It’s been called to my attention that high school girls (as well as girls my own age) have grown progressively more awkward as the years have passed. Mostly, I’ve noticed this in theater kids, who are the only teenagers that matter anyway.

As a favor to  the awkward female society, and their potential future lovers, I am opening a learning facility, here on insincerelyyours.org. The lessons are free of monetary charge— all I ask of students is respect (and by respect I obviously mean worship).

Now, I am not teaching “how to catch a man.” Lord knows that is not my area of expertise. Rather, I am teaching how to capture male attention and create a persona/appearance so desirable, it is found intimidating to male counterparts. (If the man is too afraid to approach the unapproachable, he isn’t worth dating/blowing anyway.) This is what we strive for here at Insincerely Yours, ladies.

First and foremost: The Walk

The way you carry yourself can either make or break an entrance. A good walk can fool a target audience into believing not only that you’re much taller than you actually are, but  also that you’re much more attractive than you actually are.

I’ve always said that every girl deserves to believe she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Thinking any less causes jealousy and insecurities. Carry yourself as though you are better than everyone else, and know that after this lesson, you will be.

Remember: Shoulders back, tits out, head held high. A slight sway of the hips is also important. 4+ inch stilettos will aid you in your hip-swaying endeavors. We are not talking a full-fledged Marilyn Monroe wiggle, but rather a modified strut. 

Also, always remember never to look down. This gives the illusion that you think you’re shit— and if you think you’re shit, so will everyone else. 

Make-Up

STOP! Put the colored eye shadow down and step away from the M.A.C. counter. Break it. Never touch it again. Grays, browns, and golds are your only consistently friendly colors. If you are lucky enough to have blue eyes, brown tinted purples are also acceptable, but be  careful not to make yourself look like your imaginary boyfriend beats you. 

Know that spending $45 on trendy brand-name foundation will not make you pretty, and neither will the expensive brushes they try to sell you. Revlon Colorstay and your fingers will do you just fine. 

Throw out your lipgloss. You should not appear to have just eaten a pork chop, because no man wants to lick pork chop grease off of your face.

Pointers:

• Slight cat-eyes are flattering.
• If you don’t have eyelashes, buy some. They sell shorter, natural looking fake lashes.
• Lipstick colors can be dangerous. Red ones should have blue undertones, and pink ones should be halfway between pink and red.
• Blush can make or break a face, just like a walk can make or break an entrance. Do not, I repeat, Do NOT listen to the makeup artist on the TV show “What Not To Wear”. I would rather die than apply blush to the “apples” of my cheeks. You are no longer a chubby school girl, and should not give the illusion that you are one. Apply blush only above or IN the hollow.
• If you have no eyebrows, fill them in. Eye shadow looks the most natural. Pencil works only if you know how to apply it. (I don’t much care for the “natural” look, but I also don’t strive to look like I use Sherwinn Williams brand make-up.) Make sure there is a visible and obvious arch. Flat eyebrows are a no-go, they make for an expressionless face.

Hands:

Your hands are an imminent part of your sex appeal. Your hands should scream, “wouldn’t you love to see me wrapped around your dick?!” Which means:

• Your nails can’t be short
• The polish can’t be chipped or neon colored unless your potential lover is a pedofile.
• They should never be squared french tips, because this gives the illusion that you charge for handjobs.

Clothes:

First, buy clothes that fit. The size 6 won’t make you look like a size 6 if you aren’t one.

Second, if you want to make an entrance, jeans are probably not your best bet. Jeans are best saved for days when your good dresses and skirts are at the dry-cleaners. But, when shopping for jeans is necessary, remember that pocket-less jeans make your ass look its largest if you have one. Also remember that if you’re into the “big booty” look, you cannot wear panties with pocket-less pants. Panty lines are a fashion sin. If you have no ass and are into the big booty look, you need pants with flap-pockets. Usually these are button or snap-close. 

Long dresses with high slits are a good pair of legs’ best friend. If you haven’t got the legs to flaunt, a nicely cut long dress will leave enough to the imagination. Short dresses are to be worn with caution. There is a huge difference between sexy and slutty.

Your safest (and sexiest) color palette includes blacks, reds, and deep hues of purple. White can be extraordinarily sexy, but is also to be worn with extreme caution. Not all of us can be Marilyn Monroe. 

My waistline plays a large role in my sexuality, as my measurements are a bit out of this world (38, 25, 40). If you do not have a small waist, belts and good corsets can help. However, it is important that you remember your waist is supposed to be around your belly button. If your rib-cage is smaller than your waist, that does not mean you should wear your belt there. Everyone knows that a belt below the tits means you haven’t got a waist. Save yourself the embarrassment and don’t wear one if you don’t know how. 

Speaking/Conversation/Sex Jokes

A famous quote of mine is “Dress like a lady, swear like a sailor,” meaning it’s a balancing act. If you’re going to talk about blow jobs or masturbation, make sure you also know about classic literature and films other than Mean Girls and Napolean Dynamite. This way, no one can call you a ‘dumb’ slut. Because you’re not. You’re a smart slut. 

Never speak in a baby voice. It isn’t sexy, it’s annoying (again, unless your potential lover suffers from pedophilia.) If you have a naturally high pitched voice— smoke. No one wants to fuck a munchkin.

A properly executed sex joke is a skill that takes years of development. I learned most of my comedic timing from Fran Drescher (Fran Fine, The Nanny), Kim Catrall (Samantha Jones, Sex and the City) and Megan Mullally (Karen Walker, Will and Grace). In films, attatch yourself to the slutty best friend character. She usually has the best one-liners. Eventually you’ll catch on.

Sex jokes should not be overtly vulgar, but suggestive, and should be slipped casually into conversation when the opportunity presents itself. For instance, at Disney Land the other day, my friend suggested that the teacup ride isn’t any fun unless “we spin hard and go fast,” to which I responded, “That’s my motto, anyway.”

Remember, when a joke flops, the awkward silence to follow is only awkward if you make it awkward. I live for those moments. They’re usually even funnier than the original joke.

Happy fucking!

Love,

Casey 

I spend most of my life thinking about sex, reprimanding myself for eating and examining my reflection in any mirror I pass.

I often catch myself inspecting the length and width of my nail beds, and deciding whether or not the jewelry I’m wearing compliments my four inch claws.

I spend a lot of time driving around town, seemingly aimlessly, but usually I’m headed to school or rehearsal, or the liquor store. (Or some combination of the three.)

I spin vinyls, I read old books.

I probably watch more commercials than TV, but not by choice.

I sing a lot.

I pee all the time. 

In the past two years I’ve probably spent a combined 6 months with a cigarette in my hand.

I recite dramatic monologues in the bathroom because I like to watch myself cry in the mirror.

I think about what might qualify as the perfect murder.

I talk to myself— as myself, and as men that I’m not actually on a date with. 

I masturbate a lot.

I waste a lot of time trying to locate new batteries once I’ve drained mine. 

I waste moments on facebook, I waste days sleeping. 

I think about failed relationships.

I wonder who’s looking at me with desire and who’s staring at “that freak.”

I focus on carrying my head high, and skimming over people’s heads without looking directly at them— a biography once said Elizabeth Taylor did that to avoid being bombarded by fans and paparazzi.

I adjust my boobs and change my outfits hundreds of times, until my waist looks as small as humanly possible. 

I dream of the day older men I love won’t see me as a child.

I write nonsense for no reason. 

I make fun of hypocrites. 

Sometimes I cry without cause.

I forget to take my birth control pill more often than not. 

I look at myself naked every time I get out of the shower— sometimes I love my body, and sometimes I loathe it. 

I sleep in my makeup and wear a towel over my face when I get out of the shower if people are home.

My best friend has seen me without makeup once.

I have flashbacks while I’m talking to men I’ve slept with.

I imagine sex while I’m talking to men I haven’t slept with.

I imagine being held every night that I’m not. 

I reapply face powder and lipstick all day.

I dream of my fabulous life— where I’m skinny enough to wear long silk spaghetti strapped dresses that skim my protruding pelvic boness, and my tits are firm enough to not wear a bra. I have some old husband who’s basically on his death bed— but I’m obviously devastated because I truly believe I’m in love with him for all the wrong reasons— because I’m used to him, because he’s comfortable, because he takes care of me. But, I dry my mascara stained face and find solace in the diamonds he bought for me, Dom Perignon, my white marble floors, and my three lovers. I’m in love with two, the third is of convenience and probably likes me more than the other two. There is a gay man in a suit playing the white Steinway grand piano in one of my living areas. One of my crystal ashtrays sits atop it. …See how much time I waste doing that?

I fall in love with men who are completely unavailable (or gay).

I don’t stop painting my face until I’ve successfully compared it to the enormous portrait of Saint Elizabeth opposite my mirror.

I fondle my own breasts constantly.

I stare at other beautiful women.

I play dress up at least once a day.

I wonder whether I’d ever subject myself to plastic surgery. It seems to me that I’m vain enough, but perhaps not desperate enough. 

I’d probably get a breast lift. 

I haven’t decided whether I’d have my ribs broken for a smaller waist/weird flexibility.

I worry about death and infinity.

I talk to ghosts.

I wonder if any man will ever appreciate me the way Joe Dimaggio appreciated Marilyn Monroe.

I wonder if men think of me as easy.

I think of me as easy.

I spend more than half of the day with a Diet Coke in my hand, and my entire life pretending to be stronger than I actually am.

In the past few days I’ve found myself wondering— what exactly are the rules of dating? Because I’m almost positive that I always break them.

Recently, I had a wine date with an incredibly attractive fashion design major. He showed up in a suit— making me feel incredibly under-dressed (which never happens to somebody who wears a full length fur coat to the DMV). I had to finish two bottles of wine in order to function like a normal human being.

It took us copius amounts of alcohol, ten episodes of “Three’s Company”, and Daniel Tosh’s stand up act to even touch each other. But it seemed as though once we did, we couldn’t stop. I’d never before kissed a man who was so incredibly attractive that I, in turn, felt uncomfortable.

This morning my mother pointed out a hickey that I didn’t know I had.

“I do not have a hickey,” I said.

“Yes, you do,” she argued.

“No I don’t!” 

She sighed. “Move your hair.”

I ran to the bathroom. There was an enormous black and blue spot where my neck meets my shoulders— the place I tell every man to bite me.

“I feel like I’m 16,” I said, “who gets hickeys at 20?”
“Whores,” she responded.

I shrugged, and debated whether the next sentence forming in my head was going to escape my lips. It did. “To be honest, I don’t even know if it’s from him,” I said.

Mostly, I’m worried whether he’ll call me again. We didn’t sleep together, it was only our first date. I at least knew of that rule (plus I was on the rag). I had never realized how extraordinarily difficult it is to hold out on a man who wears a pocket square. However, I’ve also considered the fact that NOT sleeping with him may have  actually played out against my favor.

I believe that there are several reasons he may not call back:

1. I didn’t sleep with him.

2. He’s quite well spoken, and I swear like a sailor.

3. I wasn’t wearing a formal gown.

4. I’m a smoker.

5. I talk about sex. A lot.

It never occurred to me that talking incessantly about fornication might qualify as a turn-off. In a profession such as “sex columnist”, though, the topic is bound to come up. The following question is always, “Well, what exactly does that entail?” And lying is probably against the rules of dating, too (even though it would probably be of aid, in my case).

Since I’m not certain whether he’ll call again, I thought about sending him a relationship request on Facebook, just to set it in stone.

At least then, I’d be sure.

I was sitting on the theater roof with a cigarette and my script. I affectionately recalled my inventive use of the fire escape ladder located directly behind me. I wished Robin was with me— it was her day to bring alcohol.

The last time I’d had my period was before we had gone to Utah. That seemed wrong to me. I began thinking about the possibility of pregnancy, which I’d probably ended with this weeks alcohol/nicotine intake.

I felt really awful mulling the idea of killing a child for my love of martinis, so I set out to right my wrongs. I found a screwed up dirty baby doll abandoned in the prop room, cleaned it off, and wrapped it in a blanket. Then I walked around cradling it against my chest for a while. Once I finally realized what a lunatic I looked like, I carefully set the swaddled baby back in its prop basket. 

What would I do if I was pregnant, and the alcohol and nicotine hadn’t aborted my growing fetus? 

Would I be a good mother?

Would I be a dead beat mother?

Or, would I kill myself and just be a dead mother?

None of those options sounded appealing to me in the least. So, I had another cigarette and hoped that would work. Also, I prayed extra heavily— a lot like the time I had a pregnancy scare in elementary school.  

I started my period this morning in my business class. Either God or Grey Goose loves me.

And then I came to the realization that it’s just one of those really weird days when you’re happy about starting your period, because actually, you wouldn’t have known who the father was anyway.

I arrived at rehearsal, two 40s concealed in my oversized purse. My new BFF Robin and I trade off bringing alcohol for inspirational purposes.

I spent most of the night in the upstairs costume room hunting for ghosts and clutching my Bud Light for security. I thought about the sexual romps I’d had in nearby quarters and on the roof— and then I started to worry about the padded bra I was wearing under my costume. My director had pulled me aside days before and told me that my tits were too big for the 1920’s setting of the show. I set my empty 40 on a shelf in the prop room amongst the other “prop” alcohol bottles. I consider my on-campus drinking habits a donation to the future Rio Hondo productions. 

Buzzed and beautiful I was prepared to rehearse my sex scene with the guy who plays my lover. “Thank God I’m wearing panties today ,” I said. 

My director whirled around, “TMI, Casey.”

I was confused, “But I said I AM wearing panties. It would have been ‘TMI’ if I’d said I wasn’t wearing any.”

I heard my previous scene partner’s booming voice from the audience, “Casey never wears panties,” he announced, “and I’ve got the pants to prove it.”

Mid-straddle with my lover, I shot my offender a middle finger over my shoulder. 

Robin turned to face him, knowing that he was talking about the time I’d bled through my skirt and onto his pants during a rehearsal. “Excuse you…” She demanded.

He shrugged, unphased, “it’s an inside joke.”

She rolled her eyes (she’s really good at that), “Not anymore,” she sighed.

I don’t actually care that much if anyone knows that I got my period all over his jeans (in fact, in retrospect, he probably deserved it), but I do actually care that now people probably assume that I fucked him.

Which I didn’t.

And thus, I am taking the time to publish the true story— informing the public that I may indeed be a bloody mess, but am not and have never been a slutty mess.

…With him.