Profile for Contessa Schexnayder

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Girl Talk: I Got My Ex Back By Bettering Myself

“Oh god, mom, he broke up with me!” I blubbered over the phone, I was crying so hard my face resembled a marshmallow.

I had decided to stay in bed for two days and was starting to become very ripe and slightly unhinged. Needless to say I was not taking this well at all.

“Should I call him? How do you just leave someone? I really needed him and he dumped me!” I said between sniffles.

My relationship with my now ex had taken a turn for the worse over the past five months. I was stressed out at my job, and had decided without much consideration to go back to school full-time. My mood had changed adversely, and I had proven to be very difficult to be around. I became needy and mean, all at once. It had come to the point where I barely even recognized myself. Keep reading »

Girl Talk: I Date Outside My Race, So What?

My boyfriend has a messy red beard and blond hair. He cooks me vegetarian meals just to make me happy. He takes his glasses off when he dances, and he can usually be found cutting a rug to dance hall or reggae. He was the Hamburglar for Halloween last year. When we’re out, he holds my hand. He walks me home from work. Every Sunday, he invites me to supper with his family.

After meeting my boyfriend for the first time, my co-worker muttered in a voice that I’m sure was meant for an internal monologue, “I didn’t expect him to look like that.” Keep reading »

7 Rules For Dating An Older Man

Yes, there will always be something slightly appealing about young, wide-eyed struggling artists and beer pong-loving frat boys with hearts of gold. But sometimes you want someone a little more settled and refined—someone who prefers a suit to a backwards hat and The New York Times to Maxim. Whether you have already snagged yourself a silver fox, or you are on the hunt for one, there are a couple of things you’ll need to take into consideration. Like all relationships, this could be long or short-term, but it is always nice to know how to act or behave when dealing with the majestic creature known as the older man. After the jump, seven rules. Keep reading »

Girl Talk: I Sabotaged A Great Relationship To Have A Drink With An Ex

The evening started out harmless enough. My self-sabotage was not premeditated—more like a white lie that got carried away. I was on my way to class to take a test I hadn’t studied for, and I realized I just couldn’t do it. On a whim, I decided to ditch. I needed a drink, stat. I was supposed to meet up with my new guy, Kennedy, after class but he was working late and wouldn’t be ready until later. I went through my mental contact book of friends I had in the area and remembered that my ex-boyfriend Justin worked down the street. As soon as I sent him a text message, he responded. I wrote Kennedy to let him know I was skipping the test and meeting a friend for a drink.
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Girl Talk: I Won’t Be Another Notch On His Bedpost

It’s 12:30 a.m. on a Saturday night, and Matt—who you may remember as the guy who slept with 150 woman, but wouldn’t sleep with me—asks me back to his house to watch a movie. Although we’re not officially together, he’s become my non-boyfriend—we see each other at least twice a week. Dinner was lovely and after a few glasses of wine, I’m drunk and giddy. We don’t see eye-to-eye on many things. I’ll never understand his preference for 20-year-old waif models who could care less about his blasé attitude towards their hearts and emotions, and he doesn’t get my love of cute hipster nice guys who allow me to be careless with their feelings. But we always agree on this: we enjoy each other’s company. Keep reading »

Girl Talk: My First Attempt At Casual Sex

I always change after I’ve slept with someone. It’s a subtle metamorphosis, but one I can count on—after sex, I feel emotionally attached. Even if the sex was boring, or painful, or just plain eh, afterward I always start to picture myself in a relationship with the person—sitting on the couch watching a movie, walking the dog we’ll no doubt adopt, sometimes even walking down the aisle. As such, casual sex is just something I’ve never considered. How exactly does one detach their feelings for one night of sexual fervor?

Thus, you could imagine my surprise when Jack offered to be my “pal with privileges.” Keep reading »

Girl Talk: Why I Got A Non-Invasive Boob Job

Vanity is something that plagues women—all of us have fallen prey to the aesthetic monster at some point. When I first saw pop tart Heidi Montag unveil her shiny new body and face after getting 10 cosmetic procedures in one day, I thought, “WTF? She didn’t need any work done—she was 23 and beautiful.” But then again, someone probably would have said the same thing about me.

I’ll admit it—I recently had one-tenth of Heidi’s plastic surgery. Strike that—I prefer to call it “non-plastic surgery.” As a 26-year-old single black female, I had finally gotten fed up with my top parts, which had started to resemble two droopy, sad party balloons. I wish I could say I had the pleasure of once having amazing boobs, but, annoyingly, they have always been more National Geographic-style. And so, I volunteered to be the guinea pig for a brand-new non-invasive breast lift. Keep reading »

Girl Talk: He’s Slept With 150 Women But Won’t Have Sex With Me

He does not want to sleep with me. It’s been three weeks and nothing. Not just nothing—I mean the complete absence of sexuality in an awkward, platonic way. We go out to dinner several nights a week and we kiss, hug, and hold hands in public. I’ve met most of his friends at this point and we’ve even spent nights together. And yet, nothing. I have tried every trick in the book to get him to seal the deal—I’ve smooched and even fondled him. And yet Matt remands steadfast and as abstinent as a priest. Keep reading »

Girl Talk: My Boyfriend’s Parents Were Racist

“My parents are racist,” my Filipino boyfriend Edward said, sounding defeated.

My heart made a sudden jolt and then quieted down in my chest. I knew there was something off about this man. Our six-month relationship had been bliss—he was funny, whip smart, and, well, perfect. His quips matched mine and what he lacked in social skills he made up for with his love of conspiracy theories and the ability to play eight instruments. He wrote me two songs and told me that when he looked at me, he heard music. I should have guessed that all his wonderful traits were overcompensating to make up for his family.

“It’s pretty bad,” he said. “They think dating someone black is downgrading. They say I shouldn’t date anyone darker then a paper bag.”

“Trust me; I’ve tried to talk to them. But they are stuck in their ways. They grew up in another time,” he said. “It was different when they came here from the Philippines 30 years ago. “

A California native and newcomer to New York City, I had never personally met any civilized people who were openly racist. When I thought of hate-spouting rhetoric, my mind instantly conjured up images of inbred monsters with a love of banjos and moonshine in Kansas during the 1940s—not an elderly Filipino couple in New Jersey in 2009.

I could think of reasons why a significant other’s parents wouldn’t like me, but color was never one of them. Yes, I blurted out random thoughts whenever I pleased, mostly of the unsolicited advice variety. I could be argumentative and was always positive I was right. I bit my nails. I left toothpaste smeared in the sink. But how could anyone dislike me not knowing these little things?

I glanced over to see Ed staring at me with apologetic eyes. What started out as a lovely morning in my sunlit Queens bedroom was turning into a nightmare from a made-for-TV movie. “Well how bad are they?” I asked, trying to sound optimistic. “I mean there’s the KKK and then there is Archie Bunker.”

“It’s pretty bad,” he said. “They think dating someone black is downgrading. They say I shouldn’t date anyone darker then a paper bag. They would prefer me to date someone either my own race or a white girl. I’ve tried to explain to them that interracial children are genetically superior to single-race kids.” He gave me a sheepish grin.

I pictured Ed going on a Darwinian rant to his religious folks. I struggled with what to say next, contemplating my skin’s proximity to an item used to hold groceries. Cruel words formed in my mouth as I held back the urge to yell. My family is pretty much like the Obamas. My dad has a master’s degree and a good government job. My Creole mother is a registered nurse for a plastic surgeon. My younger brother is studying to be a doctor. My mom and dad were constantly kissing and hugging each other, and I only heard my mom and dad argue once. I talked to my mom almost every day and my dad sent me a text at least twice a week to say he loved me and was proud of me. I realized I was the lucky one. I had come from an accepting brood that would never pass judgment on anyone.

I glanced at Ed and felt suddenly sorry for him. “You have to tell them about me,” I said “You can’t lie. If you’re that embarrassed then we have to break up. I can’t be a secret.” Ed pulled me closer and held me. But I wasn’t so sure he would ever tell his parents about me.

A month later, he and his family went on a matchmaking get-away disguised as a church retreat. Upon arrival, he was introduced to every eligible purebred girl in the parish. When he returned from his holy adventure, he revealed that he had finally told his parents about me. “Every time I turned around, I was being introduced to a nice Filipino girl,” he said. “So I decided to tell them. They where dismissive, but they got the point.”

And all of a sudden, I realized that what his parents thought didn’t matter at all. I reached out and grabbed his hand. Our skin melted, and you couldn’t tell where his stopped and mine started.

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