Well, the good part about this week is that banks all around the world did not explode, some kind of bailout plan was passed (though don’t ask us to decode it), Sarah Palin and Joe Biden managed to be civil and keep their mouths from f*ckng up at their debate (plus, a new favorite catch phrase was born!), Jeremy Piven’s hotness did not wane, weed suddenly became good for us, and we found out the identity of the REAL Joe Six Pack.

Let’s see, what else happened that wasn’t completely sh*tty…?

Oh, right. We let our inner Halloween bitterness out and felt much better for it, uncovered the horrible undertones to Allstate’s advertising campagin, and learned how to love and protect our awesome boobs.

Unfortunately, there were some not-so-great things that occured this week — and we’re not talking about our realization that we hadn’t blended our make-up one morning. Our birth control flipped the crap out, we realized our college dining halls were nothing compared to these, and the fun of Elementary School seems so, so far away.

Whether your glass is currently nice and half full or running on empty, take solace in the fact that the weekend has arrived to provide us cold beers, fresh-baked cookies, and HBO’s True Blood (What? You don’t watch this show?! Dude…find a way).

You know that scene in Superbad, where Jonah Hill and Michael Cera are talking about the girl who got a breast reduction and Jonah Hill says, “Why would she do that? It’s like slapping God in the face.”

Well, several weeks ago, I “slapped God in the face.”

Sure, the road to recovery is a bumpy one: Pain like you wouldn’t believe, that can’t even be fixed by prescriptions. The healing of scars. Ruining every bra with ointments to help me get better…

But all the negatives aside, here are my favorite things about my breast reduction thus far.

Hi, my face is up here: You can’t believe how refreshing it is to have guys look at my face instead of just my chest. I used to have full-on conversations with people and their eyes somehow stayed fixated on my chest the entire time. Classy, right? It’s nice to be reminded that some people in this world do make eye contact.

Cutest bras EVER: Why didn’t Victoria’s Secret ever make fun bras in my old size? Read More »

I have been a 34-C for about 5 years now. Oddly, but as I’m sure you will all - as women of a certain age - understand, I had come to really identify as such. I was a 34-C. I was of slightly-larger-than-average-but-nothing-unusual proportions. At 5′0″ (in shoes), I figured 34-C was more than adequate for my small frame.Cut to a few months ago when I start noticing that my bras don’t fit. The band is fine, but my breasts are literally spilling out of the cups. What gives?

I thought, well, my bras are all over a year old. Maybe they’re just…shrinking? Do bras do that? So I got myself to the store and lo and behold, none of the 34-Cs fit. Finally, I picked up a 34-D. Ha ha, I laughed. There is no way that 34-C me is suddenly a freaking D-cup. No way in hell.

And yet–I was. The 34-D fit perfectly.

I was hit with a weird and unexpected mini-identity crisis. I was…a 34-D? But I’m a 34-C! Or…I was. I called my boyfriend to complain, but as soon as I said the words 34-D, he cheered. I mean, he literally cheered. And then I hung up. Read More »

[Seriously though, if your mom is in this picture…We want to high five her]

From Tori Spelling to Pamela Anderson (to this crazy woman), implants are all the rage. But, why? Are they really attractive? Sexy? Worth it? We asked our resident guy to weigh in before we let our opinions loose. Read on for some very interesting stuff.

He Said:
Fake breasts are not impressive. That is basically the short and the tall of the matter. Sure, they are boobs, and sure, they are big, but that fake modifier is something that changes the way men look at breasts. They become only really something to look at, and not an object of sexual attraction or desire. It’s almost as if the male psyche likes to look at fake boobs as if to say, “Real boobs - that big would be cool…if they were real.” Read More »

Breasts. Boobs. Tits. Ta Tas. Chi Chis. Fun-bags. Melons. Along with a few hundred different epithets, they come in a variety of colors, shapes, and sizes. And thanks to the wonders of plastic surgery, there’s even more variety to be had in the size department. Just ask Sheyla Hershey, the woman who was recently denied her 9th boob job. Hershey’s dreams to move up from a FFF-cup to a GG were dashed because apparently, America, the country that has no concept of “moderation” has established a legal limit for silicone.

When I was in 8th grade, I went from flat-as-a-board to a large C in a matter of months; when I discovered binge drinking in college, my Freshman Fifteen accumulated in my breasts, and I was busting out of 36 DD bras, but refused to buy anything bigger because I felt like a freak. Over the past year, a strict cardio regimen has reduced my girls to a 34 DD, but I still long for the old days: a perky pair no bigger than a handful. That being said, why Miss Hershey would intentionally strive for the “World’s Biggest Breasts” is beyond me. Read More »

It’s weird, but I’ve always liked Hugh Hefner.

He’s kind of like this quiet, unassuming, kinky playboy who probably laughs as much as he screws. I respect that. He’s made a career out of vaginas and boobs, but he doesn’t really seem skeevy — at least at 80-Something. He seems cool. And really relaxed. Probably from all that screwing.

And while I can’t understand how he can tolerate those three chicks who follow him around everywhere, I do often wonder what life as Hugh Hefner is like.

Apparently, life as Hugh Hefner includes a foursome and a one-time tryst with a man.

Steven Watts, author of the new biography, “Mr. Playboy: Hugh Hefner and the American Dream”, reports that very early on in his kinky career (1949, to be exact), Hugh spent one night sexing his wife up next to his friend and his friend’s wife – who were sexing each other up on the same bed. Hugh wanted to switch partners that night, but no one was biting (metaphorically, of course). Later, Hef was finally able to attain foursome enlightenment – with his brother and sister-in-law (notice the italics. The italics symbolize my amazement that anyone could stand, let alone want, to have sex within inches of their sibling). Read More »

[Editor’s Note: New York Magazine does these Sex Diaries that are sometimes cool, sometimes lame. Sometimes they’re interesting portrayals of every day life, and sometimes they make it seem like EVERYONE in New York City is having copious amounts of crazy sex — which isn’t always the case, btw. What would happen, I wondered, if some of CC’s writers blogged about their sex life for a week? Would it be cooler? Funnier? More believable?

Let’s see…]

DAY ONE
7:05 a.m. Boyfriend wakes me up to kiss me before he goes to work, like he does every morning. Like every morning, I feel guilty about my morning breath, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
3:45 Boyfriend comes home early and suggests a quickie.
3:46 Boyfriend catches my unenthusiastic response and tells me never mind. I feel awful, as I do every time I turn him down, but I’ve been cleaning all day without a shower and I had just finished an hour of wii fit so I was sore. I promise him that I’ll make it up to him later that night.
1:22 a.m. Come home from seeing a friend’s band play. Still too sore and tired for sex, so I offer him a blow job as soon as we get home. Read More »

I came across this article the other day, an article about how chivalry is dead, and my generation is the one who killed it.

To prove her point, the article’s author explained how she’s often cat called when she walks down the street, and laments about the days when men tipped their hats and said “mornin‘” instead of leering at a pair of breasts and saying “yee!”

Even though I think she’s got a point when she talks about certain forms of traditional chivalry going out the window (the last time a man tipped his hat at me was…well, never, and not once has anyone ever thrown a jacket over a mud puddle), I’m pretty sure that using cat calls to define the death of chivalry is just plain incorrect.

Look, men have been cat calling women since the day they realized their mouths made sounds and breasts were awesome. Sure, Victorian dudes opened carriage doors for us and offered their elbow when the terrain got rough, but don’t think they weren’t whistling and jeering under those handlebar mustaches and cute little bowler hats. Perhaps they weren’t shouting “aye, mami!” when a fine looking bustle walked down the street, but you can bet a Victorian chick knew when a Mr. Darcy was hating to see her leave, but loving to see her go. Read More »

The allure of the “tease” has long driven men shamefully crazy. The fishnets on the librarian. The black bra through the shirt. The lace underwear he can see when you bend over. This concept is the functioning force behind burlesque, perfume ads, and even your little black dress.

The tease, in my opinion, may very well be the purest form of foreplay.

So why not participate in some online foreplay? Everything else these days is online. You trust your bank account online. Your private emails. Your social security number. So why not your sexy legs?

I’m not saying that you need to go off and buy a “(your name)inherunderwear.com” domain. However, if you’ve got an appetite at all for building on sexual chemistry between yourself and someone else, why not restructure your approach to the traditional tease? Lets face it: nothing else is traditional anymore, so this doesn’t need to be, either.

Far too many girls, in my opinion, really need to sort out their bunched up panties over matters like this.

DEAR GIRLS WHO ARE AFRAID OF SENDING YOUR DESIRED OTHER SEXY PICTURES OVER THE INTERNET: Read More »