French Medicine

Misery Loves Company · by Jordan Nadler

Editor’s Note: This story was originally published in 2015 and went on to catapult Jordan Nadler to local fame, both as a brilliant writer and the woman who got schooled on the importance of la petite mort. Like a timeless Kelly bag, it is now being resurrected for your pleasure. Please enjoy.

“Do you orgasm every time you have sex?” asks my elderly Parisian gynecologist with a straight face and a heavy French accent. I wait for the punch line, but it doesn’t come.

“I’m a woman,” I state.

She stares at me blankly. I guess I will have to elaborate:

“…No.”

She sits back in her chair, folds her hands, and nods gravely.

“Ah.”

Would I Date a Republican? Yes. But I Would Never Date a Trump Supporter

Misery Loves Company, Musings of the Mind · by Jordan Nadler

Jordan Nadler attempts to find an answer to a question that may no longer be relevant in today’s election. For more no-nonsense insights, follow Jordan on Twitter.

“Would you ever date a Republican?” I was recently asked. It struck me as a funny question. The way the person said “Republican” sounded like she had just asked me if I would ever bear-hug a cactus.

This election has seemingly turned Republicans and Democrats into warring clans. It’s like we’re the Jets and the Sharks (obviously the Democrats are the Sharks) except this Godforsaken election has rendered all of us too exhausted to sing. The words “Republican” and “Liberal” have become synonymous with every other negative word in the English language. We have never been more divided, but it’s not politics that we are divided on. This election has so little to do with political theory and so much to do with who we are as people.

Ethan Embry Deux

Misery Loves Company · by Jordan Nadler

This modern-day fairy-tale is brought to you by Jordan Nadler, whom you should probably follow on Twitter.

There we were, two windswept lovers wrapped in an embrace on Avenue Lowendal at 4:30AM, kissing like the world was going to end. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, “Jesus Christ.” Little droplets of rain trailed down our skin as he traced over every crevice of my body.

I put my hand around his as it began to gravitate towards The Place of No Return. “I think this might be a government building,” I laughed, looking next to us. “There is definitely a camera here somewhere.” (I’m all for a good makeout sesh but would love for Jean-Pierre the security guard to not be a part of it.)

“I don’t care.” he said as he ran his fingers through my hair, tightened his grip and pulled me in closer to him. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Beauty and the Basque

Misery Loves Company · by Jordan Nadler

Brought to you by my spirit animal Jordan Nadler (follow her here @nadleresque)

“Soo… you are my girlfriend now?” asked the 33 year old, man-bunned Basque man sitting next to me in the cab after our third date.

I laughed. I didn’t mean to, but what the hell was he talking about? We had probably spent a total of six hours together.

“No, Gaston (not his real name). I am not your girlfriend.”

He looked confused. Genuinely confused “But I like you!” he exclaimed.

There was a bit of an awkward pause. Our Uber driver glanced at us quickly from the rear view mirror.

Bleu Crush

I Know How To Pick'Em, Misery Loves Company · Paris · by Jordan Nadler

Editor’s Note: This story is brought to you by Jordan Nadler (@Nadleresque), the wunderkind behind French Medicine. Today, Jordan loses her douchebag storytelling virginity, proving, once and for all, that she has a true calling in life. Enjoy.

Fact: Going surfing with a French male model is a TERRIBLE idea if you are aggressively bad at surfing and haven’t mastered the “sexy drown.”

Once Upon A Time I was sleeping with a male model I met on Tinder this summer because I sporadically pepper my life with unfortunate decisions. His profession would be completely irrelevant if it wasn’t for the fact that his face was everywhere when we met. After the clusterfuck that was our last week together, I couldn’t even walk into a pharmacy to buy a tube of toothpaste without seeing his squinty-eyed mug selling moderately luxurious shaving cream. It was like God’s way of physicalizing the fact that my questionable choices in men do, in fact, haunt me.