Heels Over Head

Friday, August 23, 2013

The When Harry Met Sally question

Posted By on Fri, Aug 23, 2013 at 10:00 AM

As more and more of the Forty Days of Dating (comically nicknamed "40DD") project is revealed, I find myself becoming a little bored by most of the daily entries. They are exactly like being with a friend and analyzing the minutiae of her new relationship - tedious and inconclusive. I have, however, become increasingly fascinated with the comments, particularly the ones raising the When Harry Met Sally question.


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Tuesday, August 13, 2013

40 Days of Dating: Arranged dating for the scared shitless

Posted By on Tue, Aug 13, 2013 at 5:22 PM

You may have heard about it by now: Yahoo News, the Daily Mail, and even Buzzfeed are among the outlets positively aflutter with the news that two young, successful, attractive designers from the Big Apple have embarked on an experiment to date each other for 40 days. That's it? Yes. Two hot designers based in New York City are contractually obligated to date each other for 40 days ("The time it takes to break bad habits," say the love addict and commitment phobe on their website), and they're documenting the whole thing with the designer's version of selfies: text-based illustrations and short films of themselves getting covered in glue. Love it or hate it, people are really, really into it.


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Friday, August 9, 2013

Introducing CL's newest sex-and-love columnist

Posted By on Fri, Aug 9, 2013 at 1:35 PM

I've been talking about sex since one afternoon in Fredericksburg, Texas, in the spring of 1991.
I woke up groggy in a one-room cabin from a heat-addled sugar coma on Easter Sunday, and aside from my sweaty brother still sleeping next to me, the room was empty. I was 6. I blinked as I looked around the room, trying to get my bearings. Spring break, my brain reminded me. Concrete floors. No AC. Cows for miles.

I went looking for my mother, and when she wasn't in the bathroom I tried the front door, vaguely surprised that I had to unlock it. On the porch in front of me, a trail of clothes 20 yards long led me to an image I will never forget: my naked mother propped atop the hood of my step-dad's black '87 Jaguar, their pale bodies slamming against one another in a position I have yet to experience in my own sex life - her legs akimbo, hands gripping the windshield wipers, my stepfather's scrawny ass thrusting in between the time it took for him to sort of sideways scissor kick her thighs by hand, all of it with the gusto and rhythm that I at first mistook for partner Jazzercise. I quietly crept back into cabin and woke my 4-year-old brother, Chris.

"Don't tell Mom, but I just saw her naked on Tom's car."

"What were they doing?"

"I don't know. Exercising. Don't tell."

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