The Story of Skinny Elvis

Misery Loves Company · New York · by Marina Khorosh

When it comes to dbags, there is nothing like New York. This city breeds them like free-range chicken, giving them an abundance of space to run around and grow and prosper and become the most bizarre, damaged, f*ed up versions of themselves. As a result, we have stories like this one, recently recounted to me by a close friend over a blissful sushi dinner.

My friend is a very beautiful girl with one fundamental flaw: she believes in love. Carrie Bradshaw love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other love. This blind faith propels her to make two grave mistakes: give men Real Chances, most of which lead to nothing but time wasted, and attempt to Save Men, which leads to even more poignant disasters. So, when she told me she had recently gone out with a guy who was nice, handsome, but past the point of Chances or Saving, I knew we were looking a whole new level of weird.

Paris is Burning

Musings of the Mind · Paris · by Marina Khorosh

Last week, my platonic life partner Danny and I were walking through the 10ème Arrondissement, when we stumbled into what appeared to be an incredible assortment of men. Handsome, tanned, toned, ripped to the point where they could be used to teach anatomy to third graders… It was the best form of a meat market, each contender a delectable piece of Kobe beef. Thirty minutes later, at Klay, I observed as French gays around me acutely cultivated their sculpted physiques, incomparable to those of their hetero voisins. Suddenly it hit me – perhaps, Paris is actually better for gay men? Curious on the topic, I gathered together my two closest gay guy friends, poured them some Moscow Mules, and interrogated them on the topic. One of them wished to remain anonymous, so we will refer to him as Bambi for his Maybelline eyelashes.

The Torture Test

Those Who Can't Do, Teach · Paris · by Marina Khorosh

This past weekend in Russia, my best friend’s husband caught me staring at my WhatApp for a full ten minutes, typing and deleting what was meant to be a violent text message to my long-distance ball n’chain. In full understanding of my inner turmoil, he leaned in and whispered one of the most dangerous sentences ever uttered: “If a man truly likes you, he will tolerate pretty much anything.”

Aaron, the Original French Douche

I Know How To Pick'Em · Paris · by Marina Khorosh

As the only human left in Paris in the month of August, alongside the SDFs, tourists, and alcoholics, I have had a lot of time to reflect. A lot of time to wonder through deserted city streets and speculate about the delicate balance of baroque buildings and puff pastry skies, to smile creepily at random older folks who seem rightfully content to have the city to themselves, to reminisce days of Parisian past… My past, that is. On August 15^th, on a French holiday known as Assomption, I had a vivid flashback to the same time exactly six years ago, when I kick-started one of the biggest fiascos of my dating career, not to mention my first one on Parisian turf. Without further ado, this is the story of Aaron, the Original French Douche who stole a year of my existence!

Tinder Fever

Musings of the Mind · by Marina Khorosh

Tinder has a dirty rep.

Just last week, Vanity Fair published an extensive article that depicts the problems spurred by an overabundance of dating apps amongst people of our generation, calling it a “Dating Apocalypse” that proliferates value changes, intimacy issues, and even erectile dysfunction. I myself have had serious arguments with the guy I’ve been seeing due to the aftermath of my Tinder days past, which seem to haunt me incessantly, like the past of a harlot. To somebody a bit older and slightly old-school, the mere fact of having used Tinder makes me look weird, potentially promiscuous, and even desperate. While there is little I can do about it, I would like to stand on the defense of Tinder for just a moment.

Great Expectations

Musings of the Mind · by Marina Khorosh

The other night, completely unaware of being profiled for field research, the guy I’m seeing brought up an interesting topic. He pointed out that, when you meet somebody, they have the most potential they ever will to you. You are able to project almost any image upon them, envision them however best suits your ideals. Then, as you get to know them better, you begin discovering that they are a real person, with a life, a formed identity, and a myriad of personality traits that you may not be prepared for, a realization that can inadvertently lead to a certain level of disappointment. (Ahem, should I be taking this personally?! Am I not the flaxen-haired, carefree goddess he met in on one drunken night in Williamsburg?)