When my first love and I broke up, I was still new to the world of sex. I was 22 years old when we said our tearful goodbye, knowing full well that what we had at that young age wouldn’t be able to transcend time. I remember thinking I’d not only never love again, but never, ever have sex again either. Sometimes I really miss the equal parts drama and naivety that comes with youth.
As a way to cope with the loss, I set up camp on my couch with endless supplies of veggie burgers and Ben & Jerry’s, and drowned my sorrows in “Beverly Hills, 90210″ reruns. I still contend that Emily Valentine really was one of the highlights of the show, and I have the months of obsessively watching it as scientific evidence. I also saw a wee bit of myself in her.
After a few years had passed, I started dating men here and there, having superficial flings steeped in alcohol as the common denominator, and by the time I moved to New York City, casual sex was all I was really interested in. It was there for the offering, I knew I enjoyed it, at least most of the time, so why not take advantage of sexual opportunities that life presented me?
Then I fell in love again. Keep reading »
There’s nothing worse than being on a date, one that’s not too exciting, and just wishing it could end in sex. It’s as though you’re counting down the minutes, maybe even weighing the social graces of when it’s actually OK to mention that it’s time to head out and get it on somewhere. It kinda makes you wonder why you just didn’t skip the whole date thing and get straight to the fucking, doesn’t it? Besides, it’s not like you’re looking for love at the moment anyway.
Far too many people waste their time on chatter and getting to know someone when in reality they just want to bang. Even my friends who use hookup apps often complain to me that although both parties are well aware that they’re there to have sex, there’s this awkward period of sort of dancing around the inevitable. But why? Why is it so hard for us to just drop our pants and get right in there? Is it that ingrained that forging some superficial connection is a necessary step before a physical connection can be even broached? If so, un-train your brain and go for the jugular, sexually speaking, of course. You’re there to get down, so just do it already. Keep reading »
I hate admitting that I even have a bucket list in the first place, but I do and there are many things on it, and I hope to eventually cross
all most of them off. While I know “Yoko-ing” a band and becoming the muse for the fashion designer Nicolas Ghesquière, à la Charlotte Gainsbourg, are likely impossible to achieve, there are still some things that I must do before I die – if only to kill the curiosity within and gain some bragging rights. One such item on the aforementioned list is having sex in public. Why? I don’t know. The thrill, maybe; the been there, done that, need to check it off my list, even more so.
Having just recently updated my bucket list to include a public romp (and running the Boston Marathon — haha, I can’t even run a half-mile!), my new husband and I ventured off on our honeymoon. Italy is a country of love, art, and pizza, so what better a place to have sex in public? It’s not like we’d be the first to take a roll in the grass of Boboli Gardens (where we made our first attempt), nor will we be the last to have sex in a dully-lit alleyway against some ancient ruin in Rome.
My husband, already having done the whole public sex thing, wasn’t as enthused as I was. “It’s different when you’re younger,” he said. But that didn’t deter me. After a couple of minor debacles, we pulled it off like champs, well, as close to champions we’re personally able to be, and I can proudly say that my bucket list is one item lighter. Does this make me a pro? Hell no! But from my experience and the experience of some others, I now present the ultimate how-to guide for having sex in public. It’s the summer, you guys; let’s get the most out of this warm weather, shall we? Keep reading »
When I fell in love with my fiancé Olivier, I knew he had some baggage. He had been married before and, admittedly, it bothered me a bit. I had always assumed that I would marry someone who was also tying the knot for the first time, but that’s not how it worked out. Olivier also has a four-year-old daughter, and although I’m what you would call a “kid person” — I’m pretty sure I don’t want my own — I loved him enough that I was willing to adjust and deal with the occasional inconveniences that a child of that age can present.
But what never really came into my head, as a potential obstacle, was his ex-wife. She was his ex, after all, but having zero experience at dating men with kids, it never really quite registered that maybe, just maybe, there would be some drama there as well. Despite having seen hundreds of bad rom-coms where an ex-wife does everything in her power to make the new wife miserable, I was not prepared to experience such a cliche in my own life. I wasn’t expecting an ex who probably had watched those same bad rom-coms, but mistook them for coaching seminars. Keep reading »
In high school, I fell for a guy named Opie. That was not his given name but a nickname he had acquired along the way. I would have asked from where it had come, but I never found the necessary strength to even talk to him, let alone inquire about the particulars of his life. I was a 16-year-old magenta-haired dork who hung around the art studios both before and after school. I was in no position to start conversations with Kurt Cobain look-a-likes who rocked the same greasy locks and dresses that only the ’90s permitted without too many batted eyelashes.
Opie embodied that “fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me” mentality that I craved in a partner. I longed for a tortured soul, someone who was messed up enough that only drugs and alcohol seemed like the cure for the ailments in their world. In my naïve brain, I was the one who could save them, me and only me. From what I heard, after he left school, Opie got a girl pregnant and had his fair share of struggles with substance abuse. As for where he is now, I have no idea. Like I said, it was the ’90s, heroin chic was in the air and in the pages of Vogue, drug use was glamorized, and in all my sheltered cluelessness about the world, a death that resulted from substance abuse was a badge of a life lived to the extreme. I roll my eyes now at how both ridiculous and insulting that thought is to those who know the very dark side of drug and alcohol addiction, both personally and as an outsider looking in at a loved one. Keep reading »
This is a difficult letter to write. But it has to be said. I’ve been struggling with my feelings about you for a long time now. I wasn’t sure how to express it all clearly and carefully, without hurting you. No one ever wants to hear that they’re not the cat’s pajamas. Believe me, I understand. Keep reading »
I’ve lived in New York City for a little over 10 years. As any of the other writers for The Frisky can tell you (and have written about over and over), dating in this city isn’t as easy as a walk in Central Park. In a city of eight million people where the single women outnumber the single men by roughly 150,000, the stakes are high and the pickings slim. Having been out there floating in that sea for longer than I would have wished on most people, archenemies excluded, naturally I have found myself in sexual predicaments that, tragically, I probably won’t be forgetting anytime soon. Actually, there’s a very good chance I’ll never forget some of these scarring and haunting forays into the ridiculous. And because of this, I think the best way to deal is to share them with someone besides my therapist. Keep reading »
I first wrote about my abortion in the spring of 2012. At that point, it had been seven years since my procedure, and something that never crossed my mind. Although the majority of the responses were overwhelmingly positive and other women took to the comments section to share their own abortion stories, those who were against my right to choose were, of course, cruel and heartless in what they had to say. For the next several days, I was attacked on Twitter and emailed threats by religious zealots, and was event old that my mother should have aborted me so I couldn’t abort my baby. (Someone explain that logic to me, please.)
A week later, despite all the hate being thrown my way, I wrote a follow-up piece declaring that I was happy that I wrote about my abortion, because I was. I was just as happy that I wrote about i as I was that I had the abortion in the first place. It was an election year with women’s reproductive rights at the forefront of many candidates’ platforms. It was this fact that made me write about my abortion; I wanted to put a name and face to the issue. I wasn’t ashamed. Looking back, whatever guilt I felt the day of my abortion was guilt that I didn’t feel guilty at all. I had gotten pregnant accidentally despite having been on the Pill, I was in no way emotionally or financially ready to have a child, and abortion, for me, was not just a solution, but a gift. My abortion, in many ways, saved my life. Keep reading »
Ours was the shortest courtship that I had ever heard of. Well, except for celebrities, but we all know how those turn out most of the time. Oh, and that girl I knew in college who went on a date with a college professor and was married to him two days later. Fool, was what we muttered under our breath. Over 10 years later, they’re still married, and now have two kids. Perhaps, we were the foolish ones to doubt them.
So when, after just five months of dating someone, I announced to my friends and family that I was engaged, the shock was, well, huge. Admittedly, I was shocked myself, and I expected others to be stunned by it, but the outpouring of public “Congratulations!” messages that were followed by private emails begging, “Are you fucking kidding me?” was something I surely didn’t expect – at least not to that extent. Keep reading »
I do not like my nose. Although I no longer hate it with the same gusto I did at 15, I still do not accept it.
I do not like my thighs; they’re huge and riddled with stretch marks thanks to a growth spurt at 12, and my stomach refuses to be flat – but I guess I have Lombardi’s pizza to blame for that one. I wish my ass was perkier; my boobs are too big and too saggy, my lips should be less thin and pout on command, and my teeth are too small — straight, but small. My dentist refuses to give me veneers; we’ve been arguing about it for years.
In other words, I’m not very keen on my body, and I certainly don’t accept it. If one more person tells me I have to, I’m going to lose my shit and throw something really heavy and dangerous. Keep reading »