Some of us have the art of seduction down… like me. When it comes to seducing my imaginary boyfriend, Fred, all I need is a fifth a whiskey and some aromatherapy candles and we’ve got ourselves a party. However, some of you need a li’l something to extra to turn your lover into a pile of bumbling love mush. So why not shake things up in the boudoir with something that sparkles, something that teases, something like… pasties. Originally created to censor the nipple in topless theatrical performances without totally covering the breast, pasties are sexy, fun and add a level of mystery. More
Topic: Amanda Chatel
My father, the avid partier he was back in the day, has always declared New Year’s Eve as “Rookies’ Night Out.” He saw the overly hyped-up, inflated-priced evening as the night where everyone else goes out to make up for the 364 nights they stayed home. Like me, my father doesn’t need a reason to spend too much money on alcohol, get dressed to the nines and raise hell… that’s what every Friday and Saturday are for (and sometimes Tuesday and Thursday, too, depending on the week). More
The concept of making New Year’s resolutions goes as far as 153 BC with the mythical king of Rome, Janus. Janus, having two faces (not unlike most people I know), was able to reflect on the past year as well as foresee the upcoming future, and in doing so became the symbol of resolutions. It was the beginning of the New Year that Romans sought forgiveness from their enemies, exchanged gifts and also perceived the New Year as a fresh start and a clean slate of sorts. I, however, have never bought into the whole New Year’s resolution thing… as of January 1st you just get a free “do-over?” Sounds like something invented by Weight Watchers and not the Romans, if you ask me. So here’s an idea: fuck the New Year’s resolutions, you know you’re not going to stick to it anyway. Instead, use these five reasons as your excuses as to why you’re not doing that whole resolution thing… your friends will marvel at your wisdom. More
Not too long ago I was performing the act of fellatio or, less eloquently, I was giving head. I had given oral to this particular person several times, and there had never been a problem. However, during this one particular incident there was a mild issue: his cum. Yes, his cum, his man juice, semen, ejaculation, whatever one wants to call it was absolutely foul and rancid. I was shocked; this had never ever been an issue. To quote Samantha from Sex and the City, “it’s never been a trip to Baskin Robbins,” but this particular, er, flavor was one for the record books. Having the type of relationship I have with this person, one of open communication and any chance to ridicule each other, I told him. When I did, a realization was made: asparagus. More
Thomas was a writer who was working on his second book and was an adjunct professor at Columbia. I think it was mostly the professor part I liked. He wasn’t my “type,” at all. I didn’t find him exceptionally attractive or witty, but he was so damn smart I just couldn’t get enough of him. Sometimes when we were fooling around he’d recite his doctoral thesis, and honestly, it was pretty hot; even if the premise of his thesis still remains a mystery to me to this day.
Having a few years on me, and several more sexual experiences than I under his belt, he was really adventurous in bed and always looking to push the limits. It seemed harmless at first: adding some toys into the mix, taking turns with tying each other up… basic stuff that we all try out at some point or another. One day he asked me what my “safe” word was. Having never needed a safe word in my life, but being slightly versed in the world of BDSM, I knew what he meant and laughingly said: “apple.” I was eating an apple when he asked me the question. More
We all have dealbreakers when it comes to dating. Bad kisser – dealbreaker. Really short – dealbreaker. Cheapskate – total deal breaker. However, my other dealbreaker, the one that tends to make people roll their eyes at me, and scoff and even pelt things at me is my severe aversion to white socks. Yes, boys who wear white socks are the ultimate dealbreaker. More
I was thirteen when I first read that Marilyn Monroe only wore Chanel No. 5 to bed – nothing else. I immediately added the perfume to my Christmas list, and when I unwrapped it on Christmas Day, I was fairly disappointed. It smelled musky and pungent, it smelled dated… and after several more sniffs, it smelled like my Grammy. More
I’m going to admit that I was pretty disappointed with Don Draper’s actions in the season finale of Mad Men. To quote Christina Hendricks’ character Joan: “he thinks he’s the first person to marry his secretary.” Yeah, novel idea there, Draper. I try not to get emotionally attached to shows or characters, because as my mom has been telling me since I was a kid: “It’s just TV, Amanda, calm down,” but Mad Men has firmly secured itself in the forefront of my thought process. While all of us at The Gloss have our particular obsessions with shows, or in some cases, whole stations, (yes, I’m talking to you Lilit and Jennifer), I’m pretty much living a What Would Don Draper Do? lifestyle over here. In fact, I’m thinking about having bracelets made. Don Draper would apparently dump his educated, sophisticated, girlfriend who was there for him when shit fell apart for his 25-year-old secretary. Yeah, Megan is kind of hot, she can speak French, and I’d probably do her, but marry her? Come on. More
I’ve always loved to dance. I’d never delude myself into thinking I have any great dance moves, nor would I list it among my assets or skills. I was once in Brooklyn dancing with a male friend and a couple girls tracked me down in the bathroom and told me we were the best dancers they’d ever seen. I’m going to assume they were intoxicated, or it was mostly the male friend (fella’s got some moves on him).
Although I’ve daydreamed about it, I have never been out dancing where the crowd has parted and formed a circle around me and cheered me on à la Footloose. My mother had warned me about watching that movie too many times when I was little; she knew it would lead to false expectations.
My love of dancing, sequins, and tantalizing behavior eventually led me to the art form of burlesque. More
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Source: The Frisky
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of sex. I love it. I love oral sex, intercourse, some light bondage, a bite here or there, the occasional spank – I’m all for it. However, sometimes I want to subtract you from the equation. It has nothing to do with you or your technique, of course; but more about me. More
Like most people I know, I share links to my work on my Facebook page. I do this for two reasons: 1. I’m proud that I get to write about sex and music for such amazing websites; 2. I know the majority of my friends are on Facebook all day, so why not give them another little something to distract them from their jobs.
I’m well aware that sometimes my topics might be a bit unnerving for some people, but I just shrug my shoulders at the notion and move on to the next piece. I write very candidly and there are very few people in my life about whom I haven’t written in some thinly veiled way. I consider myself lucky to have had so many interesting people and experiences that have supplied me with mucho fodder for articles, stories, novellas, etc. More
I was twenty-seven when I met “David.” He lived in my neighborhood and we seemed to have the same schedule and/or routine, because we would see each other all the time. Whether I was grocery shopping, getting cash from an ATM, enjoying Happy Hour, or just simply wandering around on a Saturday, I would always see him. It became a running joke with my friends that I was stalking the pretty boy. It also became a joke between David and me, because after several months of awkwardness (it was really that often), we finally started acknowledging each other with smiles and nods that eventually evolved into waves and small talk, and soon, full-fledged banter. More
I was recently spending some quality romp time with a friend, lover … however one wants to categorize him. We were getting all hot and heavy when he whispered something in my ear. This person (we’ll call him Zach) isn’t really one for talking during sex. On several occasions he’s tried to convince me to talk dirty to him, but if he’s not going to reciprocate in the nasty convo, I don’t see why I should put myself out there. Our mid-coitus dialogue usually involves such award-winning lines as “it won’t stay in,” “ouch! Leg cramp!” and everyone’s favorite, “did you come yet?”
But the other day, when he whispered what I hoped would be a sweet nothing, he said: “I want to give you a pearl necklace.” I was confused, so ignored him. Then he said it again, but a little louder: “I want to give you a pearl necklace.” I pulled his head back so we could make eye contact, and I said: “Yeah, I heard you the first time.” More
It’s Sunday morning a little before noon. You roll over to see the sun peering in through your window, and your head is pounding. You recall the events from the night before in mismatched pieces, along with puddles of agony knowing you probably did and said too many things you really shouldn’t have. You’re still in your dress from Saturday night; hell, you’ve actually been wearing it since Friday, but honestly, you haven’t had time to change with your social calendar. You remember, barely, consuming mozzarella sticks at a diner shortly before 5 AM, and you’re pretty sure if you move too fast, you’ll be face to face with the remnants of them either on your floor, or if timing allows, in your toilet. Your hot pink polka-dotted boy shorts are still barely hanging around one of your ankles, and based on the guttural snoring of someone else in your room, you got lucky (you think). Yep, you’re hungover…congratulations! No big deal! Being hungover can be pretty – no, seriously, I speak from experience. More