Mélanie Berliet

What I discovered is that everyone seems to have a saucy tale worth sharing.

As a writer who frequently covers provocative subjects, I know that sex, money, and love, when bundled, form a combustible mix.

Whatever the case, making it to the awesomely comfortable, beautifully boring stage of love is something to celebrate, even if you do so by feeding your pajama clad partner handfuls of microwaved popcorn while binge watching HBO.

From my experience, more than heavy petting beneath a blanket is virtually impossible on a regular commercial flight.

Staring back at me was a Groupon issued by LaserTouch Aesthetics in Soho.

He was married at the time, but in our moment nuptials didn’t matter. Nothing did.

As sisters, we shared a lot, but I wasn’t aware of this booklet’s creation until Céline’s death, at age 30, in the spring of 2009.

Not even the least sexually inhibited are immune to awkward moments between the sheets. The reason for this, I believe, is twofold. First, we’re all susceptible to the involuntary nature of bodily functions.

Perched atop an exam table at Rutgers’ Imaging Center, twitching bare feet, I glance from the standard medical gown keeping me cold to drab linoleum floor to unforgiving fluorescent ceiling lights.

We all seem to agree that young women are embracing hookup culture as fervently as their male peers. But according to a recent study led by the Kinsey Institute’s Dr. Justin R.

A couple of shots make it seem less odd that almost every nook—including an elevated, cushioned cubby accessible by ladder—is occupied by a twosome engaged in an aggressive round of necking and/or heavy petting.

“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 an entire half year.