For Valentine’s Day, instead of waiting for love letters that’ll never come—who sends those anymore, anyway?—we decided to practice a little self-love in the name of St. Valentine by writing them to ourselves. We invite you to do the same in the comments. Amelia, Jessica, and Kate have already shared theirs. Today is Ami’s turn … Keep reading »
A new study found that women are most attracted to the men they know the least. Researchers used Facebook profiles, real and fake, and discovered that the women liked the men best that they knew the least about. We like the guys who play hard to get and, nine times out of 10, lead to no good. Tell us something we don’t know. Like how to make us stop. I would like to take these findings and set fire to them. I’m embarrassed for us. Can we just stop being idiotic masochists when it comes to love already? [Live Science] Keep reading »
I get called a “slut” all the time. My friend Ashley calls me a slut like it’s my name: “Slut!” The Frisky staff calls each other sluts when we divulge our sexual escapades. Internet commenting trolls call me a slut fairly regularly (and a “bitch”, and a c-word, and plenty of other foul things). I call myself a slut, like, say, last week when I hooked up with a dude on the first date. A lot of 20-something women are used to being called a slut in some area of their lives, in every situation from “haha, just kidding” with our friends or (cool) co-workers to more serious areas, like when it’s hurled at us by a catcaller. “Slut” is one of those female-centric words — like “bitch,” like “feminist” — that can mean so many things that it almost means nothing anymore. Except, it turns out, in bed. Keep reading »
For Valentine’s Day, instead of waiting for love letters that’ll never come — who sends those anymore, anyway? — we decided to practice a little self-love in the name of St. Valentine by writing them to ourselves. We invite you to do the same in the comments. Amelia and Jessica have already shared theirs. Today is Kate’s turn… Keep reading »
It started my sophomore year of high school with Danny Bonfiglio*. I saw him on the bus wearing Doc Martins and a Sonic Youth T-shirt. He pushed his shoulder length, brown hair out of his eyes long enough to speak to me. “Nice shoes,” he said quietly and continued on to the back of the bus. Keep reading »
Some people come to New York City for work. Some people come to New York City for school. Some people are born in New York City and never end up leaving. But whatever your reason for being here, you probably ended up staying, in part, for one reason: options. On any given night there are thousands of different activities you could be doing and hundreds of them are free. If you don’t like your apartment, you can find a dozen illegal sublets on Craigslist in two hours. Want to gawk at a celebrity drinking her morning latte? Craving pizza handmade by an Italian grandpa who speaks no English? Need pot delivered to your apartment ASAP? Check, check and check. Hell, you’ll even find
two three four different Starbucks in a three-block radius.
But maybe the BIg Apple has too many options. NYC single woman Jennifer Doll argues in The Village Voice — the city’s indie newspaper — this week that when it comes to settling down and getting married, no one in the dating game will make a decision because there are too many other options to choose from. Keep reading »