Author: Šinko Jurica

Let’s be real for a second. You know that feeling. It’s that thick, heavy vibe in the room that hits you right in the gut. It’s the split second before a first kiss, or that lingering look across a crowded dive bar that says everything without saying a single word. People call it chemistry. They call it a spark. But let’s call it what it actually is: sexual tension. Here is the cold, hard truth: without it, you are just a buddy. You’re the guy she calls when she needs help moving a couch, not the guy she calls when…

Let’s cut the fluff. Dating is terrifying. You are sitting there, probably in a restaurant that’s too loud, wondering if there is spinach in your teeth or if your jokes are landing. I’ve been there. I remember a date about five years ago—let’s call her Sarah. We were at this dim Italian joint, the kind with the red checkered tablecloths. I was sweating through my shirt, terrified of silence. She told a joke. It wasn’t even that funny, something about a penguin. But I froze. I wanted to look cool, so I gave this stiff, single-note “Ha.” It sounded like…

You know that specific silence? The one that hangs in the air when he walks through the door? He tosses his keys on the counter—clatter—and you can practically see the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. The air feels heavy. You ask the standard question, the one we all ask: “How was your day?” And you get the standard lie: “Fine.” It wasn’t fine. You know it. He knows it. But the bridge between his internal chaos and your desire to connect feels like it’s collapsed. He retreats. Maybe he turns on the TV, maybe he scrolls…

I still remember the exact moment I realized I had absolutely no idea how to walk properly. It wasn’t when I was a toddler. It was my junior year of college, a time when a man’s confidence is usually inversely proportional to his actual competence. I had just saved up enough cash from a terrible bartending gig to buy a pair of “grown-up” leather boots. These weren’t just shoes; they were statement pieces. Heavy, stiff, and loud. They made a satisfying thud-clack on the pavement that announced my arrival before I even rounded a corner. I felt cool. I felt…

You walk into a crowded room—maybe it’s a bar on a Friday night, a high-stakes boardroom, or just the line for coffee. You haven’t opened your mouth yet. You haven’t told a joke, flashed a smile, or bought anyone a drink. But the verdict is already in. People are sizing you up, and they are doing it fast. This isn’t social anxiety talking; it’s hardwired biology. What are they seeing? Are they looking at a man collapsed inward, shielding his vital organs, signaling exhaustion and submission? Or are they seeing someone expansive, open, and undeniably ready to engage with the…

Let me tell you a secret that guys talk about constantly when women aren’t around. We aren’t the complicated puzzles magazines make us out to be. You spend hours contouring your cheekbones, agonizing over which heels match the dress, or worrying if your hair has enough volume. But the truth? The thing that actually short-circuits our brains is usually something you do without even thinking. It’s the lip bite. I’m speaking as a guy here. Seeing a woman bite her lip is the biological equivalent of seeing a checkered flag at the racetrack. It stops us dead. It signals desire,…

I still remember the first time fragrance completely hijacked my brain. Her name was Sarah. We were sophomores in college, stuck in a lecture hall that smelled like wet wool and stale coffee. It was raining. I was bored. Then she leaned over to borrow a pen. That was it. A wave of something warm—vanilla, maybe, but darker, like burnt sugar and wood—hit me. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t scream for attention. It just drifted into my personal space and set up camp in my amygdala. I forgot the professor existed. I forgot my own name for a solid ten…

Look, I’m going to level with you. As a guy, I know we get a bad rap for being oblivious. You could be dropping hints the size of an anvil, laughing at jokes that aren’t even funny, or standing so close we’re practically sharing oxygen, and a lot of us still won’t get it. We are simple creatures in that way. But there is one thing—one specific, non-verbal weapon—that cuts through the fog of our cluelessness and hits us right in the gut. I’m talking about eye contact. But not just any eye contact. I’m talking about the kind that…

Let’s just put it all out on the table right now. Dating is messy. It’s confusing. It feels like walking through a minefield blindfolded while trying to recite poetry. You’re staring at your phone screen, thumb hovering over the “send” button, terrified that one wrong emoji is going to send him running for the hills. You want him to want you. You want to be the thought that keeps him awake at 2 AM. You want to spark that primal, undeniable curiosity in his brain that makes him think, “I need to know who she is.” I get it. As…

Look, I’ll be the first to admit it: men are frustratingly confusing. We don’t always say what we mean, and half the time, we don’t even know how to say what we feel. You’re probably sitting there right now, staring at your phone, re-reading a text message for the fiftieth time, trying to decipher if “See ya” means “I can’t wait to see you again” or “Goodbye forever.” I’ve been on the other side of that screen. It’s a headache. But here is the thing about us guys—we aren’t nearly as good at hiding our cards as we think we…