“You’re the Jedi pooper,” my boyfriend declared roughly six months into our relationship. He was referring to the fact that I’d managed to duck detection while going number two for the entire half a year.
God forbid I accidentally follow her, or retweet, “favorite,” or “like” something she posts
In the quest to invent strategies for becoming blindingly blitzed, no group excels quite like the young.
As I stood in my underwear and a headpiece made from stockings, “Betty,” a six-foot drag queen with a red bob that matched her thigh-high boots, spent two hours grooming me into the sparkliest Cleopatra-clone possible. And then I got up on stage at Lucky Cheng’s cabaret in New York City, and officiated the marriage of Eduardo Chan and Israel Hornedo.
Are Americans prudes? Some people think so. After all, the country that gave the world Elvis’s hips, free love, and Porn Valley is also a land founded by Puritans, given to legislating what goes on in the bedroom, and perpetually outraged by the sexual dalliances of politicians (though, to be fair, even the Italians are getting fed up with presidential philandering).
At the time, all I knew about Meghan was that she was a Republican, had written at least two books, and was the daughter of former presidential candidate John McCain.
I was Carl’s underling, but I refused to consider myself a victim. Our audacious, perpetual flirtation was not one-sided. I could have ignored him. I could’ve avoided the girlish smiles and spurned the extra attention. Foreseen that it might not end well.
What I never expected was that one of these guys would become a constant source of entertainment.
I’m neither a scientist nor a moralist, but as soon as I learned about Liquid Trust, I had to know if the stuff worked.
You need another person to make sure you’re breathing and to prevent you from choking on your own vomit.