I was at a party a few years ago, where Mikey, one of my gay best friends, and I were having one of our heart-to-hearts. “Devon and I broke up,” he announced.
“What, why!? You seemed so perfect together,” I gasped.
“Eh, we were both tops,” he sighed. Keep reading »
I was never one of those little girls who begged God to give her boobs. If anything, I desperately wanted them to stop growing. By the time I hit middle school, I was strapping them down into a sports bra that made it look I had a uni-boob around my chest like a tire. I was never psyched that I had big breasts. I liked wearing little boys’ T-shirts with overalls in high school and I remember looking down one day and thinking that I just wanted to be a little girl again—I didn’t want the body of a woman. I couldn’t get dressed without looking either matronly or slutty. There wasn’t really an in-between for me and my boobs. By the time I was 25, they were a 34G. Keep reading »
As a person who considers herself fairly sexually experimental and experienced, I thought by my the time I turned 28, with plenty of boyfriends and partners under my belt, I’d be deep into the wild world of sex toys. Not the case. While I’d always had great sex, I’m embarrassed to confess that I’m a sex toy virgin.
It’s not that sex toys don’t interest me; they totally do. But I’ve just never really gotten around to using them. Keep reading »
It’s pretty clear that when it comes to emailing, women are the superior executors of online, text-based transmissions. Leave the same medium in the hands of men, and, well, things go off the rails. Mostly, they never seem to know what to write or how to hit the right tone. From far too fawning to too plain dumb, here are the top 10 moronic things men said to me in emails in 2010. Add your own in the comments. Keep reading »
I’ve had good sex and bad sex, but there’s one thing I’ve never had: solo sex. That’s right: I’m a 34-year-old woman who has never masturbated. I know it sounds crazy. Many people swear that masturbation is a critical part of being a sexually satisfied woman, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to do it. This came up recently while watching Natalie Portman go to town with herself in “Black Swan.” Self-love just doesn’t seem like the right thing to do. My vagina and I just aren’t that close.
As a feminist, I rationally understand that I’ve in some ways internalized the social stigmas around female sexuality, and I don’t know how I’ll ever get over them. I just don’t want to have that kind of interaction … with myself.
Keep reading »
I first heard the word “labiaplasty” three years ago. Immediately, my interest was piqued. My unruly butterfly wings — otherwise known as my labia — interfered with my sexual activities. Riding a bike for more than 15 minutes? Painful. Camel toe? Obvious. Intercourse? Lube did little to relieve all that smooshing, pulling, stretching, especially when condoms were involved.
And then there were the unsolicited anatomical editorials that I’d received over the years, ranging from the respectfully observant, “You’re very floral,” to the horrifying, “Damn, girl. You got a fat p***y!,” to the complimentary, “Actually, I like it full and lippy … That’s my thing.” Keep reading »