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 »
Once again I was looking at Cosmo, furrowing intensely and wondering where on earth they come up with their nonsense. I do this from time to time because I follow them on Twitter (don’t ask me why.) I also like to give my brow a workout with all the aforementioned furrowing.
In this episode of Cosmo forces Chatel to face-palm, they gathered up some of the lies men tell to get into the pants of the ladies:
You already know men will do anything to get a woman into bed—especially when she’s as awesome as you are. And they’re rarely slick about it. That’s why we asked you to tweet us the biggest doozies you’ve heard from dudes in search of a little nooky. Get ready to LOL at these weak lines. Keep reading »
As we covered last week, ladies’ night is essential. It’s time to check in with your girls, escape, and really get your bond on while leaving the work week behind. It’s also an evening that calls for sequins and stilettos; well, usually.
If you’re out owning the streets with your crew, you’re bound to get into some situations that can be both sticky and fun. What’s a night without a little drama? It’s a night you could have just stayed home, that’s what. So, do the night right, and don’t miss a beat. Keep reading »
If we were to take anything important from the Christmas classic “It’s A Wonderful Life” (besides the fact that every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings), it’s that no man, or rather, woman, for our purposes, “is a failure who has friends.” This is completely true. Have you ever imagined your life without your friends? It’s all tea parties with stuffed animals and lengthy chats with the walls in your bedroom – none of which talk back, or tell you how amazing you look in those jeans. It’s, for lack of a better word, sad.
Whether you’re single, in a relationship, engaged or married, it’s essential to make sure you have a regular standing “ladies’ night” with the women in your life. Why? Well, because, as we just covered, you’re a failure if you don’t have friends. No! But friends do add the necessary color to our lives that we all need to flourish, grow and be deliriously happy. Keep reading »
It was after L left and I looked in the mirror that I realized I might have a problem. My breasts and neck were covered in bruises and bite marks. One was even bleeding; that would leave a scar. I was heading to my parents’ house in two days for Christmas, and although I knew I could cover the mess that had been made of my boobs, my neck was going to be a different story. If I had a stockpile of turtlenecks, it would have been one thing, but I’m just not a turtleneck type of girl.
When I first started dating, I knew that I liked to be bitten. There was something both sensual and animalistic about it that I couldn’t help but be enticed by. When I masturbated it was always something I thought about: that aggressive devouring that would leave battle scars. However, high school, and even college guys, were hesitant to rock the boat in their sexual performances. So, when I’d whisper, “Bite my neck,” I would either end up with sad little hickeys or their efforts would be so weak that I would never bother to ask again. There’s nothing worse than a weak bite. Keep reading »
Traveling to another country is always exciting. This is especially true if you go alone. You’re out there yucking it up solo, living your life and maybe even doing things that you wouldn’t do back home. You are you, but the vacation version of you. And what does the vacation version of you do? Takes a shit ton of chances! Not crazy chances, but rockin’ the boat type of stuff that will make for great stories when you get home.
So if you’re single, out in the world and maybe even in a country where there is a barrier thanks to language, how do you meet someone? Whether you’re looking for a one-night-stand, a fling or maybe something long lasting, you have to be able to get over all that “lost in translation” stuff. It can happen, because as they say, “love is the international language.” Or, to be more honest, straight-up banging actually is. Keep reading »