Like the David Letterman Debacle wasn’t bad enough, now we have the story of Steve Phillips, the ESPN analyst, who had an affair with a 22-year-old coworker. Unfortunately for the 46-year-old sports dude and married father of four, his latest dalliance (and apparently there’ve been many before her) turned into a bunny boiler when he broke it off with her.
Brooke Hundley, the jilted junior, went ballistic, repeatedly emailing and calling Phillips’ long-suffering wife, tricking their 16-year-old son into an online flirtation, and then finally showing up at the family home, scaring the crap out of everyone.
Lucky for Hundley, the Phillips declined to press charges, but her reputation, both professionally and personally, is shot. (His too. He’s since been fired from ESPN and has entered a treatment facility.) Obviously, being some cad’s side action is always a sucker’s game, but if you’re going to do it, do it right. Keep reading »
How would you feel if your boyfriend or husband had a virtual girlfriend? I don’t mean what if he had a relationship with someone, as in a real person; I’m talking about a digitally animated girlfriend “brought to life” through Nintendo DS. There’s a new, popular dating sims (or dating simulation) video game on the market called Love Plus and, according to Boing Boing, an article posted on a Japanese tech site in September reported that several women had complained that their family lives were disrupted by their husbands’ addiction to the game. Boing Boing spoke with one San Francisco couple, Koh and Yurie, who say that Koh’s one-week addiction to his virtual girlfriend on Love Plus was “gross,” but basically harmless. Keep reading »
Despite valiant human rights work on behalf of Angelina Jolie to make “the other woman” not look like a big ol’ skank, the truth is most people still think “the other woman” is … well, a big ol’ skank. And guess what, ladies?! There’s this awesome double standard where people shrug their shoulders at Mr. Married But Couldn’t Keep His Pants Zipped and say, “Boys will be boys,” while they give you the stink-eye, you home-wreckin’ ho! So you have your work cut out for you! Unfortunately, instead of hopping a cheap-o flight out of town to wash that man right out of her hair, some “other women” go a little bonkers when the man doesn’t ditch his wife.
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As many times as I’ve tried to recall the evening, I don’t remember the first time I met Marc*, although he seems to remember it well. He claims we met in a hot tub at a party that my then-boyfriend was throwing. Apparently, he thought I was “hot,” but I only had eyes for my BF Rick*, who was a friend of Marc’s. That was six years ago.
Marc and I saw each other again many times over the years. He was a peripheral part of my circle of friends — one of those people that pop up in your world every once in a while. The first time I actually do remember meeting Marc was at a get-together at a downtown NYC bar. It was a few months after the hot tub night. Rick and I were still madly in love. Marc showed up at the bar alone. I was wearing a short skirt – it was a humid summer night. Keep reading »
After I broke up with my sweet college boyfriend, a decent man who never ran me through the ringer, who responded to my bouts of recklessness and immaturity with compassion and sympathy, a guy who never did me wrong, I desired nothing more than desire itself. After years of slow and steady I yearned for spark and drama. Conveniently, along came Matt.
Matt was British, a very recent London transplant, and I was still inexperienced enough to equate his lilting accent with worldly sophistication. Like me, he worked in the magazine business, so we had that in common, though I’m not sure we ever went so far as to discuss the intricacies of that bizarre industry. In fact, we spoke very little, as we were highly preoccupied with having fabulous, mind-blowingly awesome sex. We did it everywhere—the Natural History Museum, a New York City alleyway, and of course in all the more traditional places such as the kitchen counter and my bed. The sheer quantity and quality of the sex should have been my first indication that something was rotten in the East Village. Keep reading »