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 »
On Thursday night, I came down with the flu and it hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt fine at work that afternoon, but by the time I got home, my head throbbed, my throat swelled, my body ached, and every single ounce of energy has been sucked out of me. It literally took enormous willpower just to climb out of bed to go to the bathroom. Ugh.
Unfortunately, it only got worse on Friday morning. On top of the other super-fun symptoms, I had this strange experience of my forehead burning up while the rest of my body had the chills. At one point, I was shivering so strongly my teeth were chattering! When I took my temperature, it was a hundred and freaking five point three. (Brain damage starts happening at 107.6)
Being sick is never a pleasant experience. But I’m really glad that this time, my boyfriend was there to take care of me. Keep reading »
I don’t come from makeup-wearing stock. In fact, I could probably count the number of times Mom wore makeup during my childhood on two hands. And, despite more than a decade of trying to jump on the beauty bandwagon, I’m right there with her now, barefaced except for special occasions. Keep reading »
Monday was my birthday. I turned 28. That would have sounded old to me when I was in college or even as recently as when I was 26. Today, it sounds perfect—young, in fact, and exactly where I want to be. During lunch on my birthday, I took a walk near Central Park and got to thinking about how much my outlook has changed and the route that got me here.
Two years ago this June, my whole world turned upside down. During the course of a few weeks, my boyfriend of over three years broke up with me, I had to find a new apartment (a result of the breakup), and I started my first full-time job in New York City. Since I’d allowed my world to revolve around him, I had very few friends in the city. The friends I did have were so amazing that it still makes me cry in gratitude; nonetheless, this was a breakup of ugly proportions—one that involved a lease, money, each other’s families and the kind of shattered expectations that led to deep bouts of pessimism, sadness, fear and nostalgia. Keep reading »