When people think of sex addiction, they think of men like Tiger Woods and David Duchovny who got caught barreling headfirst down the hedonistic rabbit hole.
But I am a female sex addict in the truest sense of the term. Thanks to sketchy DNA (I’ve also struggled with alcoholism and cocaine addiction) and sexually traumatic experiences in early adolescence, I learned to self-medicate painful emotions with sex. Keep reading »
My dad is gay.
It is usually after I have known you for a little while before I will say those words to you. Sometimes it’s our first long conversation, when people go through the whole “Where are you from; what do you do; where’d you grow up?” script that everyone in the world receives once they are old enough to attend any social events. And it’s after I say that that the real questions begin. Keep reading »
If you could translate my underwear drawer into a pie chart, you’d see one big chunk—some 75 percent — dedicated to basic black bikinis. A small 20 percent would indicate the ratty days-of-the-week skivvies that are verging on seven years old (I know). The remaining sliver would count for the few “sexy” underthings I own—a lacy pink thong, a hot but poorly fitting corset-inspired bra, some sheer boyshorts.
There are certain things I hate to spend money on, and underwear is one of them. In the past, the idea of wearing seductive undergarments had always been appealing, but when I really thought about it, lingerie seemed problematic. First of all, I’d need someone to wear it for, because that ladymag tip of “wearing sexy underwear for yourself” has never done anything for me. Also, was it worth it to drop the money? Assuming I had someone who would appreciate it, wouldn’t it just come off right away, or remain completely covered for most of its time out of the drawer? Keep reading »
Bad Band. Jew Joker. Sandwich. The Brute. AwwMike. Babycheese. My laundry list of discarded loves reads like a storyboard of comic book villains, each nickname a clue as to their respective fatal flaws. Anyone who knows me well knows I have a history of dating men who are wildly inappropriate for me. It’s been a quirk I myself was willing to accept, further proof of my fun-loving, devil-may-care spirit (this despite the days and weeks of sobbing and agonizing over wholly ridiculous relationships when they inevitably ended). Keep reading »
When I was seven years old, my parents took me to see “Rocky.” Inappropriate? Maybe. But I was a skinny asthmatic kid in a house full of smokers and this “underdog triumphs over adversity” story spoke to me in a way that nothing else ever had. Whenever the going got tough and things seemed impossible, I invoked the Italian Stallion to get me through.
My first date was when I was a senior in high school. Late bloomer. Keep reading »
“We’ve restructured your job and structured you out of it,” Louis said quickly, as though this thought were all one word.
Immediately, I felt the floor drop and ceiling soar, while I, not tethered to either, floated between. I was surprised, though I’d foreseen this bad news; I‘d brought an empty brown duffel bag to work that Friday rather than my usual Louis Vuitton purse. I had been telling my mother and coworkers for weeks, as I snooped while sorting Louis’ emails, that I was going to be let go. Keep reading »
Lately, we’ve been waxing philosophically, ahem, about pubic hair grooming and it’s time for me to throw in my two cents. About a week after Jessica wrote about her first bikini wax — after being the proud owner of a ’70s-style bush — I went in for my first wax, but unlike Jessica, I was committing myself to the full shebang. Keep reading »
A few years ago, I jokingly declared that I would refrain from reproducing until after my 10-year college reunion. That way, I said (again, facetiously, although of course I’d be lying if there weren’t a tiny grain of vain truth to all this hilarious jokery), I wouldn’t have to worry about losing baby weight or having to remain sober as the Georgetown Class of 2001 reconvened. It wouldn’t be a concern whether some liquor might damage Junior, or Junior’s breast milk supply, and my 100 percent hot, completely flawless body would remain pristine until that date and, obviously, if everything went according to my imaginary plan, everyone would say, “Oh there’s Claire — she looks so great!” (Anyone who’s seen “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion” knows this is Goal #1, with actual success to brag about being Goal #2, and perhaps having fun and seeing people you like being a distant #3.) Keep reading »
My parents had been married for five years when they had their first child, a boy named Nathan. It was the fall of 1974 and he was born with Osteogenesis Imperfecta, a congenital bone disease you may have heard referred to as “Brittle Bone Disease.”
My mother was told she should institutionalize her baby, but instead my parents brought him home and learned how to care for him. I can’t imagine all that they must have gone through – they were 26 years old with a baby who was critically ill. There are pictures of Nathan in front of the Christmas tree in his bouncy seat, looking pretty happy, with splints on his arms. He lived to be eight months old and then, in June 1975, on Friday the 13th, Nathan died. Keep reading »