We met on Myspace. He emailed me the day after my birthday, introducing himself and complimenting my smile; I was charmed. I also happened to be single, alone and slightly adrift in a foreign country so our correspondence needed no fanning to burst into something heated and volatile. Three weeks later, I was on board a train from London to Manchester, England to meet him. By that point, even if he’d turned out to have a flesh-eating disease or a penchant for hardcore porn, I probably still would have been smitten. Keep reading »
I recently spent the weekend in bed with a terrible stomach bug. At the stroke of midnight on Friday, I began puking my brains out, and what didn’t come up as vomit came out the other end. The next day, I thought the worst of it — the diarrhea — was over, but I was still happy when my boyfriend Nick showed up with supplies to calm my still-upset stomach. We hung out in bed, watching cartoons, while I drank ginger tea and tried to stop passing gas. One particularly gross fart sputtered forth and I sat very still. Keep reading »
It was over a year ago, last January, when my boyfriend of almost four years said, “So I have something to tell you” over a Friday night dinner in Chinatown. My appetite instantly evaporated and my stomach suddenly ached with anticipation over what would follow those words. Immediately I thought, This is the break-up dinner, and my mind whirled into a frenzy of what could be wrong when I thought we were so happy. We caught a cab and went back to his Brooklyn apartment, quickly saying hi to his roommates and disappearing into his room to talk.
Sitting on his bed, I prepared myself for the worst. Did he cheat on me? Did he lose his job? Just looking at him, I couldn’t tell. He wasn’t mad, but he wasn’t happy either. He’s usually calm, but at that moment he was nervous.
“So, I’m moving to Hong Kong for work,” was the next thing I heard. Keep reading »
Last night, I sat with my iPhone out on my bedside table. I was staring at it waiting for the text box to light up. It was an hour before my second (damn) date with Mark*, the best date-asker-outer known to woman. Although Mark had confirmed our date, even told me what time he would text me and offered to pick me up at my place, I couldn’t stop the dark cloud from approaching overhead. Keep reading »
It was summer when Andrew and I met. He was a straight-edge hipster DJ—a slutty vegan in organic American Apparel underwear. We had sex the first night we met, the kind of sex that is so good it seems choreographed. The kind that reminds you what kissing is—all catching your heart and secret parts of yourself opening up.
I shouldn’t have left his bed. Maybe then we would have gotten it out of our systems, or gotten to really know each other. But instead I kissed him goodbye and said, “You are really fun. Text me if you want to do it again.” My heart fluttered—an angelfish gasping for air—and our game began. Keep reading »
“So this was an accident, right? You know, like, ‘We’re having fun and then oops‘?”
Monday morning, 7:30. No coffee, because someone on the internet told me caffeine is bad for pregnant ladies. This week is already uncomfortable, and it’s only going to get worse.
I’m seven months pregnant and, usually, I’m pretty reserved. I keep my sex life in my bedroom and, unsurprisingly, out of my job — especially since I’m an elementary school teacher. I’m also in my late 20’s, in a decade-long, committed, monogamous relationship, and securely employed. In short, I’m the poster child for Mike Huckabee’s idea of responsible reproduction.
And yet. Keep reading »