Time Out, New York

I’ve gotten quite a lot of emails as to why I haven’t made one mention of my recent column in Time Out New York. Honestly, I didn’t know what to say. “Vote for me!” seemed a bit tacky. “Read my column!” sounded a bit desperate. So I said nothing.

Yes, I am proud of it. After all, I’ve never been published in anything with that high a circulation before. But to be frank, I didn’t think it was my best work. It wasn’t full of sarcasm; it wasn’t dirty; it wasn’t as comprised of my personal experiences as I would have wanted it to be. Julia Allison picked the topic – which was totally fine by me as it is, after all, HER column – but it was a topic I didn’t really know how to explore. It’s not as though I have never waited to have sex with someone, but I have never really actively engaged in a serious level of restraint with someone I really, really cared about.

(Note: My column actually ended with the sentence “Good things don’t necessarily come to those who wait to, um, well, you know what I mean.” In print it read, “Good things don’t necessarily come to those who wait.” But it was edited for space, and I understand that [hell, I am a former publicist].)

But I want to go on record to say that I do not hate Julia Allison. My comments on Gawker have definitely been sarcastic, bitchy and non-complimentary, but it’s not because I personally hate the woman (I have always assumed that Gawker comments were something of a roast, not something said to personally attack someone…I have since come to see that I am wrong). In fact, I don’t even know her. I guess those comments stem from the fact that I see someone getting a ton of publicity for just being rather than for writing. And, as someone who wants nothing more than to be a published author (especially one with a weekly forum read by thousands of New Yorkers), I guess I am just jealous. There, I said it.

Many of the people who have emailed me have inquired about the poll that pitted myself against Julia. (I won 800+ votes to 300+ votes.) They have asked why I have not replaced her as the TONY columnist since I won. I have no answer for this. I didn’t even know there was going to be a poll. While I am flattered that so many people have emailed me to say they would rather read my work each week over Julia’s, I do recognize why she has – and deserves – her position. In addition to being a writer, Julia is a “personality,” a media star who commands the spotlight and rightfully gets it. I admire her for that.

I do not aspire to be such a public person; I just want to write. But I do not condemn someone who puts herself out there in order to receive attention and a following. However, if that is what it takes to be a columnist in New York, then I probably will never be one. I want people to connect with me through my words, through the thoughts that stream out of my head late at night after a shitty day of work or early in the morning when I am hungover and regretful or in the afternoon when I simply need to express my angst. (I’m not implying that such things don’t drive Julia to write. I’m just speaking for myself.)

Yes, I am happy that I won. Happy that people like my writing (especially a piece that I think didn't reflect the best of me) and want more of it. But I don’t want this experience tainted with the misunderstanding that I hate another writer or that I set out to rid someone of her gig. That is NOT the case.

If anything, this experience has taught me that people do want to hear what I have to say. And that is invaluable to me. Now I just have to find the right forum in which to say it.

Happy Hoe-lloween

It’s that time of year again. Time for women to choose what kind of “slut” they want to be for Halloween. There’s no such thing as a scary witch; you’re a “sexy witch.” You can’t be a zombie nurse; you have to be a “naughty nurse.”

I guess as a result of one too many skanky schoolgirls and i-put-out police officers (my costume of choice two years ago), costume manufacturers (or “dress up pimps” as I prefer to call them) have really begun to outdo themselves. If you’re in the market to look like a trick rather than a treat, here’s some suggestions for Halloween 08:

The Dirty Martini
If you want a costume that makes your tits look like they have gangrene and your nipples look inflamed and chapped, this is the number for you.


A Gangbang Ghostbuster
Was your boyfriend a total nerd who lived in his parent’s basement in 1986? Well, fulfill his fantasies 21 years later with this ridiculous outfit.


Christy Creams
Lovely. At least morbidly obese teens have a new jerkoff queen.


Money Honey
What man really wants an honest woman on Halloween?


Foreign Exchange Student
This one actually reads “she loves the USA so much that she’ll do anything for a green card!” I know this was a plot for something I watched on Spice once.


The Judge Judy
There’s also a “Sexy Prosecutor” and “Sexy Defense Attorney” for a trio of skanks.


Stud Finder
With cones for your cones…


Ok, I could do this all day. I have to stop. I'll leave you with my personal favorite, what the classiest girl at the party will be wearing:

The Happy Endings Health Spa Costume
$30.00 for a cheap piece of silk. Lotion (and elbow grease) not included.

Was It Good For You?

When you slut around, hopping on and off man after man (and the occasional woman), it’s easy to think you are great in bed. After all, most of the sex us promiscuous girls have is made possible via heavy alcohol and/or drug use which clouds your memories (and makes you feel like a porn star during the act).

For the past several years, I’ve been eager-beaverin’ it all over town (and other towns), with lots of wham, bam, thanks, dude/ma'am/dude and dude/dude and ma'am sex. Orgasms were had by all parties – or at least things felt good until we both passed out – and all was joy in slutville.

Here's my problem.

Now that I’m in a long term, committed relationship, and having regular sex with someone for the first time IN SEVEN YEARS, I’m beginning to think I’m not such an amazing lay after all.

Don’t get me wrong, our sex life is very, very good. Orgasms are frequent and often multiple. The fact is for the first time in my life, I actually have a sexual RELATIONSHIP that requires as much tending to as an emotional one. And it's draining my available bedroom resources. Fast.

Now I want to be acrobatic. Tantric. A mind-blower. I want to turn him on as much as I did the first night we were together, every night.

So I bought a book. Toys. Videos. Manuals. I might even hire a whore. I’m studying up. I’ll let you know how it goes. And comes…

Sex While In My City

When I was in college, I thought Sex and The City was such a brilliant concept. While I didn't necessarily love the columns or the book they inspired, I did fall madly in love with the television show. It was new. It was fresh. It was boldly going where no clinically depressed, sex-obsessed woman had gone before. But, as is often the case, the liberation of womens' inner secrets gave way to more confusion and more angst.

I'm all for being frank and honest. But now there is a whole generation of women - largely in New York City - who find no topic or moment of self-doubt off the conversation table. As a result, I think we are back to square one - a sex more confused than ever before, struggling to find the balance between our inner Carries/Samanthas/Mirandas/Charlottes.

Today, men know too much. Now they know how filthy we talk about sex when we are together. They can sense our batshit-crazy behavior before we even pull it. But what's worse is that they judge us before we even meet. They assume:

- we all spend thousands of dollars on ridiculously over-priced shoes
- we all aspire to have our weddings announced in the New York Times
- we all over think every little fucking thing with our girlfriends
- we all talk about our lovers' penis sizes
- we all categorize men by their job/age/socio-economic class/religion

But the truth is:
- most of us buy shoes at Nine West and Filene's
- most of us are nervous about getting married and certainly don't want to see our faces splashed across some newspaper when we do it
- most of us don't piss and moan about every little thing men do…in fact, it's only when men majorly fuck up (cheat, lie) that we turn to our girlfriends
- most of us don't even know how big our lovers' penises are and we certainly don't share that info, just like we don't want men describing the hue and circumference of our nipples to their friends
- most of us look past status, age and creed in the hopes of finding someone who just makes us happy

The SATC phenomenon has also resulted in a proliferation of opinion, public opinion, about the battle of sex and love wills between men and women. I admit that most of the time these “columns” make me ill. I think they are inspired by watching TBS reruns of the show in question and re-hashing uninteresting dilemmas just to prove a point in the face of the exes that read them. And yet I still want my shot at airing my relationship laundry. As much as I mock and taunt those who write this type of shit while in my safe cavern of anonymity, I still think I have something to say. All I need to know is that some people want to listen.