The Dbag Dating Guide to Italian Men

Typecasting · Italia · by Marina Khorosh

Of all the men on the planet, it appears that nobody drives women crazy like the Italians. The mere thought of a trip to Italy seems to send most of my girlfriends into daydream overdrive, as they envision themselves succumbing to the charms of a tall, dark-haired Fellini hero. Personally, I remain skeptical. Something about these fellows’ overly confident attitude makes me mistrust them, not to mention that the lyrical falsetto makes it impossible to understand anything they are attempting to say. Why do they have to sing out all their sentences?

The Story of Ronaldo

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

Perdono for the sabbatical, guys – I have been on vacation for the past two weeks, which was supposed to inspire me to write more, but has instead inspired me to drink more and completely abandon all cerebral activities. Luckily, I did happened to stumble upon a fun story, the kind of random vacation encounter that leaves one yearning for summer all year long and posting #tbt beach pics until the month of May. Said story takes place in Ibiza, the official party capital of the western hemisphere and quite possibly that Hopeless Place that Rihanna was referring to in that song. Of all the things one can find in Ibiza, non-chemically-induced love appears to be pretty low on the lists.

French Men Overdose

Typecasting · Paris · by Marina Khorosh

You know that scene from Matilda when Miss Trunchbull makes poor little Bruce Bogtrotter eat chocolate cake until he gets green in the face and prays to God that he never sees another chocolate cake again? This is exactly how I feel about my love life at the moment. Particularly, my love life in France, in conjunction to French men.

What used to be a delicacy and a delight has become an all-too-familiar routine with a predictable outcome that I do not have the energy to re-live over and over again. Not only do I not like anybody, but I have actually reached a whole new level where I don’t want to like anybody. All the guys I have met in the past few months (Tinder – 5 / real life -1) have blurred together in one uninspiring package, leaving me feeling about as emotionless as a Xanaxed-out Beverly hills housewife.

How to Dress For a Date Like a Parisienne

DD x Vogue · Paris · by Marina Khorosh

Every few months, a friend from New York City will come visit me in Paris, and every single time, they will ask the obligatory question: “What should I bring?”

“Nothing!” I tell them, hoping that this will ensure jeans and a leather jacket while eliminating all other unnecessary cargo (and preventing a life-threatening trip down my fifth-floor walk-up in Gianvito Rossi heels). “But what if we go to dinner?” Still, nothing. “But what if I meet a guy?”Especially then, nothing.

Read on HERE!

The Sista Code

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

Ever since a Russian girl named Veronica saved me from getting my pudgy butt kicked by playground bullies at the age of 5, female friendships have been the driving relationships of my life. No matter how bleak my love life tends to get, I’m always comforted by the fact that I have a loyal team of girlfriends who have my back through thick and thin and merely bloated and potentially psychotic and whatever other state I happen to be in.

This is why I find it rather hard to trust women who have no female friends. Take Angelina Jolie – this is a woman who, despite her many virtues, publicly admits to having no girlfriends. This is also the woman responsible for the biggest homewrecking scandal of the 2000’s. See the link there? I think my dog Chloe could, and she’s more beauty than brains.

The Story of Zoolander

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

When I was about eighteen, I met a Danish model named Lars at some weird hippie trade show at Javits center. We would spent long winter evenings circling Astor Place, philosophizing about life, until I would get so cold that I would hustle him into Starbucks and buy us venti Tazo teas to avoid catching pneumonia. This is when I learned an important lesson that every self-respecting female should keep close to her heart: never, ever date models.

Which is why I have nobody to blame but myself for the disaster that occurred to me this past Thursday, when I decided, in the name of exploratory research, to have drinks with a 33-year-old male model, a gem I discovered in the vast reserves of Tinder.