Two employees of the Philadelphia Fire Department have accepted punishment for their roles in a departmental sex scandal, NBC 10 reports.
The two were part of a group of seven members of the department — including two battalion chiefs, a captain, a lieutenant, two firefighters and a paramedic — scheduled to face disciplinary hearings this week. The pair waived their right to a hearing; what punishment they face is still unknown. Read more »
I won’t be standing in line to see the premiere of the movie version of Fifty Shades of Grey on Friday. Nor will I be queuing up to see it with a bunch of my best girlfriends on Saturday, Valentine’s Day. My husband isn’t taking me to a screening for a date night. But apparently a lot of other people are doing all of these things, since advance ticket sales for the movie have surpassed those for any other R-rated feature ever.
In New York City, Lyss Stern is going to the movie with 50 of her friends. This is about 10 times as many friends as I have, let alone friends I could corral into seeing Fifty Shades with me. I blush if I watch sex scenes in movies when I’m sitting in my own living room with my husband. I can’t fathom sitting in a darkened movie theater surrounded by besties while a woman willingly gets tied up and whipped on-screen.
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“Invisible Boyfriend gives you real-world and social proof that you’re in a relationship—even if you’re not—so you can get back to living life on your own terms.”
So claims the creators of Invisible Boyfriend, a digital subscription service that helps potential single gay men “create credible, reasonable stories that you can bring home to curious mom, your buddies, and coworkers. These stories are backed by virtual and real-world social proof.” (Sorry, but I’m LOL’ing over the phrase real world social proof). Read more »
Kink University (KU), a site that seeks to “improve the world’s accessibility [to kink] through learning fun, safe, and effective skills related to consensual kink and other aspects of sensuality,” just released a list of the nation’s kinkiest cities, and Philly cracks the top 10 at No. 9.
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It’s like you walked into the Paper Source store on Walnut Street, purchased every fine sheet of paper on display, whipped out your hot glue gun and scissors, and turned it all into animals with giant penises and vaginas. Read more »
Last week, The Huffington Post published a commentary by a 19-year-old female, Brie, titled “I’m Demisexual: Here’s What That Means.” In it, the writer describes demisexuality:
“I don’t feel sexually attracted to people in the ‘normal’ way. I’m demisexual (that’s on the asexuality scale), so I honestly can’t feel attraction toward people unless I already love their personalities and minds along with a few other special snowflake qualities.”
Of course, I couldn’t help but notice a good amount of my gay-identifying social media friends sharing the article, mostly poking fun at the author’s “need” to label herself as a sexual orientation that was, in their opinions, “fictitious.” As one person put it, “We’re going to run out of letters of the alphabet to describe people soon. What’s it now? LGBTQD?”
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Proof that we could all use a bit more quality time between the sheets (not that kind of quality time, you guys): A new sleep survey of over 1,000 adults, conducted by the TODAY Show, found that nearly half of adults would rather get a good night’s sleep than have sex. And when it comes to women, that number jumps up to 65 percent. Why, you ask? Well, according to the survey, we simply don’t get enough shut-eye.
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In his eloquent paean last week to watching porn, Daily News scold Stu Bykofsky equated the practice to stopping by the watercooler to chat with a colleague. There’s one essential way, at least, in which the two acts differ: One is solitary, and one is not. Stu cited the statistic that 29 percent of Americans say watching porn is morally acceptable.
I’m surprised the number’s that low. I don’t give a royal hoot who watches porn, though I’d prefer public officials not be doing so while they’re on the job. But what’s being called “Porngate” reminded me of a handy app that’s being pushed as the answer to the current “crisis” of sexual assault on college campuses. The app, Good2Go, takes the mushy gray out of “He said, she said” college sexual assault accusations by reducing the question of consent to a Wawa touchscreen condiment choice. Read more »
Last month, Slate‘s Rebecca Onion unearthed pure gold from the depths of the Library Company of Philadelphia‘s digital stacks. Guide to the Stranger or Pocket Companion for the Fancy is essentially a personal review of every brothel in the city worth mentioning circa 1849. The gentleman who compiled this data was pretty much the Roger Ebert of mid-19th century Philly whorehouses.
Addresses are listed for several of the brothels. So, as maturely as possible, let’s find out what’s become of these properties. Besides, how much can change in 165 years?
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As a woman pushing 30, I’ve been called a slut more times than I care to think about.
Most women have. Cruelly by partners. Casually by gossips. Playfully by friends. Randomly by strangers.
I’m not sensitive to many words, but this one has always bothered me, has always lingered in the air a couple extra seconds. Drop the dreaded “C word” on me and I won’t blink, but “slut” — a tidy little package of judgment, shame and manipulation — has always felt unusually heavy.
When SlutWalk Philadelphia debuted in 2011, I didn’t necessarily like the name. It made me, like a lot of people, uncomfortable at first — and it should have. Like the word, the SlutWalk has pretty uncomfortable origins: A protest march that eventually went global, it began in Toronto after a police officer advised women to “avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized.” Instead, women decided to take a little stroll together in fishnets.
I have no real interest in “reclaiming” the word – you can keep this one, among others. But if it’s going to be used against us, I’m personally in favor of harnessing its power to call noisy, unladylike attention to the idea that what we wear somehow determines that it’s OK to harass us.
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