Profile for Tamara Lynch

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Girl Talk: Madonna Is Down With The Swirl

Madonna & Me
A new book of essays about the Material Girl. Read More »
My Interracial Marriage
What it's like being in an interracial marriage. Read More »
L-U-V Madonna!
Four reasons why Madge was the perfect Super Bowl halftime show choice. Read More »

Madonna’s book was large and black, with SEX embossed on the front. The coffee-table book of all coffee-table books was an enigma to me, sort of like Madonna herself. One day she was telling you to “Open Your Heart” and the next she was telling you to open your legs, but whatever her message, people were listening. To Brad, my new gay friend, Madonna’s book was the Holy Grail. To me, a tough biracial girl from a small town in Pennsylvania, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Hadn’t we seen her naked already? But I stood next to him in his freshman dorm room itching for a glimpse; there were rumors of bestiality and naked pictures of Vanilla Ice. Cradling the book on his forearm, Brad opened it to a random page and the words “I like my p**sy. Sometimes I stare at it in the mirror” burned up my retinas. My face got hot and I smoothed a hand over my brittle straightened hair. Keep reading »

Girl Talk: I’m A Gamer

Gaming For Love
Here are 7 ways video games may be good for your relationship. Read More »
Dungeons Date
A writer is sure she will find love at Dungeons & Dragons. Read More »
Soapbox
Thoughts on the OK Cupid/Magic the Gathering controversy. Read More »

Last Sunday morning, I zip-lined through a South American jungle, shot and killed several enemies, grabbed a fully loaded rocket launcher, and blew up a jeep filled with incoming hostiles. Once clear, I crept to an enemy occupied mansion that held the lost treasure I planned to steal. I climbed undetected up the side of the structure, pulled out my silencer, dispatched more enemies, grabbed the treasure, and bounced!

Thirty minutes later, I had a champagne brunch with my girlfriends.

Hi. My name is Tamara. I’m 36 years old … and I’m a gamer. Keep reading »

Sex Fail: He Cried In Bed

When I met Eric* at a friend’s birthday party, my first thought was that he was a man’s man. He was a six-foot-tall, broad shouldered carpenter from the Bronx with bulging arms covered in a myriad of swirling tattoos that strained the sleeves of his polo shirt. He caught me staring more than once. At my flirtatious request, he lifted his sleeve and showed me his ink. Keep reading »

Girl Talk: How A Student Schooled Me On Racism

A few years ago my friend Dana and I were volunteers for Minds Matter, a non-profit organization that helps underprivileged kids get into college. Dana, a white Florida hippie who had a thing for rap music, was hoping to boost her resume in order to secure a teaching fellowship in the city. My goal as a biracial fashion executive was just to help underprivileged minority girls get into college. The program was amazing. Every Saturday, Dana and I, along with a hundred other mentors would devote hours to our mentees and help them identify the schools best suited for them, complete their applications, and draft their personal essays. My mentee was a beautiful African American high school senior from Harlem named Jaleesa. She was smart, hardworking, and respectful, and I had come to view her like a little sister. To know that I was helping this young and talented girl into to college made me really proud, and protective. Keep reading »

Girl Talk: Get A Dog, Get Laid

Darkness overwhelmed me as

I’ve long suspected that I haven’t been using Max to his full potential after seeing the loads of adoration he gets while on our daily walks through the ‘hood … He was a man magnet.

Sleep was impossible, so I fumbled to the desk and fired up my laptop. I squinted at the neon glow of the screen and opened an email that had been sent a few minutes before.

From: JEng
To: TLynch
Subject: Date
I have a date with your hot neighbor from across the street. He loves Max.
Jen

My friend Jenni was staying at my apartment and watching my French bulldog while I was on the other side of the world on a business trip. It was 3 p.m. in New York and I imagined she and Max just came back from an afternoon walk, where they must have run into said hottie. I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “What hot neighbor? I don’t have any hot neighbors?”

I said this out loud as if someone were going to affirm that Jenni was crazy. I had lived on the Lower East Side for two years among the creative hipster, Latin Cholo, and Euro metrosexual communities and although there are hot guys aplenty, none of them lived on my street. Or so I thought. I texted her immediately; roaming charges be damned!

Me: Got your email! How’d you meet him?
Jen: On the block. He stopped me to pet Max.
Me: So you just bumped into him?
Jen: Yeah.

I scout my ‘hood for men all the time. And although I’m smart, funny, and have been told I’m attractive, I can’t seem to find someone to last more than a month or two. I’ve had my share of disaster dates, beer-goggled hookups, and I’m over my loner, “there is dignity in being single” phase (thank you “Singles,” the movie). Every time I am out in my hood, my eyes are peeled, but Jen is in my apartment for four days and conjures up a man? What the hell?

A few days later another email came through:

From: JEng
To: TLynch
Subject: Score
He took me to Sixth Ward and then we went back to his place. His apartment is sick … the sex was great.
Jen

I bristled at my computer screen. That’s MY block, MY dog … that should be MY great sex!

I’ve long suspected that I haven’t been using Max to his full potential after seeing the loads of adoration he gets while on our daily walks through the ‘hood. I’ve witnessed the biggest tattooed tough guys crack their angry façade to bend over and play kissy face with him. He was a man magnet.

I slapped my laptop closed. That was it. I was putting that dog to work the minute I got home!

Sunday morning bath time was extra long so Max’s black coat and white tuxedo markings were shining. The both of us smelling fresh and lookin’ fly, we stepped out for our morning walk, which ended at the local coffee spot. All the other dogs were tied up and relaxing, sniffing each other’s butts, while their owners sat lined up on the benches. I tied up Max, found a spot on the bench, and let him do his thing.

“Is this your son? He’s a cute little guy.” One of the old toothless regulars I’d seen here before put his hand out for Max to sniff and lick. I smiled, knowing Max’s charms were starting to work.

I sat and read while couples brought their kids over to play with Max, other dog owners grilled me on his age and breeding, and the coffee lovers that milled in and out of the store told me how adorable he was. So far it was a good morning.

“What’s his name?” I heard behind me and turned to see dark eyes, dark hair, and muscular arms embracing Max. Caught — hook, line, and sinker! I put on my best smile and tried to reel this one in.

We talked about our mutual love for Frenchies — he had two — while Max hopped on his back legs for attention.

“Sit!” I stood and barked at Max. Chill, son, your work is done!

“He’s great.”

“Thanks.” I moved closer.

“You live around here?” he asked. He checked me out for a split second.

“No, I’m closer to Delancey Street, but this is a nice walk in the morning. You?”

“I’m up the street.” He pointed with his coffee cup in hand.

Our conversation switched to the lure of the coffee spot, the welcomed arrival of fall — its been too hot — and my recent trip to Asia, about which he seemed genuinely interested.

“I should get moving. Maybe I’ll see you here again?” he said with a smile and what sounded like a little hope in his voice.

I nodded. “Yeah, maybe,” I said with more nonchalance than I felt.

He gave Max a pat and waved as he took off down the street.

I bent down and gave Max a pat and a scratch behind the ears.

“Good boy, Max. Good boy!”

Photo: iStockphoto

Girl Talk: Love Me, Love My Hair

I was in fourth grade when my grandmother first took me to a hair salon. She drove me to her hairdresser, Betsy, a 50-year-old woman who dyed her hair pitch black, and had a head full of curls the perfect shape of large hot rollers. I squirmed as Betsy ripped out the rubber bands holding in my afro puffs and inspected the black cloud of kink on my head.

“Naomi, have you been trimming this yourself?” Betsy asked, horrified.

“Well, yes, but I don’t know how to do her hair.” Gram said sheepishly. Gram raised five straight-haired Irish-American kids, my mother being one of them. No curls were in sight until my father’s African-American hair genes messed it up. She was lost. Keep reading »

Girl Talk: I Love — And Prefer — Going Out By Myself

As a divorced woman in my 30s, meeting a man wasn’t always a top priority, but when I gradually started dating again, I called in my two wingwomen who were also on the prowl, Dana and Mary, for support. Both of these beautiful 30-somethings have had my back for years. They’ve been my wingwomen in everything from moving into a new apartment to keeping me sane throughout my divorce. I couldn’t have adjusted to single life again without them.

So when Friday night came and I was raring to go out, I called my girls. We put on our heels, stepped up our makeup, and headed to our favorite lounge hoping to meet the men of our dreams. Keep reading »

Girl Talk: Being A Bridesmaid Drained My Bank Account

Megin and I first met as mid-level slaves to the fashion industry eight years ago. I recognized a kindred spirit the minute I caught her screaming harsh obscenities at her computer. We’ve been through boyfriend breakups, apartment break-ins, and career changes. So when she asked me to be a bridesmaid, I jumped at the chance to stand by her side and watch her start a new life with the man she loved. Of course I wanted to support her in any way possible on her big day; I just didn’t realize how much it would cost me! Keep reading »

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