I’m so sick of men saying that all you need to get laid is “to be a woman.” If that were truly the case, would all women, everywhere, be getting laid at all times whenever and however they want? Yes. Does that actually happen in the real world? No. When it comes to this particular topic, guys don’t really know what they’re talking about. But, hey, if they want to think we have all the necessary skills and assets to constantly be getting some, then let them live with their delusions. Godspeed.
Since it isn’t always a piece of cake, I’m here to give you a few tips on the matter. After years and years of being single (I’m married now), I not only mastered the art of dating, but I got the whole “getting laid when you really want to” thing in the bag. Dudes are probably right that it’s easier for us to have no strings attached sex, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t require at least a little bit of effort on our part. Keep reading »
I have big boobs. Whereas some women would kill to have the knockers I have, I’ve never been a huge fan of them. I mean, yes, it’s a pretty impressive rack, but at the price of back pain and the inability to get a dress to fit me properly, I’d prefer them to be smaller. I think I’d be happy with a nice B-cup, which is a small cry from the Double-D situation I have at the moment.
Not too surprisingly, my boobs have always been a favorite physical asset of the men I’ve dated. They’ve loved my brain, I think, and I’ve always been complimented on my sick sense of humor and my eyes, but when it came to my boobs, well, they’ve always won major points with the guys in my life, both straight and gay. In addition to being an ideal place for the men I’ve been intimate with to put their hands or rest their head, my boobs have provided other, more exciting experiences. What could be more exciting than a breast for a pillow, you ask? Keep reading »
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 »