Theoretically, winning the lottery should be a wonderful thing. Who wouldn’t want $100 million in their pocket right now? But time and time again it’s been proven that all those millies can ruin even the best-intentioned, most giving, God-loving folk. And also the ones who blow their jackpot on cocaine and prostitutes. And everyone else between. Here are ten incredibly sad, more-tragic-than-Shakespeare stories where people went from gutter to glory to gutter again. Many of them went on to say (if they even survived to tell the tale), “I wish I never would have won.” Which means you there, dear reader, are one lucky sonofabitch for losing the Lottery.
Dan Savage suggests fucking before dinner. And yeah, that’s probably the best policy when it comes to huge holiday meals like Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. But if you can’t make that happen for whatever reason (and there are plenty of reasons, like FAMILY STRESS), you might find yourself in an emotional place where you need to seek solace in the comfort of sex after the biggest meal of your life. If that’s the place you find yourself in, or if holidays just make you horny, there are ways to work around that five-pound food baby in your stomach. Some tips for post-huge dinner sex after the jump. Keep reading »
No, I have not read the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy and I don’t plan to. Maybe I’ll read it like 50 years from now when I’m nursing-home bound and desperate for some entertainment. But right now, the universe is so saturated with everything Fifty Shades that I refuse. What can I say, I tend to rebel against trends. I’ve been that way since pre-school when all the girls said their favorite color was pink, so, I said mine was purple because I was annoyed by the conformity. But this is not about me. This is about Fifty Shades of Grey and how I suspect it’s ruining the world.
This week, my worst fears were confirmed when a British couple cited “unreasonable differences” over Fifty Shades of Grey as a cause for their divorce. Stated simply: they are divorcing because of a poorly-penned book. I rest my case.
But if you need more evidence, please click through and see how E.L. James’ “Twilight” fan-fiction- turned-BDSM-erotica-novel is destroying lives.
Between Hurricane Sandy and the election, I would classify the last two weeks as a time of extreme stress. Nothing I won’t be able to bounce back from, but I’ve had a few sleepless nights and a perma-knot in my stomach. Some of you have voiced your opinions in the comments, wondering how TheFrisky can write about Channing Tatum being the sexiest man alive or whatever, when there are things with so much more gravitas to going on.
I really thought about the answer to that question and I would like to respond. As a blogger here at The Frisky, and in my personal life, my goal every day is to carve out as many little pockets of meaning as I can. That may include tackling the existential crisis that arose when I was trapped in my apartment for days, or more WTF stuff, like that toddler who sucked a used condom on a playground, or the silly stuff, like the things on the Food Network that Winona and I find arousing. Ganache! Keep reading »
Post-Hurricane Sandy, I was lucky to have electricity, heat, water and plenty of food. Only issue: Without a car, and no running subways, I was stranded in my outer borough neighborhood for many days. Besides the local yoga studio, the only other place to go was the big drugstore on the corner, which, as you may imagine, was completely ravaged after the storm. The only aisle that was fully stocked was the “as seen on TV” aisle (pictured above). I had never noticed it before. I was like WAIT! OMFG! I can buy these things without having to call an 800 number? I haven’t had a TV for years, I watch on the internet, so this was a revelation to me. Keep reading »
My parents raised me with a certain set of values: 1) The sunny side of the street causes headaches, 2) Lateness is rude and disrespectful, 3) No one wants to see photos of another person’s vacation. Not, like, genuinely. Not, like, ever. Society pitched in and taught me a handful of others including the all-important: All men want sex all the time.
I absorbed this message and, under its guidance, I threw myself at my high school friend Bob. I was 17 when this happened and I’d had a crush on Bob for ages. We’d gone to see a movie, and when we were about to say goodbye, I said, “Hey. Bob. What if I kissed you goodnight?”
And Bob said, “Oh. Gosh. Um, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I think of us as being just, you know, like, friends.”
Now, in fairness to Bob, were you to see a photo of me in 1996, you’d understand his position. You’d be, like, “Wow. Well, I bet that you were pretty on the inside.” Regardless, the rejection was traumatic. Keep reading »