What is it with modern women living in New York (it’s always New York) boasting about having meaningless, indiscriminate sex with strangers? Do they think it makes them sound edgy and cool, or do they think people might find it interesting? Here’s the latest that came to my attention by somebody going by the name of Mandy Stadtmiller:
I met two hot Italian pilots on the street, bummed a cigarette, and took them home for a night of sex, debauchery, and, well, the opposite of a marriage proposal.
Things spiraled out of control after that.
When I was at my most self-destructive, I was hooking up with drug dealers and answering ads on the Craigslist’s Casual Encounters section posted by strange men looking for “snow bunnies” (girls who did cocaine). All told, I fooled around in some form with a dozen men from the site. All told sexually, my number is not too far off from other New York women I’ve met — under 100, over 50 — but it wasn’t so much about quantity and more about total lack of quality.
One time, I posted online that I was looking for something akin to a sugar daddy. The first few guys that responded — before the ad was taken down because it probably sounded like blatant prostitution — all sounded like cops, and I chickened out. Another night I considered taking “100 roses” from a sad little man who posted that he was “looking for a girl to show off.” (One rose is code on Craigslist for one dollar.) I didn’t take the money he had laid out. Instead, we sat uncomfortably on the couch together watching “Apollo 13.” Before I got up to leave, I asked if he’d tell me his real name. He refused. What if someone found out?
A friend of mine, the notorious and often shocking comedian Jim Norton, once listened to me patiently as I described a night of doing coke and fooling around with an S&M couple before later meeting and sleeping with another stranger at 5 in the morning who had responded to my incredibly subtle posting on Craigslist entitled: “Need to get f–ked right now.”
Of course, modern feminism compels its adherents to not show the slightest bit of shame over this. For all men’s supposed promiscuity and penchant for endless one-night stands, how many over 30 ever talk about their past conquests, let alone write about them? They grow up and move on, but certain women carry their sexual history around like a badge of honour, only bizarrely the more shameful it is the more proud they are of it. And the point to this woman’s story?
I met a man at a comedy club who caught my eye. He looked like a private detective wearing a trim gray suit and a scowl.
At the very start of our date, I handed him a piece of paper with a list detailing all of my “Relationship Expectations.” I spelled out what I wanted, really forcing myself to think about it: I didn’t want to be cheated on. I didn’t want to be insulted. I wanted to be treasured and loved.
I expected the date to last two minutes because he was being given a list of emotional demands right away — like, before we even ordered. Instead, he read it over carefully and quietly while I sat in the coffee shop sweating bullets.
“I don’t know,” he said, and then a smile broke through, “this all seems fairly reasonable.”
A stand-up comic (of course), my husband Pat Dixon proposed to me in under seven months. I got engaged on the last day of my thirties on the steps of Times Square.
This unlikely redemption tale is what led me to write the most difficult story of my life — my memoir, “Unwifeable” — as a tribute to anyone who feels trapped: in their past or the present, as the hero or the villain, as the wifeable or the unwifeable.
She found some omega male to marry her, and now she’s happy. That’s it. That’s the story, and she now thinks she’s in a position to give advice. The title of the post is:
My epic bender of drugs, booze and sex led to a happy marriage
Only she says her husband proposed in September 2015. This means she’s been married less than 2 1/2 years, a rather short time for someone who considers herself an authority on the subject, especially considering:
My first marriage in 2000 at the age of 25 ended in a messy divorce in 2005 (weeks before starting at The Post). And a lot of my self-hatred (and subsequent addiction) came from trying to suppress myself for other people.
What are the odds on another divorce and a subsequent relapse? What’s particularly weird is this woman isn’t some millennial, brainwashed by people who know only dating apps and online porn; she’s around 43, which is older than me. Something’s gone badly wrong somewhere, hasn’t it?