In two weeks, I am turning 32. My 20s are officially long gone. I was thinking the other day about what I was up to when I was 21. I immediately thought of Marcy, an acting teacher I had at the time. Marcy was 39 and I remember her seeming so much older and wiser than me. I would go to class and cry about dudes or not knowing what to do with my life or being broke and Marcy would do the same thing every time. She would pat me on the back and say in her nasally voice, “Nobody tells you your 20s are going to suck.” While I do wish she had expounded a bit, her words made me feel better in a strange way. Just knowing that things would get better, well, not better exactly, just easier to deal with, was a relief. In your 20s, you don’t know what you don’t know and you’re struggling to figure it out. Everyone is. As I march bravely forward into my 30s, here’s what I wish Marcy would have told me. Keep reading »
It’s time again for “Dear Wendy Updates,” a feature where people I’ve given advice to in the past let us know whether they followed the advice and how they’re doing today. After the jump, we hear from “Concerned Friend” whose pal was obsessed with becoming pregnant, despite (or because of) recent medical issues that made it difficult to conceive. CF wondered how she could be the best friend to her pal during this time — whether she should be realistic with her or “feed into her hope that she’s pregnant.” After the jump, found out how both she and her friend are doing today. Keep reading »
As Scruffy Beard began unhooking my bra, a panic signal went off in my head. Uh oh, Dater X, I thought to myself. This is your third date and you are straddling him in a chair. Your shirt is across the room, and you can feel his hard-on through his pants. You are on a steam locomotive powering towards sex town. This. Is. Not. Good.
I pulled back, feeling suddenly shy about the fact that I was topless. I looked him in the eyes—definitely his nicest feature, though I’d come to appreciate the rest of his face in the two weeks we’d been dating, too. His gaze seemed filled with adoration and desire, and he leaned forward and kissed me, soft and slow. I felt his hands squeeze around my butt. And that was it. Soon the rest of our clothes hit the floor, our makeout session getting more intense with every kiss and touch. Keep reading »
I’ve had good sex and bad sex, but there’s one thing I’ve never had: solo sex. That’s right: I’m a 34-year-old woman who has never masturbated. I know it sounds crazy. Many people swear that masturbation is a critical part of being a sexually satisfied woman, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to do it. This came up recently while watching Natalie Portman go to town with herself in “Black Swan.” Self-love just doesn’t seem like the right thing to do. My vagina and I just aren’t that close.
As a feminist, I rationally understand that I’ve in some ways internalized the social stigmas around female sexuality, and I don’t know how I’ll ever get over them. I just don’t want to have that kind of interaction … with myself.
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