R. Kelly is one of the most successful R&B artists of our time. He’s sold 54 million records globally, had a career that spans three decades and penned classic records that have provided the soundtrack for some of our best moments.
But while folks were bumping and grinding to his hits, other things were going bump in the night. Keep reading »
Dear Variety Columnist Brian Lowry,
You wrote a negative review of Sarah Silverman’s new comedy special, “We Are Miracles,” which aired on HBO Saturday night.
And I get it.
The special felt stale, pointlessly antagonistic, and lacked actual jokes. But worse than the program itself was the bizarrely-gendered language you used to smash it.
The title of your piece, which I can only assume was approved by a Victorian-era ghost, was “Sarah Silverman’s Bad Career Choice: Being as Dirty as the Guys.” In the review, you claim Silverman appeared, “determined to prove she can be as dirty and distasteful as the boys.” Keep reading »
I am a black woman and my best friend is a gay man. He came out to me the summer between our senior year of high school and our freshman year of college.
“I really need to tell you something,” he began, while driving us home from our summer job at the local pool. I didn’t know what to expect — an admission of love, maybe? That would be awkward.
He pulled the car over, then stared deeply into my eyes and said, “I’m gay.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Oh, that’s cool with me,” I replied.
He was excited that we would remain friends and was especially happy to have someone to go out and “meet boys” with. Together we frequented New York City’s gay clubs and bars, more often than the straight ones. Splash, Therapy or Barracuda, but The Ritz was a mutual favorite. It was a two-floor bar with a huge dance floor, usually jam packed with sweaty, shirtless men by 1 a.m. The environment offered us both freedoms: I could be as black as I wanted: dance to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies,” twerk it, shake it and break it (while being applauded), and he could be as gay as he wanted. Keep reading »
I watch a lot of television. One of my mother’s favorite stories involves her coming home from work and finding a three year-old me on her couch, pointing to a schedule grid in her TV Guide and asking to watch a primetime “Scooby Doo” special. As such I have a vast amount of useless pop culture knowledge. I can remember who shot J.R., when Sam first kissed Diane, and why I still want to kick Damon Lindelof in the balls over the “Lost” finale. I also remember a lot of really, really unnecessary rape scenes.
Like Laura Spencer’s rape on “General Hospital.” Krystle Carrington’s rape on “Dynasty.” Liz Spencer’s rape on “General Hospital.” Kelly Taylor’s rape on “Beverly Hills, 90210.” Naomi Clark’s rape on “90210.” Joan Holloway’s rape on “Mad Men.” Tara Thorton’s rape on “True Blood.” Gemma Morrow’s rape on “Sons of Anarchy.” Gillian Darmody’s rape on “Boardwalk Empire.” Buffy Summers’ almost-rape on “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” Madison Montgomery’s rape on “American Horror Story: Coven.” [Warning: Spoilers after the jump.] Keep reading »
I have slept with a fair amount of people. But I’ve orgasmed with only one, the person I was in a long-term relationship with. All of my other sexual encounters have been varying degrees of fun, but have not resulted in the Big O. For me at least — the men I’ve slept with always come. This never comes as a surprise to me. I don’t expect to come from casual sex, while I’m sure every dude I have it with does. As Natalie Kitroeff notes in an article for The New York Times, “in hookups, inequality still reigns.”
Here’s what I’ve noticed over, uh, the last 13 years of having sex. Some guys, even random dudes I’ve brought home from bars, are really, really into getting women off. But most of them are driven by their own egos. “Every girl I’ve ever been with has come” is something I’ve heard more than a few times from guys who just won’t stop until they’re sure you’ve reached their idea of satisfaction — orgasm. I’ve been known to fake it with these men, because it’s just so much easier than explaining to a relative stranger “I just can’t orgasm unless I am really, really, really in the right mood and there are no distractions and I’m 1000 percent relaxed and my OCD/ADD isn’t acting up. Also you have to be licking my pussy just right and it also helps if I use my vibrator while you’re fucking me, but even then it just might not happen. Don’t take it personally, I’m still having a great time!” I have given a few dudes the short version of that explanation and they all looked at me like I just killed their puppy. Keep reading »
Earlier this week, Lululemon’s founder, Chip Wilson, made a boneheaded comment in response to the sheer batch of yoga pants that the company had to recall earlier this year.
“Frankly, some women’s bodies just don’t actually work [for the yoga pants] … It’s more really about the rubbing through the thighs, how much pressure is there over a period of time, how much they use it,” Wilson said in a TV interview.
I’ll admit, I buy and wear Lululemon products. I suppose he’s right about the shape of a woman’s body affecting the wear and tear on the pants, yet there was something irksome about about his comment. Forgetting about the actual yoga pants for a moment (which happen to run about four sizes smaller than a woman’s actual size), I think what makes me (and others) bristle about Wilson’s comment is his subtext of exclusion. Keep reading »