A few years back, I enjoyed a dream-like experience. It was like something out of the most ridiculous rom-com starring … oh, let’s say, Amanda Seyfried as me, the protagonist, and Channing Tatum as Mark, my strapping love interest.
I’d been on a I-just-broke-up-with-my-boyfriend-let-me-get-away-from-it-all vacation to San Francisco. I stayed with a friend, wandered around, ate good food, drank high-end coffee. I spent a lot of time complaining about what the humidity was doing to my hair. One afternoon, I wandered into a local coffee shop for one more five-dollar latte, and there was Mark. Think: Not as hot as a mid-90s Jared Leto, but close; think: mid-90s Jared Leto’s slightly less attractive cousin.
Mark asked me what I was reading, and this launched us into a two-hour conversation on everything from over-priced coffee to over-indulgent pet owners to which U.S. cities are the most self-delighted. He explained his facial hair wasn’t usually so unkempt, I explained my head-hair wasn’t usually so frizzy. In short: It felt like meeting of the minds. Like I’d somehow – impossibly – dodged the bullet of single-hood; like I’d get the gift of slipping seamlessly from one relationship into the next. Sure, Mark lived in San Francisco and I lived in New York. But we’d bonded on the subject of indulgent pet owners. We were so clearly meant to be! Keep reading »
A decade ago, my grandmother, then 82, broke her hip. Her recovery involved a month in the hospital while she learned to walk comfortably again, a month that drove my mother, my grandmother’s sole caretaker, to the brink of insanity.
“I can’t go on,” she’d moan. “Calgon, take me away.”
Such was her constant refrain, and this was owing to the fact my grandmother’s behavior while infirm was impossible. Every half-hour my mother fielded a phone call from the hospital: “Bring me my robe! Different hand soap! Scotch tape!” she’d demand.
She’d be angry with a nurse or the limited food selection in the cafeteria, and the constant catering to such needs without nary a please or thank you? It was too much for one woman, my mother, to bear. Keep reading »
Back in 1992, at the age of 13, I went on an exchange program to France and fell madly in love with a boy named Guillaume. Guillaume Boner. (“Boner” pronounced in the French style, Bone-errrr, emphasis on the errr.) I confessed my crush to Jamie Goldfarb, one of my fellow American travelers, while on an underwhelming tour of the Evian factory.
“Jamie,” I whispered. “I have such a crush on Guillaume.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Guillaume,” I repeated. “Guillaume Boner. He’s Josh Steinberg’s exchange student.”
I’d hoped for a little female bonding on the subject, a little “OMG, I know! I want him too, like la beurre on brioche!” Instead, though, Jamie Goldfarb squealed, “Eww! Gross! How can you like someone whose last name is ‘Boner!’ You’re, like, totally disgusting!” Keep reading »
I was a late-in-life virgin. I’m not talking one of those extreme ones – 30 years old, 35, etc. – I mean, like, 23. So does that qualify? Not really. But my point is that most of my friends went about losing their virginity at 17, and an extra six years of virginity back then — well, it felt like a lifetime. All this is to say that by the time I finally got around to The Knocking of The Boots, I was out of my parents’ house, living in my first apartment with this gay dude who spent most of his time at his boyfriend’s apartment. And all that is to say that a thing I never had to struggle with was finding a place to have sex. I had my own room by the time I really needed one. So any gentlemanly partner in the erotic arts I stumbled across, he and I would just do it in there. Great. Boom. Done. Keep reading »
When it rains, it pours.
You hear it all the time, and the implication, of course, is that there’s also a flipside: When it’s dry, it’s dry for ages. This is especially true when it comes to sex. Often it feels like the only thing you need to get a guy’s attention is another guy’s attention. Conversely, when it’s been awhile since you’ve done, ahem, the deed, it can feel like it’ll never happen again. Which, of course, it will. It’s only a matter of time. After the jump, for your reading pleasure, a list of helpful tips to get the ol’ ball rolling again. By which I mean: LET’S GET YOU LAID. It’s been too long. Keep reading »
Let me start by giving you two conflicting pieces of information: 1) I consider myself heterosexual, and 2) At the age of 13 – while in the violent throws of puberty – I saw the iconic Vanity Fair cover featuring k.d. lang in a three-piece suit alongside a leather bathing suit-clad Cindy Crawford, and thought k.d. was the single sexiest thing that I’d ever seen.
For the moment, let’s put these seemingly conflicting bits of information off on the theory of sexuality that goes, “It’s not some hard and fast thing. It’s a spectrum. And we all fall on different places upon it.” You’re 85 percent straight, 15 percent gay, let’s say. Or 60 percent gay, 40 percent straight. Or maybe 95 percent gay, 5 percent straight. Anyway, you get the point. As for me, I’d like to simplify my own sexuality by saying I think of myself as 70 percent straight, 30 percent gay. I’ve always been attracted to men, always figured that a traditional heterosexual future was ahead of me, but that image of k.d. lang, you see, it knocked something loose within and set me on the path to Barbara. Or, as I like to refer to her: Babs. Keep reading »
I have a confession to make: I’m a popper. Not a popper of pills, mind you. I am a popper of pimples. I know that’s gross, and I’m sorry. However, I do think that, at the very least, I owe it to you, dear reader, to hold myself responsible: My name is Sara Barron, and I’m a pimple-popping addict.
My mother was also an addict, and these sorts of things, see, they run in the family. I first noticed I had a problem just as soon as I went through puberty. I’d get delightful bursts of whiteheads on my face and, I swear to god, it was like they were talking to me. Pop me … pop me … you simply HAVE to pop me. The idea that some people get zits, and are capable of just leaving them alone seems utterly bizarre to me. If you’d said, “Sara: Here’s the deal. There’s a ripe and massive whitehead on your face. You can either A) Pop it, but then you have to run the Boston Marathon, or B) Not pop it, but then you won’t have to run the Boston Marathon,” I’d be like, “Get me some bandaids for my nipples, motherf**ker. I will be running that marathon. And I will be popping that zit.” Keep reading »
Years ago, in my early 20s, I dated a guy named Mike. Now Mike, by all accounts, was heterosexual. Perhaps you’re thinking, Um, hello? Duh. Of course he was. He was dating you, and you’re a woman. But as any lady in her 20s living in New York can tell you, this doesn’t always guarantee straightness. No. It does not. However, Mike seemed thoroughly, authentically hetero. And as evidence of that fact – and just to get down to the nitty-gritty of it – I offer you the following: He had a healthy sexual appetite and, more to the point, he really enjoyed the performance of The Oral Sex. And more to the point, he was unfailingly, ahem, aroused after having done so to moi et moi’s lady-bits.
So this one night, Straight Mike and I were enjoying a couple of post-coital drinks and chitting and chatting, and I – in a pathetic if nonetheless truthful attempt to make him think me more worldly than I was/am – mentioned having made out with a girl in college. I said, “Well, there was this month in college when I kept making out with my friend Barbara.”
I expected him to tell me how edgy, original, and adventurous this was, but instead, he went, “Oh, yeah. Well, I mean, I guess I never think that stuff’s that big a deal. I mean, well, I sucked this guy’s dick, like … last year I guess it was?” Keep reading »
As a woman 32 years of age who has spent as much time single as she’s spent attached, boy oh boy do I have tales from the field. (And by “the field,” I mean the casual sex/dating circuit.) One thing I’ve learned we all do from time to time: make weird, embarrassing, outlandish exclamations during sex. The weirdest thing I’ve ever said relates to an early 2005 spanking incident … but I’ll leave it at that, and instead focus on embarrassing anonymous sources instead of myself.
For your enjoyment (and edification?), here’s a roundup of the strangest things I’ve heard during sex. Keep reading »
Here’s a thing I can promise: If you invite me to your wedding, your other guests will comment on the quality of my dancing. It’s inevitable. I’ve never been to a wedding where the thank you note for whatever I picked off the registry didn’t do exactly that. Anything from, “My Uncle Morty loved your dancing!” to “You really got the party started!” My dancing skillz come down to one word: Commitment. I hear a song that moves me, and I commit. I give 100 percent. The way my best friend once described it: “It’s like, one second you’re in your chair eating a slice of cake or whatever, then the next second you’re shimmying so hard I’m, like, ‘OMG: I’m worried her head’s gonna fall off.’ You go from zero to 60 like that.” Keep reading »