Introducing the first 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 will be racy and filled with revealing romps, while other times there will be nary a naked moment in sight. Some of these diarists will be frequent contributors. Want to share a page from your sex diary? Email email@example.com. All entries will be anonymous. Keep reading »
As many times as I’ve tried to recall the evening, I don’t remember the first time I met Marc*, although he seems to remember it well. He claims we met in a hot tub at a party that my then-boyfriend was throwing. Apparently, he thought I was “hot,” but I only had eyes for my BF Rick*, who was a friend of Marc’s. That was six years ago.
Marc and I saw each other again many times over the years. He was a peripheral part of my circle of friends — one of those people that pop up in your world every once in a while. The first time I actually do remember meeting Marc was at a get-together at a downtown NYC bar. It was a few months after the hot tub night. Rick and I were still madly in love. Marc showed up at the bar alone. I was wearing a short skirt – it was a humid summer night. Keep reading »
“I’ve never even kissed a woman,” Adam said. One of my best friends on the planet, Adam was unequivocally gay—the kind of caricature personality who lisped, wore pink, plucked his eyebrows, flicked his wrists, and decorated his apartment in rainbows. He was my first call when a guy I was dating was being a jerk, the one who was always up for an impromptu shopping mission or who’d dance with me until the wee hours of the night at an ’80s club. Technically, he was everything I’d want in a boyfriend: smart, funny, kind and gorgeous—too gorgeous to be straight, as the saying goes. But since he was gay, I barely noticed.
But as he said those words, our faces were inches apart and we were locked in that trance-like pull of an inevitable kiss. We were at a party, dancing to New Order. And soon our lips locked and we were full-on making out. As I felt his hands squeeze my butt, I backed up and stared at him. “You’re an amazing kisser,” he said, with a wink.
Next thing I knew, we were back at my place. Keep reading »
As a single lady who has lived in a big city for years, and now moved to a new one, I’ve had my fare share of one-night stands. I’d never call myself someone who makes a romantic life out of having a lot of random sex. In fact, my heart stands more on the traditional side where I look for sex after the relationship connection, knowing I usually wind up hurt in casual flings and that I actually disdain the thought of adding another one-nighter to my “list.” Keep reading »
Last night, I got drunk. (A few too many Blue Moons.) The night before that, I got drunk. (Vodka tonics.) The night before that, I got really drunk and accidentally made out with a dude two degrees skeevier than I would normally go anywhere near. (Shots followed by champagne.) The night before that, I … got drunk. (Blue Moon. Again.)
I bet you’re starting to notice a pattern here. Keep reading »
Coming from a divorced family, I have spent my life questioning the idea of a life-long commitment. Most of the adults I know have been divorced at least once, and of the couples who are still married, most of them (along with their kids) appear miserable. And so, while I would love to find a companion whose company I will enjoy “’til death do us part,” I’ve learned from observation that this just might not be a realistic goal. And is it so horrible to think that maybe we weren’t supposed to spend our entire lives with one person? Is traditional marriage the best — or only — way?
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The Guardian’s Hadley Freeman wrote an article this week about a new phenomenon she calls “female confessional journalism.” In her opinion, this new genre of writing involves female authors who write first person narratives about their battles with eating disorders, body image, relationships, etc. But the articles go beyond sharing a story, they usually involve a fair amount of obsessing and often long rants about self-loathing. According to Freeman, the narratives usually end with the writer “still sufficiently unhappy to be commissionable for another very similar piece.”
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I was raised by a working, single mother. She went to Stanford, majored in economics, became a public school teacher, wrote a book, and now works as a journalist. She didn’t give up her job when she had my sister or me, and she certainly didn’t give it up after she and my father divorced. I consider her the ultimate feminist — she’s worked her butt off, made a living on her own, and raised two perfect daughters (just kidding). She’s my hero. But if she had quit her job when I was born, retiring at age 31, would she still be my #1 role model? It’s hard to say.
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Peter owning up to Googling me on our first date should have been the first warning sign. Don’t get me wrong: I Google, you Google, we all Google acquaintances. Doing it in private is one thing. Saying it out loud is another.
“Did I tell you who I work for?” I asked. It was technically a blind date, as we’d corresponded only a few times through an online dating service.
“Oh, no, but I think I know,” he said.
“How is that possible?”
“Oh, well … I Googled you.” Point blank. I Googled you. Keep reading »
It was a drizzly night, and I was walking down the street with Luke, my boyfriend at the time, to a comedy club where he was performing that night. He held an umbrella over my head and had his arm wrapped around my shoulder. I should have been giddy, but instead I felt apprehensive. We’d been dating for a few months, but this was the first time I was going to one of his shows.
“So, you’re not going to make fun of me, are you?” I asked, flashing back to Jerry Seinfeld and man hands and close talking. What if he called me out in public on some absurd quirk I never knew existed?
“No,” he said. “That’s a cheap laugh.” His material was more sophisticated, even a touch political, he said.
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