Things Not to Say to a Naked Woman

Men’s Health magazine published a list of “The 30 Hottest Things to Say to a Naked Woman.” Advice for men, from men, about women is awesomely hilarious. And while a woman (say myself) could easily publish a similar-minded list of things I actually want to hear while in the buff, it’s too priceless to watch men fumble looking for the right buttons like it’s some kind of Narnia.

I’m sorry, Fine Writers of Men’s Health magazine, I have to put the kibosh on the following:

#10. “I’ll get the light.”

What have most men learned from men’s magazines? Don’t say anything that can be misconstrued because it will. You’ll turn out the light? Why? Because you don’t want to see me naked? Why not?? Am I not beautiful?! Am I FAT?? DO YOU NOT LOVE ME ANYMORE?! etc.

#8 "Hungry? Stay right here. I'll go make you a burrito."

If she’s naked, and she’s hungry, you probably just got lucky. And if you think there might be a round two in the anywhere near future, may I recommend NOT the burrito? I personally prefer ice cream, or if you really want to impress me- grilled cheese. And, babe, turn on VH1 when you get up? Thanks.

#15 Nothing. Total, deliberate silence. You can stare at her, grab her, touch her, but don't make a sound. If she tries to talk, place a finger on her lips.


While looking out the window at people not currently in bed with her: "Suckers."

…because we’re like 14 in this scenario.

17 While looking at moonlight reflecting on the ceiling: "What do you see?"

Grilled cheese and Real Chance of Love re-runs. chop chop.

#22 "Squeeze my hand when it feels really amazing."

Uh yeah, sure, dude.

The rest of the items on the list range from holy hell hot (“I love the way you taste”) to sweet (“Is it okay with you if I take this slow?”) to the yeah-that’ll-never-happen (“You sleep. I’ll go check on the baby.”)



I haven’t been home for this extended a time (7 days) in four years. I wish I had brought my camera to capture the things that used to be so ordinary that I forgot to notice them:

Two tuna cans and a Spam can full of cigarette butts on the rail of our porch- sorta covered in snow. A gargoyle on the stump in our back yard- also sorta covered in snow. One hundred and eighty four individual instances of lighthouses- on hand towels, on shower curtain rings, on paintings. An encyclopedia series from the sixties where all the facts are outdated because our population has bloated and because the lines of countries shift. Judy Garland overdosed.

A lopsided Christmas tree, each branch holding something from somewhere else- Cape Cod, Maine, Tokyo, the Paris of the South. There are three ‘Baby’s First Christmas’ ornaments. And a disco ball I bought in Mystic, RI and a sock puppet from… can’t remember. Jackson Five Christmas songs are playing in the background and somewhere my dad is feeling sentimental.

A gem-bedazzled pimp cup that says Sexy Bitch, and a sweatshirt for every day of the month. A rack of still-knotted blue, gray and green ties because my dad doesn’t know how to re-tie them. There’s a varsity jacket from ’61. A cheerleading skirt from ’00. Two empty dressers. A trunk of awards and pictures, movie stubs and love letters. Four identical toothbrushes (though two are hardly ever used)

A carton of soy milk untouched from Thanksgiving, seven varieties of Pop Tarts, an almost empty tub of cookie dough that has never seen the oven. Lean Pockets.

The closet under the stairs that smells exactly like the attic. A TV remote whose battery is failing but if you push the buttons really hard…