Full Disclosure: I was asked by our sponsor to host a discussion where two bloggers provide the male – the uber masculine gentleman, ahem, cad behind The Superficial – and female perspectives – that would be moi – on having “friends with benefits.” (If you haven’t figured out what the movie is yet, here’s a hint: I would have sex with both of the stars and not just because I am a wee bit slutty.) Keep reading »
So there’s been a lot of talk lately about slut shaming, casual sex, and what exactly defines a girl as “whorey.” Instead of clearing all of that up for you with this post, I’m probably just going to create another grey area, but hey, that’s what life is all about, isn’t it?
So I want to talk to you ladies about one night stands. Casual sex. Hookups. Booty calls. Those guys you sleep with once and probably never see again. The reason I want to talk to you girls about this is because a lot of you are probably cringing right now, recalling your last one night stand, the last time you slept with a guy and then walked home in last night’s clothes, the last time you had casual sex and then felt guilty about it. In fact you’re probably feeling guilty all over again right now. And I want to tell you to stop. Stop cringing. Stop feeling guilty. Stop second guessing and over thinking and feeling bad about yourself. Because you know what? Casual sex is okay. And you know what makes it okay? The fact that you wanted to have casual sex. Read more… Keep reading »
Right after Ex-Mr. Jessica and I broke up around New Year’s, Tom*, a friend I’ve had for about four years asked if I wanted to go down to Washington, D.C., and visit him to get my mind off the breakup. I assumed there might be an ulterior motive there, but I was in pulling-my-hair-out, “Who knows why men do anything?!” mode and wasn’t totally sure. In any case, I told Tom I was still too sad to be good company, which was true.
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After much thought and Advil, I have decided I am going on a sex/dating and drinking sabbatical. I went on a six-month sex sabbatical after my breakup from my fiance a few years ago — or, rather, I announced I was going on a six-month sex sabbatical and then it lasted for, I think, around two. It wasn’t a complete failure, in other words. Hilariously, I went on a sex sabbatical because all of my efforts to get laid were being thwarted and I figured I might as well decide to NOT have sex with a purpose.
Meanwhile, I have never taken a significant break from drinking. I didn’t start drinking until I was in college — I believe most people start in high school, so I was a late bloomer in more ways than one — and I remember the night I got drunk the first time as well as you can possibly remember a hazy night 13 years ago. The amount and frequency of my drinking has gone up and down over the years, but I generally consider myself to be a responsible boozer. I don’t drink and drive (easy when you don’t have a car!), I don’t say things I don’t mean, and, for the most part, I don’t do things I actually regret. Keep reading »
Last night, while out to dinner with friends, my phone rang—a rare occurrence in a world where phones are amazing for organizing schedules and arranging text messages into adorable dialogue bubbles, but aren’t so hot at providing a clear pathway for two people to talk. I recognized the area code immediately, though I had deleted the caller’s name in a huff a few days before—it was Scruffy Beard. I hadn’t heard from him in almost two weeks, since he sent me a lame “see you around” text the day after we had sex and he darted out the door 20 minutes after, throwing the condom in the trash.
I resisted the urge to listen to his voicemail message all the way through dinner. But as I left the restaurant, I just had to know what he said. Keep reading »