I laughed (like I’m sure many of us did) when I heard about American Apparel’s “Search for the Best Bottom in the World” competition. I found myself aggravated by the douchebaggerous lengths that Dov Charney would go to violate and objectify women. And then I visited the site and was totally taken in by looking at all of the bum entries. They were kind of hot and not in an underfed, underage model kind of way. There was something kind of awesome about all these women photographing their real butts, privately and (mostly) respectfully. I couldn’t help but think, “What would happen if I photographed my donk?” My curiosity outweighed my feminist rage and the next thing I knew, I was slipping on my AA lace body suit, bending over for my camera, and actually kind of enjoying it. Keep reading »
A typical Saturday night for me can be summed up one of two ways: food or sex. Do I skip dinner and start drinking, adopt the “eating is cheating” adage so I can feel thin and attractive and get tipsy quicker, thus increasing the chances I’ll get naked later, or do I cave and open the box of Triscuits, resigned to an evening of stuffing my face in front of the TV and going to bed with a bloated stomach full of carbs and a phone full of sexually frustrated text messages from potential paramours? Keep reading »
A couple of strange things have happened on my way to adulthood. Perhaps the biggest: that my days of impromptu diner eggs with friends at 4 a.m. have faded into official coffee and drink dates. No longer can I meet my bestie up on the roof that connected our Brooklyn brownstones. Now if I want to see her, we make a plan at least a week in advance. I’ve (gasp!) started keeping an Outlook calendar. Turns out that it takes a little official planning to keep track of a grown-up life.
Even stranger, I’ve started adding question marks at the end of my appointments. Coffee with Sarah? Supposedly, but she always ends up canceling. A drink with Paul? I’ll believe it when I see it. It’s gotten to the point where I will sometimes double-book, knowing that the chances of one of my friends ditching is almost guaranteed. Is it just me, or have social conventions changed around how comfortable people feel canceling on one another? Keep reading »
Seven years ago, I was doing an internship in Mexico and attempting proficiency in Spanish. One night at a club with some friends, I nearly broke my face after slipping on the booze-soaked floor. Had I been with English-speaking friends, I would have dusted myself off and uttered with a sly smile, “Well, that was embarrassing.” Instead, I looked at my Mexican buds and pooed a clumsy “Estoy embarazada.” Their jaws dropped. I’d forgotten for a moment that “embarazada” does not mean “embarrassed.” It means “pregnant.”
It’s hard to be cool in your second language. But it’s even harder to be sexy. Keep reading »
The moment that my boyfriend got up to use the restroom, my friend Liz* turned to me and said gravely and in hushed tones, “All right, I need to make this quick before he gets back from the bathroom.”
Surprised, I replied, “OK???” She sounded like she’d been desperately holding something in all evening, just waiting for us to be alone.
“I just need to tell somebody this. I found out this week that Jay*” — her fiancé whom she has been with for 10 years — “has been masturbating to porn when I’m not around. Like, instead of having sex with me.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought Liz was going to say she found out Jay was cheating. He was only looking at porn, though! Thank God!
But as I would soon find out, for Liz, there wasn’t much difference between the two. Keep reading »
Just a few years ago, I had a huge pair of balls. Big, old honkin’ balls. And then I moved in with my boyfriend.
He’s not a particularly “Grr! I’m a man! I’m going to take care of you!” kind of guy. But he does like taking care of me, so I try to let him do that, and it’s nice having him around to do the unpleasant stuff. He lugs the garbage downstairs twice a week. He carries the heaviest grocery bags. He’ll get up in the middle of the night if I think I hear an axe murderer padding around our kitchen. It’s sweet and I love it. But if I’m honest with myself, being taken care of by a guy for the first time is making me a little soft. And I know this because just a few weeks ago, when he was out at band practice, I was walking up the stairs in my high-heeled boots, and I thought to myself, “I hope I don’t fall trip and fall! That would be bad! He’s not around to help me if I get hurt!”
I wasn’t always like this, I swear! I used to actually be, you know, independent. Let me take you back to spring 2004 … Keep reading »
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.
“Well, yes … but that’s not exactly what I meant. I wish I hadn’t bothered dating other guys,” I explained. “Really, what was the point?” Keep reading »
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 »