingly tends to and runs an internet business on EBay. I’m sitting right there when she sends him a picture of her at that moment in her panties. A Black lace piece of dental floss.  I look down at my crotch imagining what my husband might think if I sent him my shot, right at that moment—jockey microfiber granny panties.  I tuck away the idea of doing something fun for David and  went back to Bob’s plight.  Hi mind was wound in the Black lace but my logical prefrontal cortex was screaming.  So I translate: Compulsive gambler, lost so much money she has to live her parents basement and sell her garage sale finds to fill her gas tank.  I add that she might be selling her used underwear.” 

“But she doesn’t drink,” he retorts.

“Oh,”  I say, “she’s a recovering alcoholic too.” 

A week later he tells me I was right. His revelation came after he found himself eating alone in the casino dining room and after she swiped the tip off the table for “just one more game.”  The evening was topped off with wild sex after she beat him at strip poker and out of a couple hundred dollars.  “How did that happen?” I asked.

“Every time I lost a piece of clothing I had to pay her fifty dollars.”

By now he’s got a new one on the line.  “She’s really down to earth,” he tells me. He describes her life:  She doesn’t care about money— which was a revelation after her near-death experience, after the bus hit her, and after the state took her four kids when she woke from the three month coma, couldn’t recall her own name but had to start again by working in a soup kitchen and living in a studio.

“How old is she?” I ask.

He responded but all I processed was “still fertile.”

“Did you use a condom?” I asked. 

“Oh my God,” he said. “I never thought about that.”

Somehow my mind conjured up the predatory image.  Nothing more juicy than a fat wallet and a desperate man. 

“Bob, it’s like the food chain.  You think your landing plenty of fish but they have to feed too.”

As the weeks went by  Bob got tired of his expedition. “It’s like a full time job,” he told me. “Depressing as hell.”  

He turned the iPod towards me so I could read it. 

All the right words were there; Attractive, divorced, financially secure, wanted honest long term relationship, loved to travel to exotic places. . . .”

He scrolled up to the photo.  It was his ex.

In Case you Didn’t Know, We Baby Boomer’s Invented Sex, Drugs and Rock n’ Roll

In Case you Didn’t Know, We Baby Boomer’s Invented Sex, Drugs and Rock n’ Roll 

When I said that to my college class, they applauded.  I know I invented the first two.

I could roll a joint with my toes when I was 16.  I perfected the art of sex with my first husband in his mother’s basement. Although he got carded when he bought condoms, we managed to make a love nest in an old coal bin.  We bought a kerosene heater for the cold winters and of course, a cot.  Little did we know that the fumes went upstairs and his mother ended up calling the fire department who busted through the tiny window above our heads—finding us naked under a moth-eaten army blanket.  I was grounded for a year and sent to a shrink.

It didn’t stop me from growing pot, a need that grew from my grounding and the weirdo I was forced to meet with once a week.  So, in between my mother’s tomatoes the tall plants thrived.  After I ripped out all the males (you can tell them by their tiny balls at the crotch of a stem) I harvested the five pounds of heavenly weed, with Krissy, my best friend.  We hung the plants in my basement, in the closet that my mother’s wedding gown and honeymoon ensemble were in.  They never smelled the same again.  Krissy ended up getting busted at a concert when Stewie Savolinsky narc-ed her out.  I buried my stash in my grandmother’s yard and then I drove to the jail with her father and we bailed her out.  In the car she pointed to the tiny vest pocket where she revealed a rolled joint.  It’s amazing how clever we were.

Do any of you have those memories?   

We were the Woodstock generation, primed by the mantra “if it feels good do it.” We protested and rocked.  We made love and fought to end the war that took our young men to Vietnam,  battled to end segregation and spread the seeds of tolerance for gay rights.  I even stopped shaving my legs—for about three years, then I burned my bra in Philadelphia with a woman who wrote Sisterhood is Powerful.  I’ve often wondered where she is now.  However, I can hardly think of another generation that did as much.  Tell me if I’m wrong. 

Of course if you’re younger you might not believe your parents did these things.  Perhaps they weren’t as wild as I was but the air of the era was contagious.  If they had a Bob Marley album in their vinyl collection, or if they know who he is, they rocked.  But time rolled on and most of us left those lives behind when we faced babies, mortgages and car payments. I shaved my legs, bought a support bra when I saw what my grandmother (who never wore one) looked like in the nude.

  

I never told my own children what we did—at least not until they got through all their adolescent temptations.  I stopped the smoking—you can hardly get a PhD being stoned all the time.  My attitudes towards sex have changed too—we are having way too much with too many people and for all the wrong reasons.  Who ever thought you would be able to flip a switch on the computer and have streaming porn.  In our time my bothers thought the Sears catalogue was the deal.  After it arrived, the bra ads would be missing.  They swore they could see though the fabric. 

I live in Woodstock now, a community with one of the largest aging in place boomers.  My kids are grown and I find my life in a sort of pleasant retrograde.   I’m having fun.  I’m not the only one.  Our generation is not taking to retiring in a rocker.  We’re beginning our second act; new careers, new lifestyles and breaking the rules—again.