These days, it seems, everyone wants to bed a vampire. Their combination of unearthly beauty, perfect chivalry and dangerous nature make them irresistible to women. True Blood's Bill Compton and Twilight's Edward Cullen are the stuff of fiction, however there is, in fact, a community of people who identify as vampires. So what's it like to date a real-life vampire? YourTango investigates.
Some women love to pick at their boyfriend's or husband's pimples. Why? It might go back to our roots as primates, for whom grooming is a normal part of intimacy. And, surprisingly, the author of this story found a sorority of 'pickers' who are as enthusiastic about the practice as she is.
After two and half years together and a few short domestic trips, my now-husband and I put our relationship to the test with a two-week jaunt through China. Sure, hiking the Great Wall, braving squatter toilets, and eating breakfast with chopsticks were all an adventure, but the real challenge of vacationing together was spending every minute together for 15 days straight. If you think your relationship is up to the test, do yourself (and him) a favor by following my hard-learned tips…
Mary Ann Winkowski communicates with "earthbound ghosts," those who have yet to cross into the white light (yes, Winkowski says, it exists). She's not to be confused with a medium—a person who can communicate with those who've already "crossed over." YourTango caught up with her recently via phone, to find out what relationship insight she could share, given her unique ability to talk to ghosts.
For years, I've heard horror stories of the Brazilian bikini wax. Getting down on all fours, raising a leg like a dog peeing on a tree, spreading my butt cheeks to allow a complete stranger to apply hot wax in the most private crevices of my body—these didn't seem like things I needed to rush out and experience (at least not in public) ... Summoning my courage, I decided that it was time to shed light on the truth behind the Brazilian.
This is one man who's happy to ask for directions. But should he trust his wife… or his new GPS? "For the last nine years, my wife has been my shining directional beacon, a kind of sit-next-to-me Northern Star. When we lived in New York City, she would send me on the subway with yellow post-it notes that detailed the stops and transfers. Without these handwritten guides, I'd likely be penning this story as an emissary of the mole people. But this year, I was given a Garmin global positioning system (GPS) as a birthday gift—a robot whose sole responsibility was to offer me the best route to take."
The whole Salsa thing started with my wife's friend, Autumn. Autumn is a Salsa-dancing junkie. She Salsas the way most of us brush our teeth, which is to say, pretty frequently. Recently, Autumn got Tara all fired up about how much fun Salsa dancing is, how sexy it is. Soon, Tara wanted us to go, despite the fact that I cannot dance, that I do not understand dancing. Dancing, I am the title character in a short film called "White Man in Terrible, Self-Conscious Pain." My wife, by contrast, doesn't do self-consciousness. Which I admire, no end. Preferably from the couch, in my own house.
I just recently picked up a new vagina. It's brand new, shiny, and never been tested by man. You think I'm kidding, but its true: One week ago today, along with other repair surgeries, I had a vaginal reconstruction. I'm 37, but in more ways than one I feel like a new woman, a virtual born-again virgin.
As a kid, my ballet teacher nicknamed me Olive Oil because I was tall and skinny with long dark hair like the cartoon. By 14, puberty had left me squeezing into 32DD bras. My instant curves disgusted me. "You are not fat; you’re Zaftik," my mother would say in Yiddish, as she inspected my 5'7" and 120-lb. frame. She meant I carried my weight well. Large busts were so common among Jewish women they'd created a word in the Old Country for exactly what I'd inherited.
Before you get your moral molars all empacted and whatnot, we'll make vividly clear that this list by no means endorses having an affair and ruining a perfectly good marriage (or an imperfect one, for that matter). Hear us out. Whether single or taken, flirting is fun.
As Cupid's visit approaches couples inevitably feel pressure to make the day unforgettable, but creating a memory can be costly. According to the National Retail Federation the average couple will spend $102.50 making their sweetheart feel special this Valentine's Day—down 17% from last year, but still a good chunk of change. With emotions, expectations and costs running so high, it's no wonder that some people eschew the holiday all together. Often, though, the most significant moments in a relationship come when people stop thinking with their wallets.
Millions of couples will snuggle up on the couch or set out to celebrate the Super Bowl this Sunday. The national event that conjures images of wings, beer and hearty brouhaha can be the biggest day of the year to some and just another Sunday to others. And sometimes those differing esteems exist within a couple. We know what you're thinking: the guy's the one glued to the TV, right? We love relationships that defy stereotypes, so we set out to find couples where she's the sports fan, and he's not. We found two relationships where the lady loves sports and her man couldn't care less. And, as each writer points out, they'd not want it any other way.
Like most women on the planet, I dreamed that I would one day find the perfect man. Someone who would not mind me occasionally bringing home a stray dog or cat. A man who could watch Monty Python's Holy Grail repeatedly and would still have a beverage shoot out his nose when the Frenchman says, "I fart in your general direction." And, most importantly, I longed for a man who could spend many a Sunday afternoon lying on the couch watching football with me. Honestly, I thought that the last requirement on my list would be the easiest to fulfill. Well, as luck would have it, I did find my dream guy. I found him in his indigenous environment: the art museum. He was displaying his original artwork, oil paintings of various people and things. I thought he was brilliant and talented. He swept me off my feet from the moment I met him. He was kind, funny, intelligent—almost everything I wanted in a man. But, sadly, he didn't care so much for watching large men in spandex beat the crap out of each other for possession of a ball. I was devastated. How could someone so perfect be so horribly flawed? He couldn't relate to such barbaric activity of testosterone and sweat.
I grew up in a family where sports was not a major part of life. We played an occasional game of badminton or croquet and maybe tossed a softball, but we never followed sports in the newspaper or on television. When it came to baseball cards, I chewed the gum and threw out the cards. When I read the newspaper, the sports section went untouched. All of that changed when I met my wife. As our relationship blossomed, so did my understanding of sports. Under her guidance, I learned about college basketball and March Madness along with terms like Sweet Sixteen and the Final Four. We and our kids now enjoy the annual tradition of filling out the brackets, even if it frustrates me that her bracket predictions are usually more accurate than mine.
It all began right after our tour of Peter Island in the British Virgin Islands: gray skies, drizzle, word of a "tropical storm warning," and then the news that we'd be in the path of a possible category three hurricane. That meant the various activities included in our honeymoon package—the drive to the top of the island to watch the sunset, the excursion to the Virgin Gorda to go snorkeling, the trip to the private beach—were promptly nixed. "It's fine," said Steve, as I started to whine. "I'd rather be here in the middle of a hurricane than anywhere else. At least we're together." Whatever. Nice words, but they weren't clearing the skies—or getting us a refund. I'm usually a real Girl Scout about stuff like this, able to buck up in the direst of circumstances, but my honeymoon was my turf, and it was being peed on by God.