So, you know, I have a boyfriend now. It’s pretty awesome. I’m psyched. I’m happy. I must be radiating blissfully coupled up vibes into the stratosphere because in the last two days, three dudes with whom I have had serious romantic feelings for, hooked up with and/or dated have come out of the woodwork after a lengthy absence and have tried to bark up my tree. It’s like Cupid’s Evil Cousin whispered in their ears, “Amelia is happy, fulfilled, and no longer interested in dating or DTF — don’t you suddenly want to give her a shout?” Keep reading »
This month, I turned 22. Young, I know, but for me the birthday served as another float in the parade of reality that my graduation day is marching closer with each passing moment. Instead of the usual array of fun and frivolous gifts wrapped in brightly colored paper, far too many people chose to get me “work clothes” for my birthday this year.
I am graduating from New York University in May. And it’s not just others who are preparing me for the life change that’s about to happen. Each morning, I wake up and remind myself that I need to get a job—and not of the smoothie shop variety. I’ve spent more time than I care to admit contemplating how to craft the perfect employer-alluring business card and website. And if all this worrying, wondering and work wardrobing wasn’t enough, almost every conversation I have had with someone 25+ over the past five months has turned into a mental probing of my potential to deal with “the future.” Keep reading »
So, a male porn star walks into a bar. I’m going to call him PS for short, to keep things simple. I’ve seen PS around Chicago before; a couple years back, we ended up at the same karaoke event until 6 a.m. But we hadn’t talked much until I ran into him at the aforementioned bar, attending a fundraiser for sex workers’ rights. See, I write about sex with a focus on S&M and I do activism around it as well, so I end up coordinating with sex worker activists a lot. Plus, sex workers totally know how to put the ‘fun’ in ‘fundraiser.’
As we sipped on drinks, PS and I chatted about sex education, work/life distinctions, and that sex toy demonstration at Northwestern that landed a professor in the center of a controversy. Keep reading »
I’d stay up until 3 or 4 a.m. the room lit with a pink glow, filled with the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. I was 16 when I joined Girlpunk.net. This all-girl forum quickly became a window out of my small town. It made me feel like the life I wanted was possible—punk shows, wild clothes, sneaking into clubs. These were the girl friends I always dreamed of. Dream girls who I would trade studded clothes with, and dance all lanky and cool next to. Girls to fall asleep with, side by side. Keep reading »
This weekend, I was running errands in my neighborhood when I bumped into someone I slept with in the last year. (Narrows it down, doesn’t it? Ha!) Immediately, I felt overwhelmingly flustered. In fact, I may have spoken some form of gibberish. After exchanging pleasantries — his sensical, mine, not so much — we went our separate ways, but I found myself weirdly shaken up. It was the sort of thing that I would have previously associated as a sign that I had romantic feelings for that person; my shaky hands an indicator of nervous sexual energy, and the vague nausea in my stomach would have been called “butterflies.” I would have relished that feeling, called it “thrilling.” Wondered when I would see that person in a naked capacity again and, Oh! Did he feel it too? Ah, the mystery. Isn’t that what makes romance so exciting?
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Last summer, I fell in love with my boxing teacher. I never kissed him. I never spent time alone with him. Though I did have mental sex with him at least a thousand times, and was only left with goose bumps and a weakened mind.
The first time I went to class, Mike wrapped my hands and told me he’d seen me around. He smiled his glowing smile and I thought he looked nice. I couldn’t put my gloves on, but he was more than happy to help. Keep reading »