At the tender age of 19, I had only seen a total of four penises: the guy who got into my bed naked after a rave in high school; my boyfriend who I lost my virginity to senior year; the balding dorm mate who I gave an unfortunate blow job to while a James Bond movie played in the background; the older dude I had casual sex with my entire freshman year and most of my sophomore year of college. I had only slept with two of these penises, but this I assure you, all four were of modest size. (I can say this with confidence now that I’m older and have seen many a dick.)
This is where I was at in my sexual evolution when I started dating William*. He lived in my dorm sophomore year and came over sometimes to hang out and wanted to listen to, of all things, Tori Amos. I know! A 19-year-old boy who likes Tori Amos? William’s admission of Tori Amos fandom made him instantaneously more attractive to me. Not that he wasn’t already attractive. With his bleached-blond hair, piercings and post-punk style, when he leaned over and kissed me as “Pretty Good Year” played on my stereo then leaned over and whispered, “I want to fuck you on my balcony,” I felt something I had never experienced before: raging desire. Continue reading
The flash went off with a “pop” and the photographer patiently told me to loosen up. My hands were sweaty and my heart was beating a mile a minute. Trying my best to concentrate, I twisted into an elegant pose and took a deep breath to soften my expression. The resulting photograph was beautiful but the experience was terrifying.
I was 20-years-old when I first took my clothes off for money. While it might seem sordid, it wasn’t as bad as you might expect. A sophomore in college in New York, I was completely broke and my babysitting job wasn’t going to pay my rent for the summer while I interned. An old acquaintance — I’ll call her Tania — had been posting censored nude photos of herself on Facebook, and out of sheer curiosity I wrote her a message about it. She quickly replied and said that she had been making extra money “art modeling” for photographers. I was intrigued.
The other weekend I was at brunch with some friends and the topic of our conversation was cock rings. Not your average brunch convo, but a lively one nonetheless.
“If you haven’t already, you girls have to get a vibrating cock ring. It changed everything.”
I know, this sounds like one of those cheesy tampon commercials. I’m paraphrasing from memory, but this was a near-exact approximation of what she said. Next, she went on about her amazing orgasm thanks to said vibrating cock ring. She is also a squirter. So she’s one of those orgasmic overachievers. Bitch.
By the end of brunch the other girls wanted to rush to the CVS down the block to buy them. I spent most of brunch trying to stifle an eye roll. Not because I’m single and have no one to fuck and have never squirted in my life (although that might be part of it), but because I find vibrating cock rings to be highly overrated and the time I used one was farcical at best. Continue reading
“So, this is kind of a random question…”
I nodded my head at the man across from me. I was in the kitchen of a fellow parent from my child’s school. I had come to pick my son up from a playdate, and found myself hanging around making small talk while the kids finished up playing. Between multiple playdates and a few shared meals, we had become friendly with this family and had reached the level of Facebook friends and random text exchanges. I was curious what his random question could entail.
“Do you … well … do you know where I could get some pot?” Continue reading
At the age of three, I already didn’t want to be a girl. I saw from watching my mom what it was like to be a grown-up girl and it didn’t look good. Here are the few memories from childhood that I hadn’t managed to suppress:
We came home once to find our apartment ransacked by burglars. I was forced to drink powdered milk everyday, which I hated. My dad chasing my mom with a big knife into the kitchen. My brother and I, who were kneeling facing the wall as punishment for who-knows-what, turned and watched them run by. Screaming. My dad coming in the bathroom interrupting me and my brother taking a shower together. He came in to punish my brother, hitting him on the butt. My brother remembers us hiding under the dining table while chairs were being thrown around. Apparently my dad used to bring women home, even when my mom was home.
Needless to say I was a sad little kid. By the time I escaped to the U.S. at age six I told myself my life starts now and never to look back. Continue reading
I’m not the type of woman to Internet stalk. When I break up with someone, I immediately hide them from my Facebook newsfeed, unfollow them on Instagram and remove them from my Gchat friend list. I feel strongly about this because I know that continuing to follow someone on social media who I have feelings is self-destructive. I know it prevents me from moving forward with my life.
That being said, I have one exception to this rule: the awful ex-boyfriend whose Twitter feed I stalk. We dated on and off for many years, starting when I was in college. He treated me very badly. We never really broke up, he just kind of disappeared, so closure wasn’t an option for me. Continue reading