I’m of the last generation to learn about sex without the help of the internet. While I was spared the misinformation my pre-teen mind would’ve encountered in her furtive Google searches, I also missed out on the comprehensive dialogue that today’s young people can access. Which might not be so bad, if I’d had access to any other trustworthy way to learn about sexuality. Keep reading »
The other day I caught up with a guy friend over instant messenger. We hadn’t talked in a while, so he had to be filled in on my wonderful boyfriend of nine months. “I just wish I had met him when I was younger, like 18,” I enthused. “It seems like such a waste of time that I didn’t meet him until I was 25.”
“Aww, so you would have had more time together? That’s so romantic,” my friend said.
There will be some point in your career as a 20-something when someone will break your heart, and bad. By bad I mean, you may think you’re having a nervous breakdown and will have the desire to be hospitalized. In some cases, this actually may happen. Here’s how to deal:
Suck it up: When I was crying at my desk, my older, married co-worker sat down and looked me straight in my tear-stained eyes and said, “You have to understand, this guy might be one of a bunch of different guys you will date until you find someone who’s really in it to win it,” he said. Putting this person who had just knocked me on my ass within the context of a long line of potential douche bags down the road somehow made it hurt a bit less. Keep reading »
When spurned mistress LaVaughnie Wilkins put up billboards around Manhattan to embarrass her former lover, Charles Phillips, the only thing that surprised me about it was how publicly she chose to do it. But “getting revenge” didn’t surprise me at all. Spurned mistresses want revenge. Spurned mistresses go for the jugular. Spurned mistresses do crazy things because they are hurt.
Last year I fooled around with a guy who had a girlfriend. While we were cheating, he repeatedly told me he wanted to break up with his girlfriend to be with me and, like an idiot, I believed him. Lots of bad stuff happened and I lost my temper, big time: I wrote a long email to this guy’s girlfriend explaining everything about how he’d been two-timing her with me and sent it to her work email.
I’m not particularly proud of this story, but I’m going to tell it to you anyway. Keep reading »
I was really young and naïve when I met Christian* at a nightclub. By “young,” I mean 18 and by “naïve,” I mean an inexperienced dater who thought men would only like me for my intelligence.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Christian asked some other club goers in line. I looked behind me to see where the beautiful girl was. I certainly didn’t think it was me. But he pointed at me again. He was standing in the club’s entryway wearing big, Buddy Holly glasses, black leather pants, and reeking of “teen icon.” Then he smiled – a wide, devilish grin. With one hand, he offered me a lollipop; with the other he held a whiskey on the rocks. In fact, in the four years (on and off) that we were involved, Christian usually had a whiskey on the rocks. It was like his signature accessory. Keep reading »
I’ve always considered fighting to be a really important part of a relationship. Almost as important as how we f**k. Hear me out on this one. Just like screwing, I’ve always thought that there needed to be a balance, a compatibility in the way my dude and I verbally sparred. If we fought the same — either by withdrawing emotionally or screaming obscenities or sobbing tears of rage — our disagreements would never, ever end. I’m a weeper and, at times, an emotional mess. Often the only thing that can pull me out of the sinkhole is the soothing voice and manner of someone — a man, in this case — taking charge and putting an end to a fight as swiftly as it began. It’s the one area of my life where sometimes I feel like I need a little “saving.” Keep reading »
I think we can all agree that the internet has made it much, much harder to get over a breakup. Sure, you may have successfully erased his number from your phone, used his junior high football T-shirt as a rag, put away all your couple photos, ordered him never to call again, and cursed him to hell, but all of that effort is almost a waste considering he’s just a click of the mouse away.
After a while, though, watching how he’s growing in the midriff via Facebook photos loses its luster. You already know almost everything about him anyway, after all that time you spent/wasted. But what about his new girlfriend? She’s someone to be curious about. Keep reading »
When I was offered the opportunity to be one of “New York’s Most Eligible Bachelorettes” in a major local magazine, I laughed out loud. “There’s no way I will ever meet a guy that way,” I complained to my friends. “Why even bother? I already meet tons of guys. They just all suck. Plus, I’m happy alone.” After much coaxing, I decided my friends were right. I couldn’t turn down a professional photo shoot or an opportunity to get as close as I ever would to my fantasy of becoming the next “Bachelorette.” If only I liked to wear bikinis and go bungee-jumping, maybe ABC would consider me for the series. Keep reading »
He does not want to sleep with me. It’s been three weeks and nothing. Not just nothing—I mean the complete absence of sexuality in an awkward, platonic way. We go out to dinner several nights a week and we kiss, hug, and hold hands in public. I’ve met most of his friends at this point and we’ve even spent nights together. And yet, nothing. I have tried every trick in the book to get him to seal the deal—I’ve smooched and even fondled him. And yet Matt remands steadfast and as abstinent as a priest. Keep reading »
My name is Kate. Just Kate—not Kathleen or Catherine or anything like that. I’ve always really liked my name. I like that it’s one quick, strong syllable. I like that it means “pure.” I like that it’s a woman’s name and isn’t at all girly like Katie. I even like the celebrities—Kate Winslet and Cate Blanchett—who share my name.
However, I don’t like that it’s really freaking common. Keep reading »