The Morning After Virginia said she would make the breakfast herself. For it was a beautiful London morning in June. She kicked back the covers and looked at Cady Stanton’s luscious ass. Smelled faintly of honeysuckle. Or was that patchouli? … Read More
I learned a lot about sex when I was growing up. Thanks to my liberal Manhattan private school education, I had some form of sex ed every year of my life starting in fifth grade. Countless classes led by middle-aged … Read More
The distant summer I was a naive seventeen, I remember lobbying my then-boyfriend for a date-visit to a particular bookstore. He, a bibliophile, and I, a bibliophile, the proposition was ideal. We could hold hands and with our other hands rifle through select publications, pausing now and then to turn our looks of longing from the printed pages to each other.
Two nights before Fences opens, I saw director Roger Q. Mason ‘08 in rehearsal at Theater Intime. He stood onstage, reading and gesturing for a missing actor over the top of his script. The wooden set was unpainted, and the … Read More
History tells us that outsiders matter, that they are our richest resource of truthfulness. Strangers are best at diagnosing the state of a given community, and it is their involvement that can best spur a sense of communal self-reflection and … Read More
Sex should not be corporately sponsored or contractually bound. Sex should be neither widely distributed nor publicly viewed. Sex should not be scrutinized, spread out for display. Sex is antithetical to chartered obligations and university affiliations. It is not a … Read More
“Got a man in Japan and a dude in Tahiti, Believe me sweety I got enough to feed the needy.” Lil’ Kim, “The Jump Off” I do have a man in Japan and a dude in Tahiti. The Tahitian natives … Read More
Let’s face it – not everyone is good at sex. There are few of us who haven’t had one (or several) bad hookup experiences, and for anyone who hasn’t, you’re either incredibly lucky or you’re the one who’s bad in … Read More
If there is a God, and a moral order to the world, making a 100 million dollar donation to Princeton earmarked for the arts will not get you into heaven. Wandering through Princeton’s art museum the other night for the … Read More
In the simple world that it posits, there is no World but the Hockey Rink. There is no Universe but the Firmament of Floating Crowd Heads. There is no Time but the Match Clock. There is no Woman, and there are but four categories of Man: there is Goalie, Fat Man, Average Man, and Skinny Man. There are Soviet Russians. There is no fucking around. Good luck, cupcake.
He swept her off her feet like a stallion sweeping a girl off her feet, and laid her gently down on the bed like a gentle eagle.
�It�s time,� he said, and she knew that it was true. She had been waiting so long. But now, after waiting, it was time for him to rip his clothes off, and then rip her clothes off
“Killing the Angel in the House,” wrote Virginia Woolf, “is part of the occupation of a woman writer.” This particular epithet had come to encapsulate the Victorian stereotype of sexual frigidity, otherworldly purity, and picture-perfect domesticity which was the ego-ideal for a century of unhappy women. Joyce Carol Oates has taken Woolf’s literary dictum to the next level: her Angels are not themselves killed; they themselves kill.