Zara, I'm going to have sex with him tonight. He just asked me to come over. I've been wearing these tights since am, I feel disgusting, and I'm about to have sex! What do I do!? He's leaving tomorrow. This is my one chance to have mind-blowing sex with him!
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Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. What begins as a discussion about what sexy panties I should get turns into a discussion of which sexy panties my BF should get, which turns into a discussion of what sexy panties we should get together. And I definitely never imagined being with a guy who got off on cross-dressing — it seemed totally absurd. The idea of a partner that I could spend the rest of my life committed to seemed even more absurd.
In the opening episode of "Popstars," the WB's newest reality-TV show, a camera slowly pans a line of girls waiting patiently for their chance to belt out a few bars of a song for a panel of judges. The girls gaze coyly at the camera and strike poses -- in their skintight pleather pants and last season's snakeskin print halter tops, soft bellies exposed from there to there, eyes crusty with mascara -- hoping that this brief moment on film will help launch them toward girl-band stardom. The TV show is a female version of "Making the Band," a semisuccessful reality show from last season that turned a parade of fresh-faced boys into a five-man Backstreet Boys pastiche called O-Town a band whose CD debuted on the charts on Jan. But where "Making the Band" took a handful of clean-cut boys next door and turned them into fuzzy, desexualized plush toys that you'd feel safe leaving with your year-old daughter, "Popstars" is assembling a collection of precocious sexpot tartlets hellbent on titillating men twice their age and striking fear into the heart of any teenage boy who has ever had an inopportune erection while selling pop pablum to prepubescent girls. The teenage pop starlet boom of has given rise to a passel of virginal sluts -- navel-exposing divas who proclaim that they are saving themselves for marriage while they shimmy across stages in second-skin white leather and spangled sports bras and the tiniest of belly chains. Crooning their come-hither lyrics from behind bleached-out tresses and blackened raccoon eyes, Spears, Christina Aguilera and their ilk have become style icons for a generation of teenage girls who acquire -- before they're even ready for training bras -- a somewhat misguided education about fashion's sexual message. The world according to these painted pretties is a place in which good girls can pretend to be bad girls without having to worry about bad boys.
Like, What would he think if he knew this me? I went to boarding school to get away from him, you know? I am 19 years old, and you are whatever age you were ten years ago. Literally as we speak, it's 5 AM, and I'm getting fucked by a graffiti writer we'll call Mikey in an apartment in downtown Manhattan. My mouth is dry and bitter, and I have the same headache I have every night, like the front of my brain is swollen. So here I am, getting fucked by this guy who grew up on the Upper East Side and is white yet speaks exclusively in ebonics and once went to Rikers for breaking a glass over the head of an NHL player at Chaos. Seriously, right? It even made SportsCenter.