(SARA, 23, walks down the street in Queens, NY with a giant bag of laundry. As she passes the elementary school by her apartment, she comes across a group of 14-year-old[?] boys. One KID separates out to meet the next group of boys half a block up.)

KID
(to his friend)
Yo, Hassan! Mothaf*cka gonna rob your ass, son!

(Kid laughs and presses the fire alarm, which buzzes one loud buzz. He turns around to look at Sara.)

KID
Testing the fire alarm, miss.

SARA
(sarcastic)
Wow, awesome.

KID
Yeah?
(thinks)
You’re looking pretty awesome. Read More »

Sure, I’ve asked myself, “Are you into GIRLS”?

I think a lot of girls ask themselves this at some point in time or another. After all, guys and girls communicate completely differently and it can leave a girl feeling emotionally helpless. And plus, we all know women are the ones with beautiful physiques. So I have asked myself this question and yet every time, “NOPE” seems to be the answer. If that’s true, then why do I LOVE it when girls hit on me?

A girl winks at me at a bar and then tells me I’m beautiful.
A hot girl I know asks me if I want to join her in sex with her boyfriend.
A lesbian tells me she wishes I were a lesbian.

Why, oh why, am I so thoroughly delighted by all of this supposedly unwarranted attention? I think I know why…

I think it’s because girls are notoriously VICIOUS with one another. Girls judge other girls like we’re all competing on America’s Next Top Model and the prize is endless chocolate and all-expenses-paid shopping. Even if I don’t wanna make out with the girl at hand, it feels nice to know she wants to make out with me.

Am I crazy?
Or have you ever felt this way?

[You can read the last installment of Chasing Chastity here]

“What’s going on?”

“Where are you, babe?” I crunched on a vodka-infused ice cube and sipped the remains of my tenth cocktail.

“I’m on my way home for lunch. I have about two hours between classes, so I thought I’d grab a quick bite. You wanna make me a sandwich?”

“Uhhh . . . sure?”

I bolted from the couch and knocked the phone out of my hand. As I bent down to retrieve it, I tripped over the dog, and smashed my head into our coffee table.

Immobilized, bleeding, I drifted off . . .

“Glenn? Glenn? Honey?” Jason’s tie brushed against my nose and a few mumbling shadows lurked behind him. It turned out those ominous figures were a team of paramedics.

“Mr. Woodson, it looks like your wife was drinking at the time of the fall. We need to check for signs of a concussion. If she checks out, then she won’t need to come to the E.R. with us.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” Jason said. He turned away from the shadowy figures, and crouched near my face. “Jesus, am glad I came home. What would’ve happened to you if I hadn’t? Your face is covered in dried blood.” Read More »