The Best Damn Non-Manly Drink

So I know that we here at Sexiquette generally like our drinks manly and our lingerie femme-y (Ms. Garters’s delightful old-boy’s club/Catholic schoolboy fashion fetish notwithstanding.)  We relish the tension, the dissonance therein – it makes us more complicated, more formidable, in our best-of-both-genders way.

To that end, we have a post on turning the Manhattan into something both you and your pride can swallow.

But I want to just come out and say that I don’t like whiskey as much as my compatriots.  I enjoy it, certainly, but gin (the alcohol of choice for both Roger Sterling and Betty Draper) is to me the ultimate, the classic, the truly all-embracing base.

So I feel obliged to comfort you in your desire for something that may in fact not put hair on your chest.  It’s okay.  Here, have a milkshake.  I know it’s hard.  TAKE IT.

Now, wasn’t that the most AMAZING FUCKING MILKSHAKE YOU’VE EVER HAD?  And do you still feel ashamed?  I didn’t think so.  Here’s what’s in it.

• 1 1/2 ounces gin (London Dry, according to the old coot demonstrating below)
• 1/2 ounce lemon juice
• 1/2 ounce lime juice
• 1 ounce simple syrup
• 3-4 drops orange flower water
• 2 drops vanilla extract (allegedly a controversial ingredient, but yummy nonetheless.  Apparently, some people also use my absolute most favorite of spices, cardamom, which makes my heart go yay!  And my liver cringe in fear.)
• 2 ounces cream
• 1 egg white
• soda water

For the proper way to make it, check out this too-legit-to-quit bartender from the drink’s city of origin – none other than original cocktail capital, New Orleans.

Would this guy steer you wrong?  Would he give you a drink he didn’t feel good about?  Don’t you feel like a bit of a manly sadist making this sweet old man shake your drink for TWELVE minutes?  He can barely finish the history, he’s so out of breath.  You big ole meanie.

So yes, there are in fact some points in the Ramos Gin Fizz’s manly cocktail favor.  One is definitely the fact that it’s so labor-intensive to make.  Also, it is like originary-dandy Sazerac’s hot Southern-belle sister – wicked old and from New Orleans.  And it has an egg white, which is awesome like normal.  (You could serve it in a tumbler, which I’m told is definitively more manly, but I much prefer the Collins glass myself.  Need I point out that the latter will hold and thus convey more of this elixir to your eager mouth?)

My last and final bit of totally thrilling information about this drink is that while most people consider it a brunch beverage, folks of yore in New Orleans drank it all the goddamn time.  So feel free to ride this glorious zephyr of bliss all night and into the next afternoon.

The Sexiquette Guide to Building a Better Boyfriend

With great fanfare akin to popping a bottle of extremely fine champagne, sexiquette would like to welcome our very first guest blogger, the glorious Miss Arden Leigh. Arden is the genius seductress behind Sirens, a brilliant writer, and a woman of the most discerning taste imaginable. A more perfect addition to sexiquette could hardly be dreamed up and therefore, I’ll get out of the way and let Arden pour a fine cocktail for your brain.

Unfortunately, one very common and naturally occurring phenomenon in the human heterosexual male, especially once he is comfortably settled into a relationship with a human female, is his tendency to laze on the couch in tattered boxers and t-shirts, drinking terrible cheap beer, and watching television.  Most women have grown accustomed to putting up with this behavior, as the presence of the male counterpart is a necessary component to sexual intercourse.

But wouldn’t it be nice if the men in our lives behaved a little more like the men of the eras past that we so love to relive through our lingerie choices today?  What happened to the class of men who did their lounging in paisley silk smoking jackets, cigars and scotch pairings in hand, who sat before a fireplace instead of a television, and whose idea of a rowdy night out with the boys was a Skull & Bones chapter meeting?  After all, here we are in our stockings and garters, shunning the ease of bare legs or ::shudder:: pantyhose  in order to personify the type of femme fatale sex symbol that is so typically unavailable to the discerning gentleman of today.  They would do well to return us the favor.

Ladies, it can be done.  With a touch of feminine wiles, persuasion, and some well-timed gifts, you can transform your man’s liquor, loungewear, and entertainment choices into preferences that even Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would heartily endorse.  I’ve compiled a list of male archetypes, complete with recommendations on which pyjamas, books, and scotch drinks will appeal to their sensibilities. Simply identify your man’s TV-watching, beer-drinking archetype from the choices below, and tailor your pygmalionism accordingly.

Oh, and don’t forget the cigar!

The Sci-Fi Geek
You’ll find him: in his Dr. Who t-shirt, watching re-runs of the original Star Trek, or popping in a VHS of the Star Wars Holiday Special.
Recommended Pyjama: He’ll flip for the space-themed pyjamas from Too Many PJs.
Recommended Literature: The Complete Stories of Isaac Asimov, Vol. I.
Recommended Beverage: The Stinging Nettle. It’s green. Just rename it The Battlestar Galactica.

The Sportsfan
You’ll find him: screaming at the TV while wearing his favorite (disgustingly sweaty) jersey, which he never washes because that would mean bad luck for his team.
Recommended Pyjama: This striped jacquard set from Freshpair is ideal for the Sportsfan, as it’s roomy and breathable for all that athletic activity involving throwing things at the television, and as you will probably be able to find them in one of his team’s colors.
Recommended Literature: He can still be a man’s man if he’s reading Hemingway (A Farewell to Arms).
Recommended Beverage: The Whiskey Sour, as it’s the closest he’ll get to a sports drink with scotch in it.

The Responsible Citizen
You’ll find him: watching the 6:00 news as soon as he gets home from work, stripped down to his undershirt and boxer briefs after work since that’s what he was wearing under his suit and tie.
Recommended Pyjama: This man is actually rather easy to effect a change upon, as he does strive for sophistication, but he gets lost in the hectic struggle for modern-day convenience. However, he’ll love the ease of throwing on something as sexy as this paisley dressing gown from Brooks Brothers.
Recommended Literature: Simply get this man a good old-fashioned subscription to The New York Times or The Wall St. Journal. While it’s not literature, there is sometimes little that’s sexier than a man reading a newspaper in a dressing gown.
Recommended Beverage: An Old Fashioned, like his sensibilities.

The Modern Rogue
You’ll find him: watching VH1’s The Pick-Up Artist, or endless DVDs from The Mind of Mystery series, still decked in his leather armbands, silver rings, and black nail polish.
Recommended Pyjama: You’re in luck with this specimen, as it’s important to him that he comes across as attractive to the opposite sex. You just have to convince him that his loungewear deserves the same attention as all his skinny jeans and Affliction t-shirts. Do so with this lovely velvet smoking jacket from Brooks Brothers. If it’s good enough for Hugh Hefner, it’s good enough for him.
Recommended Literature: The Art of Seduction, by Robert Greene, since he’s already read everything written by anyone in the online pick-up artist community.
Recommended Beverage: The Perfect Pour, as he will drink anything you hand him as long as it’s in a brandy snifter.

The Comic Geek
You’ll find him: in his The Flash t-shirt, watching The Venture Brothers, Aqua Teen Hunger Force, or anything on Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim.
Recommended Pyjama: The Comic Print Dressing Gown from Topman. It sure beats his Superman boxers.
Recommended Literature: Getting this man away from his comics is a tough one, but your problem is solved with the graphic novel version of the works of Edgar Allan Poe.
Recommended Beverage: The Sidecar. If it sounds like it should be attached to the Batmobile, he won’t turn it down.

The Modern Samurai
You’ll find him: flopped on the couch after his MMA class, watching UFC, Akira Kurosawa films, or anything that involves beating people up… with honor and integrity, of course.
Recommended Pyjama: Despite being of the label And God Created Woman, there is nothing emasculating about this silk kimono-style robe.
Recommended Literature: Sun Tzu, The Art of War.
Recommended Beverage: Port in a Storm, as the very name sounds heroic.

The Artiste
You’ll find him: …You’re pretty lucky, actually, as The Artiste is the most likely of the types listed to shun TV. He’ll probably be browsing the internet instead, reading blogs about what’s going on at the Guggenheim, or else he’ll be working on his own creations.
Recommended Pyjama: Your difficulty, however, lies in the fact that The Artiste does not care for anything fussy in the way he dresses, hence all his paint-stained jeans and worn out vintage t-shirts. If he were to dress up, people might think that maybe some of his focus was on (gasp!) himself, rather than solely on the art legacy that he is bequeathing the lucky, lucky world. Therefore, go no-frills with these simple cotton striped pyjamas from Brooks Brothers. They’re light, breathable, and not so expensive that a paint stain or two will break your heart.
Recommended Literature: The Andy Warhol Diaries.
Recommended Beverage: Stay simple with Scotch and Ginger.

The Rockstar In His Own Mind
You’ll find him: watching MTV2 or playing guitar… or just Guitar Hero.
Recommended Pyjama: He never wears anything that’s not black, so go with this black jacquard pinstripe set from Pajama Shoppe. It’s sexy and yet plain enough that he can still feel like he just rolled out of bed and didn’t try too hard.
Recommended Literature: The Dirt by Motley Crue.
Recommended Beverage: The Manhattan.

Petraske & Provocation

Sometimes what is popular is in fact what is good. Sasha Petraske is probably the best-known purveyor of cocktails in New York, and Agent Provocateur is likely the most well-known brand of high-end lingerie in existence. Yet at the end of the day, both behemoths earn all the hype they generate. For that reason, as well as for their devastatingly sexy products, they clearly belong together. Here, in the tradition of pairing food and wine, we offer you an Agent Provocateur pairing for each of Petraske’s New York bars. We also recommend a literary work to complement each pairing. Put these triads into action, if you dare, and shiver at the achieved perfection.

Milk & Honey: With its hype, its defiantly tiny space, its candlelight and its austere dark booths, Milk & Honey may not have begun the faux-speakeasy craze, but it certainly defines it. It doesn’t entirely love you back, yet still is, for everything, a bit irresistible.
Love Black: Because there is nothing in the modern world more classic. Black lace is to lingerie as whiskey is to drinks: It represents the entire idea, stands in for the larger category. Everyone gets to lingerie from black lace, and everyone, once educated and informed, returns to black lace. It’s like Ithaca for Odysseus: You leave from there, and everything you do in your leaving serves to bring you back.
Recommended Literary Work: The Complete Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay

Little Branch: I first went to Little Branch while still in false eyelashes from a burlesque show, on a late-night date with someone who didn’t know my real name,  and yet Little Branch made the situation feel elegant. It is secrets of the best kind, the money you save under the mattress and the perfect, whistle-clean sentences you write to strangers late at night. Little Branch is elegant in the same way that 2 A.M. and unrequited love are elegant, and some days all I can think about is whether they’d let me sit & write at the bar all night if I provided a sufficiently picturesque vintage typewriter.
Martha: China print is family, manners, and WASP dinner tables. Good china would never admit it wears lingerie. AP’s toile de jouy set gives you the earned elegance of good china, and the delicious taboo of sex on the table next to the good china. Elegance as a turn-on is a timeless form of sex-genius.
Recommended Literary Complement: Persuasion, Jane Austen.

White Star: Sometimes it is very cold, and you are very sad. Sometimes it is summer, and it is unbearably, deliciously hot, and if you can’t sit somewhere and drink absinthe publicly while mostly naked, you will actually die. On both of these occasions, White Star wants to be your best friend. Focusing on absinthe and unmixed spirits, White Star maintains a lower-key sensibility than either of the bars previously mentioned, and feels like some kind of wildly classy exhalation, or terribly fashionable bear-hug.
Marilyn: It’s really nothing more than few scraps of silk. In the manner of good scotch, Marilyn demonstrates the inarguable power of simplicity. Way, way downtown on a clanking subway, by parks and fire escapes, with silk bows and unconcerned drinks, you can persuade all your worries to shrug their shoulders and slink off: See, nothing is really all that difficult.
Recommended Literary Work: First Course in Turbulence, Dean Young.

Weatherup: Weatherup is my favorite of these bars. Like Brooklyn in which it resides, Weatherup is an old friend with calmly mysterious vast money, your most interesting distant relative, and the way your own bed can be the most exotic locale in the world. It’s cigars, fireplaces, making out without ever getting gross or conspicuous. Set up to look like a tiny house, it feels like one inside, too. My favorite drink is a sazerac; Weatherup is like living within one. It’s the bar, out of all bars, where I would choose to live.
Iona Bodysuit: It’s wildly sexy, but you could also absolutely make it work it as a top with jeans. Cozy and dangerous all at once, I’d wear it every day if I could.
Recommended Literary Work: Foolscap: Or, The Stages of Love, Michael Malone.

Dutch Kills: Long-awaited, long-hyped, totally worth it, sickeningly new. Imagine you had a really classy grandfather, or even great-grandfather, who’d been some great unknown American playboy. Imagine he told you grand, fantastical stories. Imagine a bar that makes you feel like you get to turn back time and be a character in the stories. Now imagine the bar has a live jazz band. Now order a Presbyterian. There you go.
Georgia Range: From AP’s newest collection, an updated version of the schoolgirl outfit plays on where trashiness meets old-school (like Dutch Kills’ location) and emerges bafflingly classy. Like Dutch Kills’ chalkboard menus, perfect lighting, and vintage brass cash registers, the details make it (the tiny tassels hanging off of the bows!). Further, both are murderously effective tools (“Wow, these drinks are strong!” “Wow, no one will ever say no to sex with me while I am wearing this!”).
Recommended Literary Work: The Sot-Weed Factor, John Barth.

Wet Hot Sexiquette Summer

Youth and summer are one and the same. The sun sets after 9pm, it’s still warm after dark, and you are never, ever, ever going to die. It is likely for this reason that coming of age stories, those perfect, masculine narratives glorifying the restless laziness, the wonder-horror, at the borders of youth, generally take place in summer. The idea of summer itself is perhaps best explained by talking about the perfect example of this genre, Michael Chabon’s novel The Mysteries of Pittsburgh.

Before Michael Chabon was movie-and-Pulitzer-famous, he started his career with this stunning, insistent novel.  It’s a small, nasty, itchy story about a guy who doesn’t know if he’s a grown up or a kid, a good person or a bad one, straight or gay, rich or not, or happy or not, and spends a long summer doing a lot of stupid shit vaguely in pursuit of figuring out some of these things, figures out none of them, perhaps learns nothing, and ends up maybe a bit grown up or not at all.  It’s the long days of do-nothing summer, green with sweat and inaction when you make plans in disinterested half sentences perfectly aware that the closest you’ll get to any real doing will be to drive down to the Chinese restaurant and pick up your order instead of getting delivery.  It’s when summer–and, of course, by extension sex in summer–feels like the first time you learned to use the verb “fuck,” and then for a week or so tried to cram it into every sentence you spoke, with shaky, defiant idiocy. Mysteries of Pittsburgh knows how you wait for the dark to get dark, and, when it never does, truly believe that consequence, like any other predator, will pass you by if you can stay still enough.

Traditional lingerie doesn’t belong in summer.  Fine silk, french lace, six-gartered suspenders and seamed stockings aren’t for sex in cars with sweaty windows, for long half-naked afternoons and wet-necked beers on other people’s roofs, sloppy, competitive kissing that’s just like more drinking.  Summer is someone’s else’s t-shirt and no bra, leftover men’s underwear against women’s hipbones. Luckily, there’s now a lingerie company making exactly these things and turning them into high fashion.  VPL makes high end versions of sports bras, boyshirts, and that tank top you just kind of found lying around in your car and then never took off all summer.

Now, at last, we’re ready to drink, whatever the time of day happens to be.  You’d think the cocktail might be a margarita, a mojito, jam a lime lazily in the neck of a beer and call it a cocktail.  But instead, I want to talk for a second about this thing we call ‘coming of age.’  I came of age via the sidecar.  The sidecar is one and one-half ounce of brandy or cognac, one ounce of cointreau, 1 oz of lemon juice, a sugar rim, an optional lemon garnish, and a significant part of how I grew up.

In high school I wanted to grow up to be my drama teacher.  Actually, I just wanted to have sex, but I was fourteen, ugly, and awkward.  Sex was a grand, glittering impossibility, a city in Other People’s land.  It was much easier to want to be this teacher.  She was sex and new york and glamour; I think she was for me what the movies are for normal teenagers.  I no longer speak to her, and I haven’t wanted to be an actor in years and years, but she, through perhaps little desire or intention of her own, got in, fit a need, and is inescapable as DNA’s maypole ribbons.

In her stories about New York in the seventies, she and all her blurred and glamorous men drank sidecars.  She spoke the drink’s name with heavy reverence.  I had absolutely no idea what it meant.  When the ingredients were ennumerated, I still had no idea.  But I knew that when a man had once gotten down on his knees and slurringly proclaimed his love for her in the middle of a wild party, they had all been drinking sidecars.  So, when I got to New York, before I knew anything about cocktails, I ordered sidecars.  My interest in old-fashioned cocktails grew out of this ridiculous pretense.  Vonnegut says ‘we are who we pretend to be.’  I drink sidecars, and break hearts, and stay up late and wild and half-naked making shiny stories because I’m pretending to be my high school drama teacher, and I think that kind of repeated, successful stupidity may be what they mean by ‘coming of age.’

So drink sidecars, wear incidental, cotton next to nothings, read Mysteries of Pittsburgh, and have a beautiful, lazy, stupid summer.

How Victoria Got Her Secret Back

Victoria, once upon a time, did actually have a secret. The store was conceived as a wood-paneled, low-lit haven for high-powered men with either secret cross-dressing fetishes (there’s a reason they’ve always had good size selection), or secretary-mistresses they wanted to dress up like dolls.  And, in the best way, the lingerie reflected that. After all, if lingerie doesn’t make you want to lower your voice and whisper behind your hands, it probably isn’t really doing its job.

The old Victoria’s Secret was classy, an adult adult’s store, full of sophisticated cuts, suggestive seaming, and richly colored, brocade-like patterns on luxurious silk. Or, eventually, imported nylon/Lycra spandex polyblend. (See Second Skin Satin, one of two still extant collections from earlier days. The patterns and colors are long gone, but the design nonetheless remains.)

A Full Coverage was the first bra to be removed from my person by someone with amorous intent. Sigh.

But then came the dark times. Or rather, the Day-Glo times. Suddenly hungry to capitalize on the horde-swarming, card-swiping tweens that flood malls across the nation, the company abandoned the mature woman/man and turned to supplying a barely coherent base with cheeky collegiate wear. Tiny this and neon that. It lasted an age.

A weensy anthem for Sapphic devotion? I'd like to think they're thinking that way, but no. What self-respecting lesbian carries around a tiny dog?

But then, like a ray of sunlight on white linen sheets in a whitewashed room – an awakening. A cleansing.

First of all, as you peruse the Victoria’s Secret website, you’ll notice the natural light; and whitewashed rooms and white linen sheets – in other words, the fresh, faith-inspiring promise of summery, mid-morning sex. Because this is a lot about lady-looking, let’s dwell on that for a second. The gentle light, along with the soft hair and makeup, are much more flattering to the models than the high-watt glossage of years past. Suddenly they seem like exceedingly touchable women, smelling of soap and a little sun – instead of oily, pre-handled Barbie dolls lit by a WalMart fluorescent overhead. Also, as I mentioned, context is key – no one has sex fantasies set in a sensory deprivation chamber, i.e. some schmo’s studio with a paper backdrop.

But what else is in abundance? HOT, CLASSY, VINTAGEY, FEMININE LINGERIE! FOR CHEAP!

High-waisted undies that embrace your curviness!

Lace! Lots of lace! Lace that hasn’t fallen into a vat of nuclear chemicals in a tragic accident! Naturally bold lace included, in appropriately naturally bold colors (thank the Lord for the cochineal, his humblest but most carmine of creatures.)

Boned merrywidows! See-through kimonos! Embroidery that doesn’t look like a political exile from its own bra!

AND GARTERS EVERYWHERE! Garter belts, garter skirts, garter slips, garter teddys…

Here are some of our favorites:

Even some of the bolder steps are well-played – or should I say, well-role-played:

French Maid

Think Catherine Deneuve.

'60s Bond girl - because what's almost as good as a tuxedo? A tuxedo BABYDOLL

Encouraging, right? Titillating, even? It’s only fair to note that vestiges of the old regime remain scattered about – a bit of flirty bullshit seared across a ‘tee’, some egregious coloring on an otherwise cute little slip, some oddly po-mo peekaboo thing. Also just some old photos. But the look of the future is here dears, in the newest collections. And it looks so refreshingly familiar!

So what have we learned? An old dog can learn old tricks. Did I mention that their clearance sale has some of the best stuff? (Rather than pray that the economy doesn’t derail this bright new retro trend, let us take matters in our own hands! Grab that thong before it’s gone! Send a powerful message across the land, let it echo in the ears of the Secret keepers – we love classy, vintage, flattering lingerie!)

Manning Up the Manhattan

How they stare...

There are too few solid, standard bourbon cocktails. There, I said it. And I’d say it again if I had to.

Let’s disambiguate that statement. What I mean by “standard” : most bartenders know how to make them, and if they don’t, the recipe is simple enough to explain  (even after four Slippery Nipples and one Slow Hard Screw, so to speak). What I mean by “solid”: I’m blushing into my collar on this one, but I’m using “solid” as a synonym for, well, “manly.” Or more accurately, “gentlemanly.”

Gentlemanliness is not the sole purview of men (as hemingwaygarter’s recent post illustrates with aplomb). Gentlemanliness is, instead, an aesthetic. Gendered, yes, but not gender-exclusive. For instance, a gentleman does not  drink anything ending in “-quiri,” or anything ending in “-tini” that does not begin with “mart”.

As a bourbon devotee, I’m often tempted to order a Manhattan, a drink which, in its luminous cocktail glass form, is about as manly as CATS. Too many times have I seen men turn cosmo-scarlet when the waiter appears with a tray of long-stemmed glasses, each more feminine than the next. Sometimes, a man wants a man’s drink (or for that matter, a woman wants a man’s drink). And the Manhattan, at default, is not.

So the Manhattan becomes the first in what I hope to be a series of reclaiming certain “femme” drinks for the masculine persuasion.

To Man Up a Manhattan:

• Replace the sweet vermouth with dry, to give your drink that rugged brown bourbon color.
• Order it “on the rocks.” Served with ice, your drink will come in a low-ball or “old fashioned” glass. Nothing long-stemmed. (Long-stemmed is fine for Martinis, a drink whose power transcends gender, and some have argued, time and space.)
• Order “with a twist.” Maraschino cherries are the clowns of the booze world, the stuff of nightmares.

And there you have it. “A dry Manhattan on the rocks with a twist.” A respectable, gentemanly drink order, for the New Gentleman.

The New Dinner Party

Since time immemorial, WASPs and their ilk have defined their culture through a primary ritual: The Dinner Party. The northstar of all etiquette-obsessed people, the dinner party is the ultimate barometer of social self-definition and WASP skills.

But in our quiet yet impeccably undergarment-ed subculture, we want to modernize these rituals, to skew them just slightly toward deviance. Sexiquette is about combining the permissiveness of the ‘60s with the fact that we do actually care which fork is the correct fork. We like decadence, but we’re offended at the suggestion that we would have to sacrifice etiquette for it.

Which is to say, we like to throw an orgy every now and then. But an orgy is really just like a dinner party. To prove the point, we will provide below an etiquette guide that outlines the parallels between the two.

The guest list is crucial. Just as you would not invite a boorish acquaintance prone to tantrums to a dinner party, so you would not invite a prudish acquaintance who is not fond of sex to an orgy.

At a dinner party it is crucial to invite at least one person for each person to talk to. At an orgy you should plan at least one guaranteed sexual partner for each guest. (Please note: It is tacky to sit next to your own spouse.)

Do not expect people at a dinner party to make conversation with guests with whom they have nothing in common. Similarly, do not expect straight friends suddenly to cease their heterosexuality because they are at an orgy. Just as not everyone is charming, not everyone is bisexual.

As a guest, it is polite to bring a small gift or bottle of wine for the host or hostess. I am always much more excited to share my lovers with someone who has just brought me a nice Bordeaux.

Just as you would not show up to a dinner party in sweatpants, you would not show up to an orgy in granny panties.

Traditionally at a dinner party, the ladies are served first, and then the gentleman.

It is polite, when a guest at someone’s house, to try all of the food offered to you, even if it does not seem to be to your taste. Similarly, it is polite at least to make out with all involved participants, and most crucially with the host or hostess.

It is impolite at a dinner party to clean your plate in record speed as though you have not eaten in days. It is similarly impolite at an orgy to grab the nearest person and rush off to a corner, as this may make the host or hostess feel that you accepted their invitation only because you couldn’t get laid in any other way. Dinner parties are intended to be social occasions, not merely an event in which you happen to address your hunger in the company of many others.

The point at a dinner party is the socializing more than the food. Similarly, half the fun of group sex may be telling people who weren’t there about it afterward, but at least a third of the remaining fun is that group sex is necessarily more social than regular sex. Make conversation. Share lingerie. Compliment people on their technique and/or their body, especially if you have not experienced/seen it naked before. Have delightful competitions. There is no reason that nakedness permits your good manners to be cast aside. “You have lovely boobs,” might be a terrible thing to say at a dinner party, but is quite welcome at an orgy.

Just as at a dinner party, you would know which fork to use, at an orgy it is equally polite to know how to use all equipment provided.

A good dinner party begins with cocktails. A good orgy ends with cocktails.

It is polite to send a thank you note the next day. In fact, the text can be exactly the same no matter to which type of event it refers. “Thank you for the lovely evening,” takes all its meaning from context.

The Girl in the Old Boys’ Club

Frown at misogyny and tradition all you like. Some part of each of us–those of us who love great novels, silk garters, gin martinis, and decadence–longs to be in a dark room, sitting in a wingbacked chair, swirling 25 year aged Scotch in a heavy glass, wearing a suit imported from London, and discussing with all the other big, important men the things we’ve published and the women we’ve seduced .

We here at sexiquette aren’t exactly invited to the Old Boys’ Club’s parties. But we love their snobbery and their good taste in liquor. So here I present the kit with which to invade the Old Boys’ Club.

best approximation of the lingerie on the cover can be found at www.whatkatiedid.com

First, you need inspiration, which means you should read John Fowles’ The Magus. The Magus is the Old Boys’ Club. It also happens to be a near-perfect novel touching on, though not limited to, topics such as boys’ boarding school, Europe, the 1950s, disaffected, self-effacing arrogant mid-twenties pseudo-womanizers, male entitlement, enormous inexplicable old money fortunes, mysterious aging rich hermits, the guest law and good manners, houseguests, academic satire, sadism, masochism, beautiful female twin sisters, and elaborate polyamorous sex games. In other words, chock full of fetish. Reading The Magus is like sneaking into the Yale Club dressed in your very finest disguise, picking someone up at the bar, taking them upstairs for a sordid adventure in the back of the library, somehow in the course of this dalliance having your heart utterly broken, and yet walking away from all that heartbreak with your lingerie still perfect.

note the fireplace in the background.

And speaking of lingerie, once you read The Magus and are therefore inspired to invade the Old Boys’ Club, you will of course want to put on fully-fashioned French heel seamed stockings from Secrets in Lace. Secrets in Lace is basically lingerie by the Old Boys’ Club, for the Old Boys’ Club. Its vintage recreations hearken back to a time (namely, the ‘50s) when femininity was so extreme as to be a type of daily female-to-female drag. Dressing up in their silks and nylons and bullet bras makes you feel like men should light expensive cigars whenever they look at you. The seamed stocking is, of course, the ultimate fetish item in women’s lingerie, as well as the ultimate coveted piece for the committed cross-dresser. And let’s be honest, we know what the Old Boys do after hours in the back room of their club.

courtesy of www.brilliantcocktails.com

The only possible accompanying drink for The Magus and for fully-fashioned stockings is, of course, the Old Fashioned. Widely agreed upon as the ultimate Old Boys’ Club cocktail, the Old Fashioned consists of brown sugar, orange bitters, high-end bourbon (Brilliant Cocktails recommends Knob Creek), a maraschino cherry, a lemon twist, and patience. The slowness of the Old Fashioned is the slow unconcern of old money and earned arrogance. And a lady drinking one is as perfectly surprising and titillating as a lady in the old boys’ club at all.

New Years Resolutions / Dissolutions

2009 has arrived. It’s time to pull ourselves together (or simply fall apart) and face the future. Please circle all that apply:

This coming year I pledge to…

1. Start taking (vitamins / Ambien).

2. At least four times a week I will (jog / be on top).

3. I will cut back to (one pack / one line) a week.

4. No (kissing / paying) on the first date.

5. No beer before (noon / whiskey).

6. No more (smoking / guns) in the house.

7. I will (stop / continue to) model myself after Edie Sedgwick.

The Peaceful Cowboy

In just a couple days the guilty and ambitious among us are going to make all kinds of self-bettering resolutions.  ‘Dress (even) better’, ‘drink (even) better’, ‘read (even) more,’ are of course our favored perennials here at Sexiquette.

And so, in these final moments before the cleansing, when we relish ungentlemanly excesses of debauchery, I give you a dark new strain of sexiquette.  The time is ripe for a deviant post, the kind that deliberately defies our credo and dilutes our intellectual mojo by substituting literature with, yes, film.

Now, I could do something thematically appropriate.  It’s a Wonderful Life is your and my favorite holiday movie. But then there’s Donna Reed, and -  bless her happy home-making heart -  she would be pretty embarrassed by what goes on around here.  So let’s leave her out of it.

Instead, I give you the ultimate anti-cowboy movie, also starring a fabulous Jimmy Stewart (if that makes you feel better):  the cleverest little parody in the west, the 1939 Destry Rides Again.

Frenchy and Destry

Good ol’ Jim is the gawky, gun-shunning son of a famous sheriff, called in to clean up a town bullied by corrupt landgrabbers. Said town is also titillated by the deep-throated vocal stylings and frilly underthings of Frenchy (a deliciously goofy and undignified Marlene Dietrich).   Half-sincere moral-philosophical dilemmas ensue, carried swiftly along by an economical and frigging hilarious script.

Cowboys in general = sexy.  Marlene Dietrich (especially a silly, self-aware Dietrich) = extremely sexy. Over-the-top saloon-wear and Jimmy Stewart as the most acerbic, un-macho, nerd-hero cowboy ever = totally sexy. Not merely satisfying entertainment, but an excellent inspiration for hotfunny roleplay.

Which brings us to the other elements of the kit.  The boys in the back room will have whiskey, thank you very much. Pendleton Whisky, which proudly proclaims its affiliation with all things Cowboy (things like ‘independent frontier spirit’ and, um, ‘rodeos’).  But it wouldn’t be us if it wasn’t urban, so our cocktail this time is a variation on the Urban Cowboy.

• 2 parts Pendleton
• 1 dash bitters
• 1 splash sweet vermouth

Serve up or on the rocks – but of course, make sure to slide it all the way down the bar, first.

Variation: Put it in a jug such as this one , so you can take your unreasonably large supply with you everywhere, develop an alcohol and vagrancy habit, and generally wait for redemption to come for you (see character: Dimsdale).

Then dress up in something along these lines, courtesy Agent Provocateur:

Frilly, fouffy, rendered totally superfluous by its glorious transparency, this item is literally called, ‘The Lacey Frenchy’.  We’re not the only ones inspired.

Happy Holidays, y’all!