Dear _________, Thank you for posting your prostitution ad on Craigslist. I’m not being sarcastic. Last year, I called you the “c” word when I asked you to stop writing my husband. We blocked your email address so your emails would stop.
I stalked your website. You were selling sex. I hated you and your youth. Your disregard for the norms I grew up with made me sick. I was taught that sex was special, and there you were, selling it. Worse, my husband took your bait. You pretended to be a Yale music student. You posed in your underwear and bra. You were “looking” for friends because you were new to town. In answering my husband, you asked if he could pick you up. The day he wrote you, he told me he loved me. Keep reading »
There are few moments in life more heart-stopping than realizing that there is something not right in your panties. A close second are the frantic Google searches you conduct with one shaking hand while aiming a mirror at your crotch with the other.
I was on the toilet when I first felt the strange patches of raised skin. Because they weren’t painful, the alarm took a moment to register. But when I got a closer look at the disturbance — bumpy white growths around the opening of my vagina — I immediately began to cry.
They’re called genital warts because that’s what they look like. I held out hope that I had some kind of simple, unshameful infection that could be cleared up with antibiotics until my gynecologist uttered the phrase. If I hadn’t already felt like retching, that truly disgusting combination of words probably would have done it. Keep reading »
Here at The Frisky, we have been getting all touchy-feely with our emotions for “Love Yourself Week.” But what about the more literal and physical side of the phrase “touchy-feely”? You know, the more hands-on approach to self-love. Masturbation, to be blunt. This little act is, uh, an important part of learning to love yourself. Up until yesterday, I have always taken a manual approach to masturbation and my fingers have suited me just fine. But I couldn’t help but think I was missing out on something by being sans sex toys. So I decided to be a big girl and set out to buy my very first vibrator. Keep reading »
Most of the time, when you hear “commitment-phobic,” you think of a man. But that’s not always the case. I’m commitment-phobic, and I’m a woman. The thought of being in a relationship terrifies me. The thought of committing to someone forever scares the pants off me. Oh, and getting to the altar? Watch me quake. Keep reading »
I had tried all different kinds of birth control pills to help control my period pains over the course of three years, but nothing worked. There was still no relief from terrible cramps and heavy blood flow. My doctor suggested I try the NuvaRing, the once-a-month birth control device that is inserted into your vagina and secretes hormones for three weeks. Supposedly, the NuvaRing sits far enough inside of you that a man shouldn’t feel it or find it, but I can report that isn’t always the case. Keep reading »
My husband has a male-ady. I call it MRC, Men’s Resistance to Counseling. Imagine a dog as it begs away from the bath, the leash straining as he pulls from suds and finishing fluff. Getting a man into counseling is no easy feat. Women talk about their problems to connect, but men see this type of discussion as threatening. They feel that by admitting they have a problem, they are confessing weakness. And so every time I brought up marital counseling, my husband cited cost as the deterrent. Then he upped the ante; he called the shrink a quack. He even tried forgetting about appointments and playing sick. Keep reading »
I’d like to say I don’t know why you’re letting him back into your life and bask in that ignorance, but I do know why. You’re almost 35 now and want nothing more than a flesh-and-blood child of your own with a man you love—more than you wanted that master’s degree, that great job you have, that beautiful house you bought with your own money or that strong, athletic body you worked so hard to get back after he broke your heart the last time and ran off with someone else. Keep reading »
“Find a guy who calls you beautiful instead of hot, who calls you back when you hang up on him, who will lie under the stars and listen to your heartbeat, or will stay awake just to watch you sleep … Wait for the boy who kisses your forehead, who wants to show you off to the world when you are in sweats, who holds your hand in front of his friends, who thinks you’re just as pretty without makeup on. One who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares and how lucky his is to have you … The one who turns to his friends and says, ‘That’s her.’” — Unknown
Everyone makes mistakes in relationships. The trick is not making the same relationship mistakes over and over and over again. I’ve made my share of relationship mistakes along the way. Here are mine, so you don’t have to make them. Keep reading »
I was 19 years old and had my legs spread on my new boyfriend Greg’s bed. We had been dating for a few weeks and had fooled around a bit, mostly talking dirty and dry humping while clothed. It was my last night in town before leaving for a three-month study abroad program and it was pretty much a given that Greg and I would do it. He invited me over to his Park Slope apartment, we listened to music, ate pizza, and he went down on me on his balcony. It was all pretty steamy until Greg took off his boxers to reveal his wood. At the time, I hadn’t seen too many penises, but now, after many years on the sex scene, I am aware that it was of the unprecedented, porn star variety. Keep reading »
Welcome to the Frisky “Sex Diary,” in which an anonymous person shares the details of her sex life over the course of a few days. Sometimes these entries are filled with revealing romps, while other times there is nary a naked moment in sight. Some of these diarists are frequent contributors. Want to share a page from your sex diary? Email firstname.lastname@example.org. All entries will be anonymous. Keep reading »