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Naughty and philosophical dispatches from the life of a writer-comedian who loves bathtubs and hates wearing underpants.
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A Demi in search of her Ashton.
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Houston neighbors pull back the curtains and expose each other's lives.
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A former Mormon goes wild, and shoots nudes, in San Francisco.
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The creator of Supercult.com poses his pretty posse.
Tokyo Undressed
by Rikki Kasso
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A California boy capturing beach parties, sunsets and plenty of skin.
61 Frames Per Second
Smarter gaming.
The Nerve Blog-a-log: Charlotte_Web
A Demi in search of her Ashton.
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  • From the Archives: Your Mother Was A Fish



    A word of warning: this Sunday, May 11, is Mother’s Day. Buy a Hallmark Card, dammit! Or, if you and your mother have a special sort of relationship, I guess you could share these stories with her…

    Read More...


  • New on Nerve, 5.6.08: “Seeking Aylum” By Rev. Jen Miller



    Reverend Jen is back! If you haven’t had the extreme pleasure, you can get to know her here. Or, just read today’s personal essay, in which the good Reverend recounts how a broken heart led to panic attacks, which led to her trying to find free therapy. Those ads in the back of The Village Voice always help.


    But first came the sex. And then the heartbreak:

    "It's not about you" is code for, "It is about you." It's code for, "Can we still be friends because I don't think I EVER WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU AGAIN." It's code for, "Remember that awesome blowjob you gave me last week? I don't want one of those EVER AGAIN." It's code for, "You are not good enough for me for whatever reason, so I'm throwing you out like the used condom I filled with seminal fluid after penetrating you last Tuesday."


    Read the entire essay here. And for real-life pics of the sexy, elven-eared author…

    Read More...


  • From the Archives: The Lengths of My Deception, by Craig Davidson



    Oh, lying – whether you consider it an art form or just a weekend hobby, these little fictions make up a surprisingly large part of interpersonal communication. They’re accepted, they’ll never really have the chance to be questioned. I exist, comfortable in the knowledge that if I stretch. But when it comes to fabrications, you’re bound to be found out. I learned that lesson when I started wearing padded bras. Anatomy is a hard lie to fake – you can finagle your way around it, keep the lights low and the hands strategically placed, but sooner or later, my lack of boobage always came to light – I mean, really, who did I think I was kidding?

    Craig Davidson
    , first man ever to lie about the length of his member, wrote this sly essay...

    Read More...


  • New on Nerve, 4.29.08: The Anorexic’s Cookbook, by Rachel Shukert



    We love writer Rachel Shukert, and today we’re proud to publish this excerpt from her upcoming novel, Have You No Shame? Here, Rachel recounts her time spent in an out-patient clinic, being treated for anorexia. Of course, that’s not the entire story. My favorite line? “There was a demon in my vagina.”


    Shukert was also kind enough to give us some behind-the-scenes thoughts on this piece. (“
    Dispersed throughout this harrowing depiction of erection-murdering events are helpful hints for the eating-disordered among you. Enjoy!")

    I’ll turn it over to the divine, comedic genius of Ms. Rachel Shukert:

    "Before developing the potentially lethal eating disorder, future sufferers of anorexia nervosa often display the tell-tale signs of susceptibility: a controlling nature, a desperate need to please, an uncompromising perfectionism in all things.  As I am lazy, contrary, and easy on myself to the point of ludicrousness...

    Read More...


  • New on Nerve, 4.21.08: Behind the Scenes (and the Threeways) in “Triangulation”



    Today in this fabulous new personal essay, author (and fearless Nerve intern) Caitlin MacRae examines why she’s had way more threesomes than dates. Here in the Insider, Caitlin’s given us an inside glimpse of what’s it like to bare all to the world in essay-format (especially when your Dad reads the site!), and includes one threesome offer that didn't quite make it into the final essay. Good reads. I’ll turn it over to Caitlin:

    Inside “triangulation,” and the anxieties of Intern Caitlin.

    I am notoriously secretive. Some of my family members didn’t know I lived in
    New York until four months after I’d moved. I keep a blog whose existence I have shared with almost no one, which I guess defeats the purpose. Suffice it to say, my sex life isn’t something I’ve ever shared in great detail. 

    Read More...


  • From the Archives: Bad Education

    I have had sex in a public bathroom, only it happened with my live-in boyfriend in between tequila shots at a local bar. Why didn’t we just run the half a block home for a quickie, you ask? It was probably something to do with the tequila, and something to do with thrill-seeking desire when you’re in a stuck-in-a-rut relationship. Needless to say, we got our thrill, but it was certainly nothing like Stephen Elliot’s...

    Read More...


  • New on Nerve, 4.15.08: Without Ceremony



    Lisa Gabriele takes a moment to reflect on why she’s reached forty without reaching the altar, which is something I think every other single woman I know has done, as well. (Myself totally included.) Is it better to settle than wait for the “Perfect One” who may never show up? And what if it’s you who is running from Mr. Perfect One, Two, and Three?

    Part of the problem was that I was drunk for the better part of the two decades most women spend looking for an appropriate partner. I was drawn to increasingly blurry guys: brats and posers, glowering self-loathers, the last ones to leave the party. Since quitting the booze years ago, I have discovered that, with rare exception, real love did whatever it could to avoid getting tangled up with a drunk girl drenched in fear. Lust stuck around for a while — years, even. But true love, the kind that evolves into sturdy amity, took a walk a while ago.

    Can you relate? Check out her entire essay here.


  • From the Archives: Stranger Than Friction

    As a lifelong masturbator and mild hypochondriac, I’ve definitely experienced phases that left me genuinely concerned that my habits might lead to some permanent damage. That said, I can honestly say that my self-love has ever necessitated serious medical intervention — unlike Kevin Keck, Nerve contributor and fellow masturbator, who chronicled the embarrassing results of his solo routine for our Shame Issue. A word from the wise, kiddies: motor oil was designed to lube one thing and one thing only, and it ain’t your junk.

    It was what I always wanted to hear: my penis was a marvel fit for serious scholarly research. But it was a bittersweet revelation. My little man would end up in the mason jar reserved for freakish wonders, not the decanter marked "Huge Discovery." It was more likely to wind up in the gawkish halls of a
    Ripley's Believe It or Not! museum than the Smithsonian.

    Read more here...

    — Caitlin MacRae


  • From the Archives: “The One” Is the Loneliest Number



    As a college freshman, determined to find my husband the same way my older sister had — in a dormitory laundry facility — I became an over-zealous, premature seeker of “The One.” Barely eighteen and a few weeks into my first year of college, I thought I had found Him in my first crush. We didn’t meet in the laundry room, but we did meet in a dorm room over orange lines of crushed up Adderall and Natty Light-filled Solo cups, which was good enough for me. It was love at first sight...

    Read More...


  • From the Archives: Love Is a Four-Letter Word



    Talking dirty is a tricky proposition…how dirty is too dirty, and when does dirty talk simply turn into a bad B-movie script? Adrian Colesberry used to fear the four-letter words (in bed), until he developed an ingenious formula. Learn from his mistakes...

    But as soon as I rolled back on top of her, I started backpedaling. Why hadn't I just said, "I'm sorry. Dirty talk embarrasses me, and I just don't think I can do it." How hard is that? Then I had a happy thought: "Maybe I'll die in the act." For a couple of minutes, I concentrated on f*cking her so fast that I'd give myself a heart attack. But I ran out of air before I ran out of pump capacity.


    Read the entire essay
    , you dirty little toe-sucker, you.


  • New on Nerve, 2.25.08: Recession Fears



    When I was growing up, my parents had a friend named Gary, a jeweler from Denver. Gary was almost totally bald, and he would visit us in Massachusetts once a year. He would constantly make jokes about his bald head to amuse my brother and me, making a big show of applying sunscreen to his scalp before we went to the beach. He'd have us rub it for luck, and once even let us draw a face up there with a Sharpie.

    Today, if you're a balding man with some disposable income, you have to make a choice: Will I be like
    Gary, admirably self-deprecating and at ease with the completely natural aging process occurring on top of my head? Or will I be desperately vain and narcissistic and try to halt the loss? This essay is about how I chose the latter path and, most of the time, feel pretty damn lame about it.

    The worst thing about going bald is not that it indicates aging, or a decline in sexual virility or anything as silly and New Age as that. It's that it's part of the Big Competition. High salary? Add four points. Lame job? Minus one. Big dick? Add two. Going bald? Minus three. Today, the center-front of my hairline remains intact, but the two sides have been ebbing like a beach approaching low tide for nearly a decade.


    Read the rest here
    .


    — Will Doig


  • From the Archives: Truth and Dare

     

    As a teenager, all David Amsden knew of sex was “a white flash, a scene from a movie, a mirage. Sex was Sharon Stone's parted thighs and flaxen smudge of pubic hair, paused on the television screen. Sex was Demi Moore and Woody Harrelson, Demi Moore and Michael Douglas, Demi Moore stripping on stage. Sex was me superimposing myself into these scenes while pretending — somewhat pathetically, I know — that these were the phantom women whom I loved, and who loved me back.”

    That is, until the first time he watched people actually having sex, the eroticism all the stranger since they were his close friends, and just a few minutes before he’d been in the bed with them…

    Read More...


  • New on Nerve, 2.4.08: Political Partners



    Does a candidate’s personal relationship affect whom you vote for? Do we need not only a strong leader, but one who makes us (or at least their partner) weak in the knees? Ada Calhoun takes a look at how what happens behind closed doors might affect who makes it through the White House’s doors…

    My mother came over the other morning and said, "Well, I'm off Hillary." This was shocking. From the first, she's been a die-hard Hillary supporter. Loved Bill, loved Hillary. Even as my father became an Obama fan, my mother stuck by the
    Clintons.

    Check out all the political partners right here.


  • From the Archives: The LUG in Winter



    It’s cold outside, but this personal essay will warm you up. In “The LUG in Winter,” writer Sarah Hepola took a look back at her own college days, MTV’s forays, and all the girl-on-girl kissing that Britney and X-tina engaged in, before they were preggers. Things got a little hot on the message boards, as well: there was almost as much heated back-and-forth among readers, as we can imagine there was in Sarah’s dorm room bed…

    Things were different when I first kissed a girl. My story is fairly typical: I was twenty years old, and drunk, and at a party, and the tale of how my friend Carolyn went from lying beside me to having her tongue inside my mouth is not the first story lost to Jack Daniel's. She and I had been cuddling and fondling each other's hair on the couch, and the kiss seemed almost a natural extension of that behavior. Later, after I sobered up, it was a little astonishing; I was a good
    Texas girl with childhood dreams of Johnny Depp and River Phoenix. But the most astonishing part was how good that kiss was — soft and warm and shot full with longing. Ten years later, it is still one of the best kisses I've ever had.

    Cuddle up with Sarah: read the entire essay here.


  • From the Archives: Pregnant with Anticipation



    Do you cringe when you think of pregnant sex? Or are hot mamas like Halle Berry and Jessica Alba making you wish you could put more than just a bun in their ovens? A trip into the Nerve Archives yields some surprisingly steamy results…check out “F*cking His Wife, Four Months Pregnant with Their Third Child,” fiction by Paula Bomer from the 2001 Married Sex Issue:

    Her skin seems powdered with stardust, it's
    moist dammit, and sparkling at him he swears, and her eyes are wet like a healthy cat's, glowing at him in the dark, open now, looking at him while their tongues stroke the insides of their mouths like they've never tasted each other before.

    You’ll definitely want to read the entire piece. And in “Nine and a Half Months,” Bernadette Noll relates the sexual surge and wild urges she encountered while pregnant. These ladies will make you see Juno in a whole new light.


  • New on Nerve: Installment Six of Crying in Restaurants, by Sarah Hepola

     
    As you may remember from previous installments, Sarah cries a lot. But in this installment she doesn’t weep in a restaurant. She cries in other places, but by the end of the story her tears have dried up and been replaced by something else – love, fulfillment, hope; whatever it is, we’d all be lucky to have stories that end like this. Read the essay here, or start from the beginning.

     


  • From the Archives: A Personal Essay by Emily DePrang

     

    In 2005 Ms. Emily DePrang wrote a great essay about being fired for sexual harassment for our Sex at Work issue.

    “For the next week, a little voice piped up every few seconds to remind me — you're a pervert. People who knew you were grossed out by you. People you shared cigarettes with were disturbed enough to trot downstairs and report you. However absurd their definition of sexual harassment, I had met it.”

    Emily is not the first person who comes to mind when you think of sexual harassment. But she make it through ok, and her professional career didn’t suffer for it.

    Read her essay here.


  • From the Archives: A Personal Essay by David Shields

    "The Rachel Mysteries: A Trilogy" is a personal essay from 1999 by David Shields about his first love. He reads her journal and they have intense, enraptured sex.

    “In her journal, she wrote that she had never been kissed like this in her life and that she inevitably had trouble going to sleep after seeing me. She actually said she was afraid she'd go blind when I entered her. Where did she learn these lines, anyway?”

    Do you snoop? Are you glad you did?

    Read the essay here.  

     


    Posted Dec 27 2007, 01:00 PM by Sarah with | with no comments
  • From the Archives: An Essay by Enrique Fernández

    Merry day after Christmas! We’re posting a story that explains why some men cat-call women on the street. It's also about desiring people of the cloth and more generally about the sexuality of a lapsed Roman Catholic. But what sticks out in our mind is this explanation of cat-calls, or piropos:

    “Theoretically, the ultimate point of the piropo is seduction, but no one actually believes that will come to pass; all enunciators of piropos are sexual agnostics. The real point of the piropo is to make the woman smile, even if only inwardly.”

    What a great explanation! We should note that “what differentiates [a piropo] from harassment is, in a word, wit. Say something inappropriate, flat, dull, clumsy, silly or — the horror! — gross, and you're a jerk, a loser, a schlemiel.” How nice, as a woman, to think of witty comments as something apart from harassment.  

    To read more about piropos and the erect nipples of a female Episcopalian priest, click here.


    Posted Dec 26 2007, 01:00 PM by Sarah with | with no comments
  • From the Archives: "Burning Desire," a personal essay by Simone Sidwell

     
    Obsessed with cigarettes? Whether you’re trying to quit, unabashedly love ‘em or indulge an occasional craving, we bet your experience with cigarettes has never reached the intensity of this personal essay by Simone Sidwell, originally published in 2000. Or maybe it has? Read on to find out.

    "’Will you burn me with your cigarette?’ 

    He asked with such unabashed and sudden urgency that I found myself pushing my cigarette into the hand coming towards me — it was as if he had startled me into an instinctive response.”

    Read the essay here.


  • New on Nerve: Dating during the writers' strike

    What's really going on in the striking writers' lives?

    “Since picketing started a month ago, I've met more writers than I have in seven years working in Hollywood. It's the one bright spot in a truly shitty situation. So it's only logical that while I'm out fighting the power, I might try dating too.”

     


  • Readers Respond: Checking in with the Feedbackers


    There have been a lot of comments about James Stegall’s essay “Personal Inventory.”

    “I never would have thought that I would read a good article about Land's End catalogs. It was like a combination between Updike and Bukowski. Beautifully insightful with subtle dark humor. Nicely done.”
    --HW


    Readers are also responding to Lisa Carver’s essay about dating a rich man, “Strange Currencies.”

    “That was funny and engaging, but most importantly it descirbed my experiences with love in such vivid detail and simplicity that I can't believe no one has said it to me before: all of a sudden it ends and you find yourself neither what you were before or during the relationship. Well put. “
    --hlj

    “I really like how it's not solid--like, there's no definitive moral, yet it just makes you ponder.” --ZZ


  • From the Archives: "My Issues With Becoming a Greenberg," a personal essay by Mara Levy


    You may have noticed that our homepage has some messages about scotch on it. The Insider was thus inspired to search out stories that involve drinking the fabled “brown water,” so dubbed by Mara Levy in her essay, “My Issues Withy Becoming a Greenberg,” in which she discusses marrying a Jew. She’s Jewish, too, so this shouldn’t be a problem, but, as happens with so many problems that shouldn’t matter, it is.

    “Is the name Greenberg any more Jewish than Levy? The tiny logical part of my brain does, in fact, know the answer to this question: of course not. So why, then, am I so uncomfortable trying on my new last name? Honest answer: I can't shake the feeling that I'm outing myself to myself, even though, as my best friend, Meta, likes to point out, everyone already knows I'm a Jew.”

    For the curious minds out there, the essay has nothing to do with drinking scotch, except that Mara meets her husband when they both order Dewars (really) at a bar in Tel Aviv. 


  • New on Nerve, 11.20.2007: “Personal Inventory,” an essay by James Stegall

    In this essay James Stegall writes that Lands’ End catalogue reminds him of his ex. The piece is a sad, powerful rumination about loss and how seemingly innocuous, everyday things can trigger the most painful memories.

    “These are images more invasive than any Victoria's Secret spread, because they don't inspire lust. This is a pornography of regret, and the longer you stare, the more seductive it becomes.”


  • From the Archives: “A Passionate Undertaking” by Marisa de los Santos

    Marisa de los Santos’ personal essay describes falling in love with her husband, coming to understand her body and its pleasures and learning that loving and living can happen through the corporeal self, not despite it.

    “What began that night was an easing in, a watchful, sometimes tentative process punctuated by bright, ringing moments of pure transubstantiation, the wafer of my body made radiant flesh. And while I use the language of religion here, it would be inaccurate to call it ecstasy. I mean the reverse really, a return to the body, an inhabiting.”


  • From the Archives: More Jardine Libaire

    Angels, Ghosts and Strangers,” a personal essay by Jardine Libaire, was originally in our Erogenous Zones issue. It’s an homage to New York and the loves Libaire has had there.

    "I once had a short affair with a wannabe thug. We tussled in my bedroom, his chest bare, his jeans black, his beeper on the floor, my nightie pulled up, his mouth between my legs — and the spire of Trinity Church stood in my window, the electric lights of the Financial District casting the spike's spiny shadow on us."


  • From the Archives: Lisa Carver on her mother and father

    Inspired by today’s Lisa essay I dug up some older Lisa pieces.

    February, 2006: All About My Mother. She told me everything — the two times she'd tried to masturbate (with a hot dog and a cucumber), the one time she'd tried to give a blowjob (to my father, and she threw up after). All her thoughts and dreams and philosophies. So many times we'd remain sitting in the car listening to the engine click and sigh, still talking as the sky grew dark, reluctant to open our creaky doors and break the spell. "It's you and me against the world," she'd say. From her strained smile, her hand squeezing my thigh, the love-look in her eye, I knew that must be something good, something loving — and I must be so defective, that I wanted to run screaming from her, this person so grateful for my companionship, for my very existence.

    April, 2003: Lying with My Father. I never knew when or how he'd be near me. He didn't observe normal patterns of behavior. When I hurt myself and cried, he'd just sit there and laugh. He liked to walk in the bathroom when I was taking a shower. I became perpetually aware of the nakedness just under my clothes and the mental helplessness just under my preternaturally large vocabulary. My senses sharpened. I looked for clues in everything. I was unsure all day long, and all night.


  • New on Nerve, 11.13.2007: Lisa Carver Dates a Rich Man

     

    Today we have a Lisa Carver personal essay. If you’ve never read Lisa Carver this is a great place to start but beware: after reading it you may want to read everything else she’s written for us and boy, is that a lot! More Lisa links this afternoon. 

    "He recounted crouching in wait at dawn for a deer, shooting it, stringing it up between two trees, gutting it. I felt like Mata Hari. Here was a hunter, a polluter, the last of the pure heterosexuals. He would be the first, in revolution, to be overthrown. He was as eager a student of me as I was of him. I introduced him to dadaism, hypnosis, black-and-white movies, humane farming, and the fact — yes, fact! — that, when you really, really think about it, you do not ever have to do what you're supposed to. Ever. I took him out on a rowboat, to the beach after dark, to a five-dollar palm reader. I taught him everything that's useless for societal advancement or financial security, or security of any kind. He taught me about status, the significance of seating order, the debtor mentality, messages in watches. He owns eight."


  • New on Nerve, 11.6.2007: Sarah Hepola's "Crying in Restaurants"


     

    Crying in Restaurants is a series by Sarah Hepola about … crying in restaurants. Today’s piece is the fifth installment.

    5. Try not to involve the waitress. She's had a long night. She's probably a very nice person who would like to do nothing more than kick off her heels, do a bump of coke and lose an hour or four at the bar before going home to her loft and boning her scraggly indie-rock boyfriend. So leave her out of this. But sometimes you mean to, and you can't.

    Like when she comes to take your order, and you say, "Do you think I should have the fish or the steak?" and the man you are with says, "Order whatever the fuck you want," and then it's like the air was vaccuumed out of your lungs — why is he talking to you like this? — and the tears gush out before you can even stammer a response. You're just going to have to work the tears; they are no longer optional.


  • From the Archives: "Pretty soon I was eating more pussy than a four-year lesbian."

     

    In 2001 Victor LaValle wrote about his life as a fat man.

    Every woman wanted me out before dawn. There seemed to be a general agreement amongst them that I would never be allowed to spend the night. There was great shame in being rushed to collect one's clothes, ushered to the door, unceremoniously led out. I often felt they wanted me gone before their neighbors came out to see me lumber awkwardly down the hall. It was a dull, distant humiliation, but on the train back to my mother's house or the next day on the bus up to Ithaca, I assured myself that it had been a good time.


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The Insider is your guide to the best of Nerve. Here you'll find the inside scoop on the latest features, photography, interviews and video, direct from Nerve editors. (Plus a glimpse at what goes on when the lights go out...Nerve events and parties, and more!)