Yeah yeah, this compilation probably should have come about in January, when 2012 lists were more prevalent. But, I am always a few months (years) behind trends, and also I hated January. My January 2012 will forever go on the list of The Shittiest Months Ever, right next to April 2003 when I found out my boyfriend was gay and got suspended from school on my birthday. SO, in January I was too busy raving like a loon to compile a list of songs to get down to. Sorry I’m not sorry!

Here are 12 juicy jams, ranging from sweet and slow to fast and freaky, in no particular order. And don’t forget that you can get down to these solo! And of course, remember that Audio Arousal ninja sex fantasy? These would be perfect tunes to pump out of your hipster headphones.

1. Cat Power, “Where is my Love?” Actually I want to have sex to basically every song off of her album, The Greatest. Cat Power is either adored or abhorred for starting off releasing a couple of albums comprised of covers. But her versions of “New York,” “Woman Left Lonely” and “Metal Heart” have my underwear around my ankles so fast I can’t complain. In fact, I seem to have been conditioned Pavlovian style to begin removing articles of clothing the moment I hear her, which is an issue because she is also my favorite artist this year to cook to.

2. Lady Gaga. “Government Hooker.” Lady Gaga is nuts, and most of her songs would be good to get naked to if you’re in a crazy “make a hat out of tinfoil” kind of mood. This hard-hitter makes me want to dominate in a closet-sized, sand-filled hotel room in P-Town.

3. DJ Kaos, “Love the Night Away” (Tiedye Mix). Good beat, sort of funky, with a nice feeling that can set the mood anywhere between passionate and sloppy. Can’t go wrong with anything with a line like “my body needs to talk to you.”


4. Die Antwoord, “I Fink U Freeky.” This is something I would have suggested as a half-joke in my college sex-column. This South African hip-hop group is terrifying. So terrifying that this track makes me want to get naked. The video, however, does NOT make me want to get naked so do not watch it if you plan to have sex to the song, because it will probably ruin it for you. Unless scary inbred-looking hillbillies, snakes, roaches and rats turn you on. Then it will probably enhance the experience…

5. Kings of Leon, “Milk.” With throaty vocals, this sensual song has an ideal pace that goes from slow to fast. It’s gotta be sexy…What do you think they mean when they talk about “salty leave”….

6. Norah Jones, “I Wouldn’t Need You.” I just love Norah Jones; she’s jazzy. This song is good for some slow lovin’ on a Sunday afternoon.

7. Scarlett Johansson, Falling Down. Say what? ScarJo does more than look like a total fox in Woody Allen movies? This surprisingly good Tom Waits cover features David Bowie singing back-up, and if that isn’t enough to make you want to get off to it, then I suspect you have a colon in place of your sex organs.


8. Tommy James & The Shondells, “Crimson and Clover.” This classic is nice and saucy and slow and has a terrific build-up at the end. My college room-mate was obsessed with this song, and with the idea of having sex to it. This one’s for you, B!

9. Air, “Playground Love.” I first heard this song in my favorite depressing film of all time, The Virgin Suicides. It has a lovely sax riff floating throughout. It’s so slow moving it would probably be a good song to have sex to if you were really, really stoned and sloth-like. Lazy sex! (Lazy sex, in case you’re wondering, is sex had in the spoons position.)

10. Lykke Li, “Unrequited Love.” This slow song is actually pretty depressing, but so so so good. And, if you’re an over-grown emo high schooler (cough) then things that are slightly depressing may also actually turn you on. I want to remove a pair of blood-splattered skinny jeans with my teeth to this song.

11. Ozzy Osbourne, “Crazy Train.”  A man pal of mine suggested this Ozzy classic. But he also suggested “I’m A Little Teapot” so I take most of his suggestions cum grano salis. It’s hard for me to get worked up to Ozzy because I remember watching his terrible reality TV show in high school, so I constantly envision him walking around screaming “Sharrrroooon” and complaining about one of his 50 dogs crapping in his living room.

12. Nine Inch Nails, “Only.”  NIN’s “Closer” always gets kudos for being a terrific sex soundtrack, but my pal and fellow blogger Sarah from SarahOnTheGo recently suggested their less popular song, “Only.”  I like.  Its powerful, booming rhythm sets a stage for a good aggressive romp.

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A look at Jennifer Egan’s novel, Look at Me. Warning: This rant contains a few spoilers.

A while back I read Look at Me by Jennifer Egan. I had heard good things about it; the story is about a washed up model who gets in a car accident and has to have facial reconstructive surgery. Afterward, while still beautiful, she looks completely different. Her own agent doesn’t recognize her. Since her career was basically over, she looks for ways to work her new face to her advantage. There is also a detective story threaded throughout, and a romance.

The plot was interesting, as were most of the characters. However, what Egan failed to do was, in my opinion, make a likeable protagonist. This is a big flaw; Charlotte, the heroine, is self-absorbed, judgmental, destructive, vain and hard. Now, this doesn’t immediately make her unlikable. In The Picture of Dorian Gray, Dorian is basically one of the worst human beings I’ve ever adored. He is terrible—vain, manipulative, deceitful and completely immoral. And yet when he (spoiler alert!) dies at the end it is upsetting to the reader. You can be terrible and still completely captivating, and likeable. It’s probably not fair to compare Wilde to Egan but my inability to find any redeeming qualities in Charlotte made it difficult for me to fully enjoy the novel.

The title of the book comes from Charlotte’s ability to look at the “shadow selves” of the people around her. She asks the people she meets to “look at her,” and she is able to see their true selves, see past their projected image and understand if they are a good or bad person. And then, around page 337, I got to a part that made me wonder what Charlotte’s shadow self resembles, when Charlotte rapes her love interest. And, instead of this being some huge moral debate or turning point in the novel, nothing negative happens. In fact, they (spoiler alert No. 2!!) get married at the end.

As I read the scene, which I had to do over and over to make sure I wasn’t imagining it, I was pretty horrified because I knew that if this were a male protagonist climbing into bed with his drunk, unconscious female love interest with whom he had never been intimate with, a bigger deal would be made. Charlotte is aware she is taking advantage of the situation, so that’s good; but she justifies it by the fact that Anthony Halloway, her romantic focal point, is hard and therefor willing. That’s like saying a girl was dressed like a skank and so she wanted it, clearly. Let me give you an excerpt:

“Anthony,” I said, but he didn’t stir. I tweaked a hair from his head and he murmured, shifted. I reached down and touched him, took him in my hand, to which he sighed and tensed, pushing against me—I’m just taking advantage of what’s in front of me, I told myself, I’d be crazy not to—the question was how to do it without waking him.

She then goes over scenarios of things she could tell him if he woke up in the middle of it, like , Nothing happened, you dreamed it all up. Now, in this fictional “romancy” rape, both Charlotte and Halloway come at the exact same time. This is a hard thing to make happen when both of you are working at it like crazy, so the fact that it would happen with one party asleep is completely unbelievable. To make it worse, when Halloway comes he wakes up and Charlotte pretends to be asleep.

“His eyes burst open, but I’d sensed that possibility and shut my own at the very same instant, feigning sleep, awash in satisfaction, the drift of tides, sounds of distant barking dogs, telling myself there was no way he could prove it.”

It gets more startling: “awash in satisfaction,” Charlotte lays there for a few moments while Halloway falls back asleep and then tells him that she loves him. LOVES him. I love you so much, I am going to take advantage of you when we’re drunk, so that the first time we ever “made love,” you were unconscious. Oy vay!

Not to be a rape Nazi, but that is completely 100 hundred percent unconsensual sex. While it was a very subtle, gentle rape scene ( a gentle rape scene—now there’s an oxymoron) it was for sure a rape scene nonetheless. Surely, I thought, Egan put this in here to to show what a demon Charlotte is, and when I Google this tons of readers and critics alike will be up in arms! There were be internet trolls all over the place hating on this scene, I thought.

SO I Google it, and the only thing that involved Egan and writing about sex in any way was this article on sex writing, which features Jennifer Egan and John Freeman. Here is Egan’s advice:

Her solution in writing sex scenes herself is to stick close to her character’s perceptions and to the language that the character would use to talk about things. She never tries to describe the scene from third person omniscient, in other words. She also felt that less is often more — it allows readers to engage in the scene to a greater degree, and keeps them from feeling manipulated. “You have to get at it laterally,” she said.

Get at it laterally! While they’re passed out! But really, I couldn’t help but feeling that if Halloway had instead been using Charlotte as his slumbering plaything, the scene would be considered more monstrous and most likely they would not be married at the end. Shouldn’t a rapist be morally punished and not rewarded by gaining the affection of their victim and living happily ever after? In fiction at least, where you can twist the outcome to meet your own needs. Perhaps had Charlotte seen the error in her ways, addressed them with Anthony and “cleansed herself morally” this would be more acceptable. But she doesn’t. The scene is never mentioned again which got me thinking. Is this rape scene alright because the rapist is a woman?

Feminist Hugo Schwyzer (who, fun fact, told me via Tweet that he is raising his daughter vegan) wrote about this recently, and about how erections do not mean consent.

His piece came about in reaction to the FBI announcing it is rebooting it’s tired and sexist definition of rape, which, since 1929 had been: “the carnal knowledge of a female, forcibly and against her will.” 

While the raping of men may be less common than women, and certainly less reported, that doesn’t mean it does not happen.

As Schwyzer writes:

 Without getting mired in the tiresome debates over statistics, it’s safe to conclude three things from the recent data and the changed FBI definition. First, men make up a heavy preponderance of those who commit rape, though a significant minority of women does commit acts of sexualized violence. Second, women are statistically at much greater risk of rape than are men. Three, acknowledging these first two truths doesn’t diminish the reality that more men and boys than we realized are victims of rape and sexual violence. We need to avoid the twin errors of claiming false equivalence on the one hand, or denying the reality of male vulnerability altogether on the other. 

Ah, male vulnerability. The idea that a man can’t be raped because he could stop it if he wanted, or because if his body is willing, he must be too. Back in the day it was thought pregnancies couldn’t occur without an orgasm. And so, if a woman was raped and became pregnant, her pregnancy would make people suspect she had not truly been raped for if she orgasmed then clearly it was consensual. Luckily those beliefs—that an orgasm must be present for pregnancy to occur, and that an orgasm during rape means it was consensual—have been disbanded, but the stigma that if a man is hard he wants it still remains.

I am glad Egan put this scene in here to show rape from a different angle—from the viewpoint of a woman who is supposed to be the heroine. The fact that she justifies it with his erection and unconscious participation just further highlights the flaws in her character. However, because she not only got away with it but was rewarded in the end is frustrating because I felt it played down the act and made it seem acceptable. Rape is never acceptable, regardless of the sex, gender, relationship or state of consciousness.

Have you read Look at Me? Were you horrified by how casual the rape scene was, and how little it was addressed?

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The other evening after work I stood in my kitchen squirting Sriracha on crackers and wishing I had thought to soak some chickpeas so that I could make hummus when BOOM it hit me. Sriracha hummus! Sort of like when you write down your dreams in the middle of the night and wake up with brilliant bits of nonsense by your bedside.

I know people have done this before because originality is dead as ….oh no no no, it is WAY too soon for Whitney Houston jokes…Ugh why am I so crass?! RIP, Whitney! Anyway, I soaked some chickpeas that night and woke up at 7 am to make Sriracha hummus like some weird pant-less manic legume-loving Keebler elf.

Sriracha Hummus
Serves 4/Prep Time 5 minutes/Cook Time 5 minutes

You will need:
3 cups cooked chickpeas
1 clove garlic ( roasted, if you’re fancy!)
2 tbsp Tahini
2 tbsp olive oil
Juice from ½ lemon
1 tbsp cumin
1 tsp paprika
1/2 cup Sriracha

To make:
Throw all ingredients in a blender or food processor and blend until smooth and creamy.

This has nothing to do with anything, but see how this wine-marker can read my thoughts!

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in·ti·ma·cy  in-tuh-muh-see
noun, plural -cies.

  • the state of being intimate.
  • a close, familiar, and usually affectionate or loving personal relationship with another person or group.
  • an amorously familiar act; liberty.

Lately I have been thinking a lot about intimacy, and its role in a relationship. Issues with intimacy can constipate a relationship faster than eating an entire block of sharp cheddar. If someone has a problem truly getting close to another, then no real solid foundation will build. Feelings of trust and safety will not be established, and the bond will eventually wilt instead of flourishing. I’ve found that most intimacy issues are learned, and based on fear. Fear of what? Of being hurt, or of losing.

I just finished rereading Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity, in which the protagonist Rob goes through a mid-life crisis and re-hashes why every one of his relationships didn’t work out. It boils down to his intimacy issues. As an example, he pinpoints a specific instance: When laying in bed with his girlfriend Laura in the middle of the night, he pulls her toward him in the spoon position and in that moment he feels so close to her it makes him feel completely vulnerable, and he is hit with a wave of fear that she will eventually die and he will be alone. Is his fear of her death a bit irrational? Sure. Everyone dies. But this fear causes a slew of intimacy issues for Rob, who would rather be alone than have a partner who will eventually leave him.

It may not be the same for everyone but for me, that feeling of absolute closeness to another person is one of the best sensations ever. It produces the sort of manic happiness that colors my world in pastels. When I feel truly paired in a bond that goes unrivaled, the edges of even the most tragic of events are attractively blurred in a soft-focus like the face of a 1950s starlet. And this feeling of complete bliss is absolutely terrifying, because I know that what comes up must come down. And if someone’s presence can make me blissfully, over-the-moon, love-me-retarded happy, then I know  their absence can make me completely miserable. This is why it’s important not to get into a relationship when I’m unstable. I need to be happy alone before I can safely feel happy with someone else.

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Eat me!

This weekend, while dragging my hangover around NYC, I stopped by Popbar, a unique little Gelato-On-A-Stick shop located in the West Village on Carmine Street. I went there because I heard a rumor (and by rumor, I mean their lovely PR strategist clued me in…) that Popbar has a line of vegan sweet eats, called popSorbettos.

PopSorbettos are made with real fruit, so you can feel healthy while eating them. Plus, you can dip and roll them in things like chocolate, pistachios and coconut. And, like all phallic-shaped frozen foods, they are good fun to slurp away on.

All popbars are made in house, by “popologists” (cute, right?) in small batches of 26. So flavors vary daily, and when I stopped in the popSorbetto options were strawberry and blood orange. I had one of each, obviously. Actually I shared with my saucy friend K, who isn’t a vegan but is easily bribed with free food.  She claimed the popbar helped with her head-ache, caused by indulging in one too many pickle backs the night before.

Popbar rep Katrin told me that not only are all popSorbetto flavors vegan but their dark chocolate dip is dairy-free, too! (Note, however, that the dark chocolate does not use certified vegan sugar.) I dipped both my pops in dark chocolate, and rolled the strawberry in shredded coconut. They were both delicious—not too sweet, with real fruity flavor. The blood orange was particularly unique, although I liked the texture of the strawberry better; creamier, and not as icy.

After enjoying our sorbettsicles on the side of the street, K and I high-fived and headed off to an orgy. JUST KIDDING. (Commence breathing, Dad…)

It’s getting warmer out, which means soon it will be prime frozen phallic treat season, so if you’re in NYC check them out!

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Well-traveled rubbers!

When you think of things that aren’t vegan, your mind may drift to your room-mates wedge of vomit-smelling parmigiano reggiano hibernating in that small compartment in the door of your fridge. Yuck. What you probably don’t think of are the condoms stashed next to your bed. Unfortunately, many latex condoms do contain the milk protein casein, so if you want to avoid bumpin’ your bits against some animal byproducts, you should look for vegan condoms.

If you asked me my vegan condom of choice, I would eagerly tell you that I like Sir Richard’s Condoms. In fact, even if you DON’T ask me, I will overshare and tell you anyway, perhaps embarrassing you in a public setting like on the subway or at brunch. Sir Richard makes the best condoms. Let me write a love letter to them about all the ways I adore them.

Condom confetti! Like a party for your dick!

Dear Sir Richard,
Thank you for making cruelty-free, casein-free condoms. I love you because of your inaugural donation of 500,000 condoms to Haiti, preventing diseases and promoting safe boning globally. And similar to that intelligent Tom of Tom’s Shoes, whenever someone buys a Sir Richard’s condom, you donate one to a developing country. When I wrap up my manfriend’s manfriend in your animal-free loveglove, I feel like I am helping someone in a far off country catch a hot swampy load, and this makes me feel both worldly and noble, like I’m doing community service without leaving my bedroom. Also, you impress me with the fact that you not only donate condoms, but design specific culturally relevant brands with the help of local artists and health-care providers, so that gorgeous Haitian goddess isn’t worried about the weird logo on her condom package and can follow the directions to apply it to her boyfriend’s junk correctly and with ease. Also, the name of your company makes me think of King Arthur, which makes me nostalgic for my childhood, which clearly is how you WANT to feel when blowing in the reservoir tip of a condom to make sure it will catch all those spermies before they parade up your cervix and impregnate you.

Thank you for your fun designs; I particularly like your bright, plaid wrappers. So does my cat, who finds them under my bed and bats them around before bringing them to me like a dog three days after the deed has been done. I am a big fan of your Ultra Thin variety, and your Pleasure Dots, which—again reminiscent of my childhood—remind me of those colorful dots that taste like sugary sawdust yet were fun to eat off the paper. And thank you for selling your condoms in a variety pack so I can decide which ones I like before buying an entire box—I have commitment issues.

Most importantly, thank you for allowing me to come for a cause.
Love and cruelty-free snuggles,

That’s enough weirdness for today! I’m gonna go put some spinach in my blender now.

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Remember my rant on monkey-style sex last week, where I posted an excerpt from reader J Boybutter? Well, J Boybutter and I got to talking, and it turns out he is a vegansexual! You know…a vegan who won’t date a non-vegan.

I had never had the chance to actually dish with a vegansexual, so I was pretty tickled to learn this. In the following interview, J Boybutter tells me all about life as a vegansexual, and how to be an accomplished lover. And I apologize in advance that he uses the word “secretions,” which is my LEAST favorite word ever. Saying it is basically the No. 2 easiest way to make me squirm. The No. 1 way is to ball up your fist and put it in my armpit. Has anyone ever done that to you?! So weird! J does redeem himself, though, by also using the word cyprianophobia. Read on to learn what it means!

Also, note that English is not his first language. He is charmingly European. But he does so well with his English, that foxy polyglot!

How long have you been vegan?

I’ve was vegan from 1994 to 2000ish and then fell into the cheese habit for a couple of years and finally got out of it for good as a new years resolution. I went back to veganism in 2009 I’ve quit smoking a year later, mainly after seeing how the put monkeys under tests for cigarettes…. I loved smoking even though I knew it was bad for me. Quitting for the animals was easier. So, overall, I can say I’ve been vegan for about 9 years. Sorta. 6+3 = 9

Have you ever dated a non-vegan since you’ve been vegan?
 Yes, in late 1994, early 1995. I dated a non-vegan in the early 2000s and did have a one night stand with a non-vegan in summer 2009. I’ve never dated a vegan actually. So, I think you can either say I’m a vergan (vegan virgin) or a non-practicing vegansexual.

Now you say when you find out a lady eats meat, you become romantically uninterested. Would you be bothered if someone became uninterested in you because you DON’T eat meat? I’m bothered by it all the time.
Nobody ever told me they stopped being interested when they learned I’m vegan, but I’m pretty sure some did. I’m suspecting that’s one of the reasons it didn’t work out with my ex girlfriend.

Is it just the idea of their flavor that turns you off a meat eater, or their ethics, too?
It’s both. It can taste weird down there. To be an accomplished lover, a man has to lick and kiss intimate parts of his partner. If it tastes leatherish, or meaty, it’s a turnoff to me. Having sex with someone is not just about giving pleasure. It’s also about receiving. You can make funny jokes about guys vs. girls and who’s the true receiver, but in the end, if my experience is spoiled by pungent and reeky body odors and secretions, I prefer to watch some erotic Tumblr porn on my iPhone.

I need an iPhone… So you find the flavor of a woman to be particularly unpleasant if she eats meat, correct?

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Wait until I Instagram that picture of your dick, dick

Woohoo! The winner of the 6 month membership to vegan culinary portal Spork Online is reader “Beans.” I picked the winner with, so that I wouldn’t be biased in my choice. However, I can completely related to Beans’ rant about V-day! An excerpt:

“I see Valentine’s Day as an excuse to see my man (he lives two hours away), eat some awesomely sensual vegan food, and have mind-blowing sex; who could hate that?!?!”

You and I agree, Beans!

On another note: This has nothing to do with Valentine’s day, or Spork Online, but with fancy penises. What!?!

My most recent ex once lovingly (?) told me he was terrified of being my ex-boyfriend for fear of what I would write about him on the internet. Seriously, I am suspicious it was at least 77 percent of the reason he didn’t want to break up. I’m batshit crazy and we lived 8 hours apart! There could be no other reason.

With that in mind, this video—courtesy of my fav procrastination website—is a terrific example of why break-ups and the internet go together like a night of heavy drinking and dairy products.

I’ve tried for twenty minutes to embed this but I’m being punished for that time I cruelly wrote about a (different) ex’s small penis on the internet. Bad karma. You should go watch this video, where Rachel Bloom sings a ballad to her ex’s small penis, the pictures of which she is Photoshopping into tuxedos and posting on the internet. (I never did any of that! I don’t have the Photoshop skills…) So, you will just have to go old-school style and just click on it. Do it. And if you know why’s videos will not embed on here correctly, get at me.If Breakup Ballads Were More Realistic (And Way Crazier) — powered by
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I hope that's pleather, Biffy!

I don’t usually redirect my SexyTofu readers to my rants on other sites, but I had a great interview with bad-ass Canadian recording artist Bif Naked a few weeks back, and wrote about it on pop-vegan culture portal Bif is a raw vegan, MMA enthusiast, poet, writer and all around insanely smokin’ hot, inside and out. Here is a little teaser from the article. Feel free to check out iEatGrass for the entire thing, and  read about Bif’s upcoming memoir, and find a link to her talking about that time she scooped a homeless man’s crap out of her dog’s mouth. If that ain’t devotion I just don’t know what is.

Bif Naked; Rocker in the Raw

“It’s f*cking raining here!” is one of the first things I hear from the potty-mouthed punker when I get a hold of her. Calling me from Vancouver, Bif’s deep, throaty croon is as enthralling over the phone as it is pumping out of the speakers in my car.

When you hear terms like “raw food vegan,” and “cancer survivor,” images of shining lithe blondes a la Kris Carr may immediately come to mind. And when you think about a tattooed, grungy punk rocker with a passion for Mixed Martial Arts and a mouth like a truck driver, someone living a straight edge life-style is probably not what you envision. Yet Bif Naked, an Indian- born American-Canadian singer, writer, musician and poet is all of the above, and more.

Read more here.

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See the kale creeping in on the photo?

V-day is over! I hope you didn’t spend it snuggling your cat and watching True Romance (which has more guns and blood than romance…) alone in bed by yourself.  I will skip the cupid bashing and provide you, instead, with a recipe for an alcoholic beverage.

Last week I went on over to my parents’ house to lounge by the fire and drink some cocktails made by my mix-master of a father. Unfortunately for me, the evening prior I allowed my coworker to heckle me into attending the swanky(that’s a joke, there is no swanky place in my city) viewing party of  Cougar Town…even the producer said it was the wost name ever. At the party I watched the show for the first time ever, and sauced myself up on the open bar.  I was feeling so swampy the next night I only had two sips of my drink. But here is my dad’s recipe, anyway!

boozy tomato eating fiends!

Serves 1

2 oz. Vodka
1 oz. Pomegranate Cherry Blueberry Juice (a la Trader Joes…)
½ oz. Triple Sec

Shake over ice. Drink.

More on that viewing party: one of the actors from the show—who I had to IMDb while 2 feet away because I am totally clueless—called me a prostitute. Sort of. My lovely lush of a room-mate and I approached him and after a few minutes of playful banter on why Connecticut is terrible, but not as terrible as New Jersey, he made a joke about us being “working girls.” You see, my city is called The City That Works, so he found this amusing. It went a bit over my room-mate’s head, who had indulged in the open bar more heavily than I. “Yes! We’re working girls! I am in finance and Z is an editor.”

“…J…he just called us prostitutes…” was my response. Thanks Dan Byrd, wherever you are. Apparently this is socially acceptable behavior in Georgia, but not in Connecticut, my friend! May your hair stay in that helmet shape forever.

(The next guy J talked to made a joke about how he had chloroform waiting for her in his car. Rape jokes are a fantastic ice-breaker, apparently. Winner!)

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