I shouldn’t even have gone to prom with Bryan. Just a couple of weeks prior he had made out with another girl and told me the purple marks on his neck came from soccer. Like the lovefool that I was, I believed him — until his best friend tattled on him over Instant Messenger. Oh, the acute heartbreak of a first love: I scribbled Ben Harper lyrics — “please bleed so I know that you are real, so I know that you can feel the damage you have done” — on my bedroom wall and devoted pages and pages to this fresh wound in my journal.
Still, I wanted to go on as if none of this had happened. I had just delivered a bouquet of roses to his class on Valentine’s Day. I had just lost my virginity on his bedroom floor while listening to Dave Matthews Band. I had just tanked my grades in Algebra II ditching class with him. What’s more, his mother actually baked casseroles for dinner and grounded him when he flunked AP calculus tests! That is to say they were so blissfully, utterly normal. Given the drinking, prescription drug use and daily acts of familial terrorism at my house, I clung to my first real, serious boyfriend like a life raft. Keep reading »
The evening started out harmless enough. My self-sabotage was not premeditated—more like a white lie that got carried away. I was on my way to class to take a test I hadn’t studied for, and I realized I just couldn’t do it. On a whim, I decided to ditch. I needed a drink, stat. I was supposed to meet up with my new guy, Kennedy, after class but he was working late and wouldn’t be ready until later. I went through my mental contact book of friends I had in the area and remembered that my ex-boyfriend Justin worked down the street. As soon as I sent him a text message, he responded. I wrote Kennedy to let him know I was skipping the test and meeting a friend for a drink.
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When I turned 30, I was suddenly hot.
Before then I was OK. Cute at best. I had my awkward years, of course. As a baby, I had gravity-defying hair and bulldog cheeks. At 13, I wore glasses and braces, and was one of just a few Asian kids in a Jewish-Italian neighborhood, where big Bambi eyes, pert noses, and long legs were all the rage. In college I gained the freshman 15, lost it, gained it, lost it, and gained it again. Keep reading »
Sex has always been painful for me. Since the day I lost my virginity at the age of 16, having sex has hurt. The first few times the pain was almost unbearable, but that didn’t strike me as terribly unusual; I knew that losing your virginity often hurt and, frankly, I was just grateful that I didn’t bleed, which would’ve meant sneaking into the laundry in the dead of night to scrub my sheets. I knew that first-time sex would hurt, and wasn’t surprised when the second and third time hurt as well. I figured it would take time for my body to get used to what was going on, and for me and my boyfriend to figure it out, too. For something that’s supposedly the most natural thing two people can do, sex sure takes a lot of maneuvering, negotiating and post-game analysis. After a few tries, I thought, it would start feeling good. Keep reading »
It didn’t start out this way, but I’m in a long-distance relationship. Having your boyfriend live 1,300 miles away isn’t ideal, but as far as problems in relationships go, things could be much worse: He could be in Australia or he could be into furry sex or I could have caught him cheating on me with various tattooed women after I won an Academy Award and adopted a baby.
So, this isn’t some sappy, romantic article on ways to “Survive Your Long-Distance Relationship.” Here’s the real problem: a third party has entered my relationship, causing fights, miscommunication and anxiety. She’s sleek, sexy and smooth. Her name is … the iPhone 3G. Keep reading »
The economic crisis has made a housewife out of my husband. Once he wore crisp suits and attended glamorous industry functions; now he wears a gray hoodie with an old pair of jeans and considers walking to the post office an event. His underwear is visible through a rip in the crotch of his jeans that has become so large it has nearly severed the leg from the waistband; I was shocked when I found out he regularly walks along our main road in them. He also wears flip-flops and socks, wedging the thong deep in the fabric, making his feet look like they belong to a ninja, and loudly protests that going to the grocery store is not a “fashion show.” Keep reading »
I’m seriously inspired by this article I saw in the New York Post, “No More Sex In The City,” about how celibacy has become “a thing.” It opens with the story of 29-year-old Brooklyn musician Katie Jean Arnold:
After hooking up with a stranger on the L train platform and going back to his place, she woke up at his apartment and decided to leave. On her way out the door, he came up to her, naked, and said the words she’ll never forget: ‘What’s your name?’ It was then that she made her Big Decision. No. More. Sex. Katie plans to keep her chastity belt on from now on … well at least until she achieves her dream of landing a record deal. “Not having sex is like giving up junk food … sex in New York for me had become like the 99-cent package of Ding Dongs on the corner.”
I’m embarrassed to admit that I can totally relate. Oh man, do I love Ding Dongs. Keep reading »
It’s 12:30 a.m. on a Saturday night, and Matt—who you may remember as the guy who slept with 150 woman, but wouldn’t sleep with me—asks me back to his house to watch a movie. Although we’re not officially together, he’s become my non-boyfriend—we see each other at least twice a week. Dinner was lovely and after a few glasses of wine, I’m drunk and giddy. We don’t see eye-to-eye on many things. I’ll never understand his preference for 20-year-old waif models who could care less about his blasé attitude towards their hearts and emotions, and he doesn’t get my love of cute hipster nice guys who allow me to be careless with their feelings. But we always agree on this: we enjoy each other’s company. Keep reading »
If every time I met a cute, funny, smart, nice, emotionally stable, 30-something man with a girlfriend an angel exploded into a fireball and someone gave me a nickel, I would have enough money to buy a fancy angel graveyard with marble headstones. That is how frequent — and how tragic — this experience has become.
The only type of 30-something guy I meet more than the cute, funny, smart, nice, emotionally stable and totally taken type is the cute, funny, smart, nice, emotionally unstable, completely single, and totally confused type. Taking the #3 spot is the single douchebag, but we don’t care about him (unless I get desperately horny and then I might sleep with him). Keep reading »
For fans of NCAA basketball, March Madness is the culmination of the collegiate sport year. But for me, a former gymnast—mediocre in skill, but a gold medalist in mania—April is what I live for. See, April is women’s college gymnastics month and this year the National Championships were held in Gainesville, Florida, the home of the Gator chop, a choreographic staple in every Florida floor routine. The Championships took place April 21st and 22nd, but aired on CBS this weekend. I watched in awe of all the scrunchies, the hip-hop-“inspired” performances, the eye glitter seemingly applied by a Texas pageant mom, and the women flying through the air and toward the vault and eventually their futures outside of the gym. Keep reading »