By B.E.

Ok, so not the most original question. In fact, it’s been posed many times, most notably – in my humble opinion – by the R&B quartet En Vogue of the mid 90’s and even though they recited Webster’s Dictionary on the track, even they were left disappointed with their findings.

Tonight, I sit on a plane. I sit in coach. That first row of coach where you have slightly more legroom and a front row seat to how the other half lives (as seen through the thread bare curtain that separates the first class haves and have-nots). 

I fly quite a bit and seem to have a knack for being sat next to senior citizens. Don’t get me wrong, I love the elderly (more than most), but there is an implied reverence given to those who have lived on the planet decades longer than you that means arm rest priority and acceptance of personal space boundaries being crossed. 

Tonight, when approaching my seat I saw just what I was up against. Not only were my row-mates old, they were ancient, and foreign! The man and woman seated next to me spoke, from what I could tell, no English, and seemed to be from the Eastern Block, so much so that they insisted on carrying all of their earthly belongings on their laps. 

It was clear that the two were married, and it seemed safe to assume that an audition for the newly wed game was not in their near future, but in their very distant past.  

I was irritated with the constant knocking of my elbow and the overlap of winter coat on what was clearly the territory of the inhabitant of seat 10D, but as I said, these people were old, probably survived wars, so I was cutting them some slack.  

It’s no secret that I’m a cynical woman, not helped by my living in New York City and working like a crazy person, but even I have those moments, where I have to stop and take a moment to be in awe at the beauty of life.

With recycled fuel-tainted air in my nostrils and 10 cents worth of Delta Airlines pretzels in my tummy, the age-old question: What is love? was answered.

The woman next to me, with an unfortunate blue (yes blue) mole, covering good percentage of the left side of her nose, took her surprisingly youthful hand and began to stroke the back of her husband’s neck. A simple gesture, devoid of the passion of youthful lust, but fraught with the comfort and understanding of real love. 

As she ran her fingers over his shorn hair, only slightly thinning at the crown, I couldn’t help but smile. For a moment, the heavy winter coat she had draped over my right thigh disappeared and I realized I was in the presence of love.  All I could do was smile.

Sitting, wedged uncomfortably in the back of a 6-hour flight with no food, no entertainment and a case of the sniffles, this babushka reached out to offer some simple comfort to the man she loves – now that is love! 

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B.E. is a photographer and aspiring freelance writer residing in New York City.

By B.E.

Many girls have a strange reaction to men who treat them poorly. It’s some sort of Pavlovian response where, if you are mean or disrespectful to us, we are in turn, super nice and accommodating in the hopes of turning things around and making us all one big happy family.  

No longer a naïve girl and a mere saddlebag away from womanhood, I have made a choice remedy this juvenile issue.  I too have been a victim of the please-like-me-more syndrome and I have reached a point either chronologically or logically that deems it unacceptable to be disrespectful. It seems logical, I know…

Personally, I function best with setting clear and concise goals. Having recently passed a major benchmark on the highway of life I am shifting gears and setting new goals. At the top of that list, I have chosen to no longer put up with poor treatment from those with fragile egos and underling motives. If feels good to articulate this because, for me, that is the first step to achieving success.

I have been my own worst enemy in these situations, needing validation more than respect. Never deemed a doormat, I have just simply chosen to let a lot of shit slide.  As one gets older, decisions get tougher; the clear path ahead that existed at childhood becomes murky and there are many forks in the road. I have had to weigh the pros and cons of decisions in the not-so-distant past and truly assess what is best for me. Sooner or later a child realizes that the hot stove burns their hand, and for some strange reason my scar tissue refuses to develop.

For those of us plagued with the "like me" syndrome, it is very difficult to discard those “toxic” individuals from our lives. I have recently begun to clean house relationships both meaningful and superficial. I have also watched some dear friends make the bold move. 

This unacceptable treatment runs the gambit from homeboys on the block calling you fat as you take your daily jog down a crowded Manhattan street or boyfriend who plays mind games to manipulate. Whatever the case may be, there comes a point when each woman takes a moment and realizes that this is not right for them. Women, hell bent and hardwired to be caretakers and peacemakers have to think of themselves and realize that someone liking them is not more important than them respecting themselves.

Now, my tolerance threshold remains high for many things, most importantly those I hold in high regard, but in terms of allowing people to treat me with less respect than I deserve, 30 is here and she is telling me, enough is enough.

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B.E. is a photographer and aspiring freelance writer residing in New York City.

By B. E.

The word intervention has become much more prevalent in the American vocabulary thanks to shows like A&E’s  appropriately-titled ‘Intervention,’ which takes the docu-drama approach to one’s battle with addiction, and ‘How I Met Your Mother’ which had an entire episode centered on interventions, like when your friends have to reason with you to stop wearing red cowboy boots, as you can so not pull them. This is what loved ones are for, to keep you in check. To let you know when you’ve gone too far.

Traditionally, interventions are for people with an addiction, usually alcohol or drugs with the occasional gambling problem thrown in there for good measure. Said intervention gives the people who are nearest and dearest to you the opportunity to confront you, detailing your missteps on the path to self destruction and how it is not only affecting your life, but their’s as well (insert guilt here).

I used to smoke when I was very young and kicked the habit with little more than a bump in the road. And aside from the fact that my co-workers from college remember me as the tequila swilling coquetta, I have never been much of a drinker. With one slot machine under my belt, I thought I was in the clear. I thought I either lucked out in the genetics department or my power of restraint was so great that I didn’t even realize I was doing it. 

However, utilizing modern technology to its fullest, I received an intervention by text message recently.  Addictions move far past those with substances and, although I have talked about being addicted to love before and have had to face that battle head-on in my life on several occasions, this was different. This was a problem I had yet to identify, however, those closest to me had:  I am addicted to work.

Now sure, work isn’t going to kill me.  It isn’t going to make my life pass me while I sit on the sidelines in a daze, or is it? I live in a perpetual state of stress where I am eager to cross things off of my to do list with a big black Sharpie in order to find some sense of accomplishment; to have something in the bag so I can, as Jay-Z says, move "on to the next one." Now sure, I am not injecting drugs intravenously to spend my day nodding in and out of consciousness, but it could be argued that the quality of life in both of those scenarios is lacking.

Not only do I feel like I can relate to making the conscious choice to create the problems in your own life, but I can also understand how it feels to be reminded of this by those who you love and trust and, be irritated. Logic would dictate that a loved one expressing concern would illicit a warm response, however, much like your run of the mill meth addict, it instead summons the petulant teenager and awakens the beast.  When you’re in the zone, it’s hard to see outside of the box.

Sadly, I know that my plight is ephemeral and that I will eventually listen to all of those people who love me and have tried to reason with me.  I am making no promises to change my behavior in the near future and with youth on my side, I know I have a few years to go before hitting cruise control. Although I may not listen to the people who are worried about me, I would like to thank them. Their concern has not gone unnoticed or unappreciated, especially when attempted with intervention by text message.

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B.E. is a photographer and aspiring freelance writer residing in New York City.

By B.E.

I am white.

It is painful for me to admit, but it is time I came clean. I was raised, for the most part, in white suburbia along with friends who came from homes with similar economic situations and ancestry with similar cocktails of European blood.

The reason I make note of this is that, despite the fact that I grew up in an analogous environment, fraught with middle class ignorance and small town aspirations, my parents somehow aided in my ability to break free of my pedestrian upbringing and be open to new experiences and new people. No small feat for a girl who could name the black kids she went to school with.

Most everyone I know has experienced some sort of discrimination. Many believe that being a white kid from the suburbs makes you immune to such scrutiny, but it most certainly does not. In college my co-workers paid no mind to the fact that I too was sweating my ass off and taking all of the double shifts I could handle because they were under the assumption that my daddy paid for everything. An assumption made all the more humorous when you actually know the man that (with my mother) gave me life. At first I was offended, and then became indifferent.

This minor infraction is laughable when compared to what so many people have been subjected to. I realize it pales in comparison and I am most certainly not trying to assert the similarities on level of severity, just principal.

My maturation has largely taken place out from under the wings of my parents, but I cannot help to remain grateful for the fact that they, unlike so many people I have come to meet, never instilled in me the importance of race at all. It was not until I grew up, moved out and inserted myself into cultures with which I felt more at home that I realized people even cared about what color someone else was or what religion they practiced. Perhaps this can be largely attributed to my Northern California upbringing, but I think it is more than that.

 A couple of years ago I was speaking to a friend of mine who is not only black, but Southern. He and I have had countless conversation about race, and it is always nice to have someone with whom you feel you can say or ask anything.  I would speak very openly and honestly when we would chat. There was a naiveté that I only show at rare and intimate moments. During one of our personal UN meetings my Southern gentleman turned to me, and said in earnest, you realize you’re unique in this, do you not? And honestly, I didn’t. I thought I was the norm and those other people made up small factions like the Tea Party.

I am often asked if my parents mind that I date outside of my race and, if it were not for those questions from acquaintances and unassuming strangers, it would not have crossed my mind. And furthermore, if these lost souls are unaware that biracial babies are the cutest, then they have much to learn.

This is not to say that I am color blind, or some sort of Mother Theresa. I see clearly and my wardrobe includes far more mini skirts than habits. What I wonder is why was I lucky enough to be raised this way and many were not. As a child, it was luck and as an adult it a choice. Luckily, the choice was easy for me. I just wish it were for more people.

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B.E. is a photographer and aspiring freelance writer residing in New York City.

By B.E.

I am not a mother and although I will admit to the increasing frequency with which my uterus aches at the site of chubby cheeks and tiny tennis shoes, I am not sure I ever will be. I am maternal no doubt, and with a dozen stints as a bridesmaid under my belt and a rapid increase in my unofficial aunt hood status one would think the next logical step would be to get myself knocked up. With my peer group immersing itself in the world of procreation I often am left to wonder if I should be hopping on the baby train?

When I was a little girl I either played school with my girlfriends, where I was the teacher and therefore the boss, or passively played GI Joes with the little boy in my neighborhood who’s inherent ability to make gun and explosion noises always left me green with envy. Sure, I had a couple of dolls that I tossed about, but playing Mommy to Bianca, my Cabbage Patch Kid, never really occurred to me.

For years, I fancied myself a tomboy. To be perfectly frank, I still do and although I have traded in my baggy jeans and boxer shorts for leggings and wedges the ultimate embodiment of becoming a woman, motherhood, is still just a theory for me. Being a mom is something grownups do when they have mortgages and lower back pain. Sure I pay rent and have a bad ankle and cannot deny the fact that I too am aging, with stray greys sprouting up as reminders of time passing, but I am not that grown up? With my own mother still asserting her parental rights over me, I certainly do not yet feel ready to be a mother myself.

Being a born cynic, I used to roll my eyes when people talked about biological clocks. I chocked it up as an excuse for a woman who were growing older and losing their marketability; maybe they were just bored or needed a new challenge. Maybe they were like most people who take social cues and societal expectations as a sign that certain choices need to be made and actions taken at certain points in their lives. In 2005, when watching some children play in a public square in Spain, I realized perhaps that was not the case. It was like someone had flipped the switch and that was the moment my biological clock started to tick. As much as I tried to deny it, turns out I am a chick too.

I guess it happens to all of us. I am sure there is scientific evidence that illustrates the correlation between a woman’s physical maturation and her desire for children but I am still curious as to the real motivation behind the baby bump. Is it that its natural for a woman of a certain age to have a kid, or is it that it is expected.

As I have mentioned before, I have immersed myself in the Hispanic community on both coasts for some time now and I can attest to the fact that in this community in particular, being a 30 year old single, childless woman is not only an anomaly, its is full fledged spinster status. 

If I am a spinster en Espanol, so be it. I will take comfort in my continuance in attempting to carve out my own path and resist imposed ideas about what life should be to create my own. Perhaps in a couple of years I will realize that I too have the burning desire to let my belly swell and my tits drop. There is a chance I will come to this conclusion too late and have to get my Brad and Angie on, but for now think I have to hold off. I think I have to sit by while others pop ‘em out and I sit on the sidelines wondering, do I have to hop on the baby train?

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B.E. is a photographer and aspiring freelance writer residing in New York City.

By B.E.

For most of my nearly 30 years on the planet, I have been singing the praises of the single life. Its not that I don't understand the human condition of wanting to be loved, and its not that I inherently think relationships are bad, its just that I come from a broken home and was raised in the Spice Girls era of girl power, so the need for a partner never really occurred to me. I often tell the tale of listening to Boys II Men’s meaningful slow jam ‘End of the Road’ as a girl and my mother insisting that no one ever “belongs” to me and I am never to “belong” to anyone else. Mom clearly wasn’t feeling Wanye’s Cooleyhighharmony. I, in turn, have always viewed the desire or requirement of a companion as a weakness.

I considered my autonomy one of my more favorable attributes, indicating strength and self-reliance. I thought I was taking the more arduous and stoic route. Man, was I wrong.

I still had the distended belly of a baby hanging on when my parents announced they were splitting up and only recently have I realized how much that skews one’s outlook on relationships. Now, as I dip my toes into the baby pool of couple hood I am changed.  Turns out, being in a couple is hard work. Like most clichés, its true. I have come to believe that maybe coupledom it is not sign of being weak or needy, but in fact a challenge accepted and a sacrifice made for what John Lennon claimed was all we needed: Love.

Often times I pontificate about learning lessons, as I grow older. When I was 13 I thought I had it all figured out and as I bid adieu to my 20s, I realize I still have so much to learn. Much of what I have to learn is about relationships. Not parental or friendly, as I have years of experience with those. I mean the pairing off of two individuals with romantic intention. I get friends and I get sex, but the coupling of the two in a committed partnership is just foreign. Part of me is still baffled that one individual can opt to make concessions in their own life for someone else. Even more baffling is the decision to do this till death do you part.  I recently saw a photo of my grandparents holding hands, after more than 60 years of marriage, and I thought, wow. Wow that they still even want to be in one another’s presence after all that time, and wow at the amount of effort that must have gone into maintaining a relationship for all those years. I still cannot even sign a two-year lease, just in case I change my mind.

With pairing off of on the rise, I had remained steadfast about the sermon of singledom. But it seems all of us fall prey to the pitfalls of human existence, and for me, that was love. Now here is the conundrum. Love is easy. Caring about someone more than yourself comes naturally, however, the creation and maintenance of a relationship is anything but.

With my Mexican work ethic I have long prided myself on the ability to maintain a hectic schedule and heavy workflow. That being said, I have never worked like this before. These hours are different and the HR department seems to constantly be misplacing my paperwork. Strangely enough it also seems to be a job worth having and worth working for. Although I will forever my single sensibilities I must admit, I have a new found respect for couples.

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B.E. is a photographer and aspiring freelance writer residing in New York City.

By B.E.

I have made it a point in my life to stay in touch with lovers from the past. I use the word lover loosely, as the level of intimacy I achieved with any of these men runs the gambit.  For the most part, this has been a pleasurable experience, maintaining the connection I felt at some point but creating a less complicated relationship with limited expectations.

This does not seem to be standard practice and recently I have started to see why. It seems no matter how evolved or disinterested you think you are, the inevitable feelings of ickiness come creeping up. It was during a recent bout with ickniess that I had to take a moment, look myself in the mirror, and decide whether it was genuine emotion spurring these feelings, or simply ego. Our egos seem to get in the way of the decision making process from time to time and, as I get older, I learn to pause and evaluate it’s intrusion before taking action.

I am not arrogant or self-involved, however, I like most human beings am subject to the proverbial bruising of my ego. I find that since I seem hell bent on making my life as difficult as possible, this injury is often self-inflicted, making it all the more painful and frustrating. I am well versed at taking my lumps but that doesn’t make it any more awesome. It still sucks to do something foolish or stupid or downright mean and then have to own up to it. But alas…

A couple of months back I shot a story for a dating website where we paired up real life couples and one pretend one to enact dating and being young and in love for the camera. For the pretend couple I supplied the male talent, as I seem to have a corner on that market. This was a man I had been involved with briefly years ago and have had peripheral contact with since. I asked if he would volunteer his services and he graciously obliged, displaying intimations of the things that made me like him in the first place. Once on set with his faux lady friend he was cute and charming and made the shoot a breeze. Seeing their palpable chemistry, I hinted at a burgeoning romance and when it piqued their interest I was happy to be able to connect the two. Until I wasn’t. As soon as I assisted in the sharing of numbers I felt, icky. And I knew immediately who the culprit was – my ego.

In recent weeks a former flame confided in me that he has just begun to court a mutual acquaintance. My initial reaction was, great – you seem happy and she seems fantastic, smart and beautiful… Beautiful! Perhaps too beautiful, and then that tingling in my spine snuck up on me. I was jealous. I was jealous that this man with whom I had no interest of pursuing romantic endeavors was seeing someone new and did I mention beautiful?

Essentially it doesn’t matter if she has the face of Halle Berry or Chuck Berry, he was just not for me. These were amorous opportunities I voluntarily passed up on and if they were not still my friends, I would not even know with whom they are currently attempting to dry hump and call their own. Nor would I care. But, alas, I am insistent on staying in touch with past partners and in turn, will remain interminable frienemies with my ego.

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B.E. is a photographer and aspiring freelance writer residing in New York City.

By B.E.

In recent years the landscape of human interaction has shifted.  Standard social practices and regular verbal communication have all but vanished and in its wake we are left with hash tags and ‘like’ buttons to show our loved ones how near and dear to our hearts they are. They are so near and dear, in fact, that we take 3 seconds out of our day to push a button on the internet and let our sprawling network of family members and one night stands know that we think ‘Sarah’ looks great in that dress or ‘John’s’ beer bonging shots are hilarious.

You all know what I am talking about. At one time or another, we have all succumbed to the power of The Book. No, I am not talking about the bible, as that offers no fleeting 15 minutes of fame, shameful or otherwise on the World Wide Web. I am talking about Facebook, the brainchild of a boy genius that has taken over the world in a way never before seen.

Before parting ways with The Book in 2009, I too took time out of my work day to see the latest photos of people having way more fun than me and making sure that my high school nemesis was not holding up nearly as well as they thought they were. It was in 2009 when a recent ex boyfriend requested my “friendship” that I knew I had to change my FB’ing ways. We have all heard, “lets just be friends” but saying it via social networking seems so much colder and more removed. I knew the second I hit accept, I would be casually glancing at his page daily to see what he was doing and with whom. I had to stop, cold turkey.

I had made the mistake of inviting my then 58-year-old mother to jump on the bandwagon before making my grand exit. I thought it would be a great way for her to see what I was up to, look at photos of her grand kids who live far away and give her a new outlet for social interaction. Little did I know that she would be at the forefront of Zuckerberg’s never ending task of building a bigger system to house more inane comments and unflattering photos.  As they say, be careful what you wish for.

Although I was no longer on Facebook my mother was mainlining that shit, describing each and every minutiae of her life for the world to see. The world that was seeing this was made up of many of my friends and loved ones who couldn’t help but let me know that my Mother was clogging up their update streams, or posting something super personal and inappropriate in a very public space.

About a year ago when my very sweet grandmother had an accident in an undisclosed room, resulting in a black eye, I found out through a friend who had read it on Facebook - I had had enough. I approached my mother and tried to give her some insight into what she was doing. Although momentarily understanding, she jumped right back on the book’s bandwagon, trusty keyboard in hand. She is still pontificating about the personal goings on of many of her loved ones and although I seem to have luckily dodged that bullet in recent months, my poor ailing grandparents have not.

Although so ridiculous it should be fictional, it was not long after Grandma’s public outing that a friend had discovered her Grandfather had passed away. She became aware of his not entirely surprising passing when a cousin of her’s felt it appropriate to give an RIP shout out mere minutes after his passing; the body was not even cold.

The semi nude photos and personal information littering the cyber pages of Facebook leaves me wondering what the motivation is? All I can surmise is that everyone wants a piece of the prize. If only Andy Warhol were still alive, he could see his 15 minutes of fame theory in action.  With fame being the most valued currency in the modern world, everyone wants to feel special and feel seen. As much as I understand gratification, I ask people to actually stop and think before creating these superfluous, superficial relationships. I ask them to stop and think about what they are posting, because the world is watching. I want to say to many of them, F U. And so, instead I say, FU FB.

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B.E. is a photographer and aspiring freelance writer residing in New York City.

By B.E.

We all have our vices; usually its gambling or alcohol. In recent years Tiger Woods and David Duchovny have made the newly coined phrase ‘sex addiction’ part of the American dialogue. Lucky us!

I can often be heard saying, 'I don't really drink,' and although Marlboro Lights were my cool kid accessory of choice in my pubescent years, smoking cessation classes were never needed for me to kick the habit. I could never quite wrap my head around the dependency on a substance. It seemed so weak, so feeble minded. How could anyone become a slave to something like that?

Then I fell in love.

In the fall of 2001 I had my first real, devastating heartbreak and although a big fan of the break up diet, resulting in a slightly more lithe frame each time the Mexican hat dance has been stomped out on my heart, it illuminated a side of me I had never seen before and most importantly, never knew existed.

The crazy bitch.

We all have her lurking somewhere, deep beneath the surface and when she arises, all should take cover.

Recently I became immersed in the fictional world created on the HBO series 'The Wire.' Not even one season deep and I am hooked. Watching the well meaning resident crack head, Bubbles, literally hurts my heart. Yes, I know its all make believe but reality is overrated and besides, life is so much more poetic with stage lights and a soundtrack.

The soundtrack to my crazy bitch episode was largely Dashboard Confessional and The Get Up Kids. Lullabies for young people fraught with angst and confusion; who enjoy bathing in their own sorrow. I was 20 and a generally sane and logical person. That is, until I went, for lack of a better term, ape shit.

All of a sudden, said heart breaker's work and home were along main thoroughfares to any place I needed to be, despite the fact that he lived on the outskirts of town. My heart lept at the prospect of catching a glimpse of him and would, inevitably result in hysterics and yet more slit my wrists lullabies. I went so far as to dress up as an alleged lover he had taken for Halloween. At the time I thought it was funny in a ‘so over it’ kind of way, now it just seems kind of sad...and still a little funny. I knew it, my sponsors knew it, he was bad for me but I couldn't seem to walk away. I was physically compelled to be emotionally inappropriate in public and remain morose for weeks at a time. Blood shot eyes, runny nose, how could he not want this back in his life?

Prior to this, I had been secure on my moral high ground, looking down at those who could not control their own will. How could anyone drink that much or bet on horses and waste their money? I just don't have an addictive personality, I would proclaim, and then it dawned on me. I am addicted; addicted to love and not in a Robert Palmer kind of way. No women with slicked back hair and a questionable sense of rhythm were there when I needed my fix. The craving, once momentarily satiated resulted in self-loathing and disgust.

As I delve deeper and deeper into the twists and turns of the story line on 'The Wire,' I have to ask myself, really, what is the difference between a college sophomore with a broken heart and a crack head with a heart of gold? Erratic behavior; emotional woes; physical compulsions; and questionable sanity. It turns out when you really compare the two, the answer is: Not a whole lot.

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B.E. is a photographer and aspiring freelance writer residing in New York City.

By B.E.

Recently I opted out of a potentially beneficial work event to be amongst friends in my neighborhood. In recent months I have solidified myself amongst an extraordinary group of artists and writers, businessmen and genuinely good people uptown. Although this meeting did not take place at The Algonquin and Dorothy Parker was not present, it was enjoyable nonetheless.

Let me start by saying I have an inordinate amount of affection for each one of these nouveau bohemians. I do, however have a more complicated history with some more than others. I am known by many names amongst this group. Usually, it is be heard, but on this last occasion a new moniker was bequeathed. Cock tease. Poetic, I know, but the message was received loud and clear. This man is not the first man to assert this and I am quite certain he will not be the last. It is also pretty safe to say that I am not unique in this, as many a woman has had the pleasure of being touted as such.  Upon the most recent assertion of this genital manipulator, one fine gentleman came to my aide. It was this young man who exclaimed, 'No, something tells me she actually puts out!' I was please, relieved, flattered even and then I thought, hey, wait...

With years of denial in my past I have more recently come to terms with my proclivity for flirtation and, as an adult, find it to be an asset more than a hindrance. It seems to put people at ease and allow a general flow to burgeoning relationships as well as with those who remain on the acquaintance level.

I am a single woman and overtly friendly and my question is, why does this result in name-calling? A modified version of hair pulling on the playground the other night, I would have brushed it off if the incident was isolated, but it is not. It is not for me, and having female friends, I am aware that it is not for any woman who has smiled, tossed her hair, accepted a drink from a man and didn't instantly spread 'em.

Being deemed a slut and a prude are offenses of seemingly equal severity, so where does this leave the gregarious women in possession of themselves?

Perhaps Goldilocks was onto something. This girl is too cold, this one is too hot, and this one makes my dick hard but refuses to give me some despite my passive aggressive approach of getting into her pants.

I am by no means a saint and, on occasion have used my feminine wiles in my favor, but really, what is so wrong with that? And if women didn't refuse the occasional piece of proverbial ass what would men have to complain about? Really, we are just assisting in providing material for their locker room banter.

I suppose like any great Shakespean plight at one point in time, every woman must pause and ponder, 'to tease, or not to tease, that is the question.'

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B.E. is a photographer and aspiring freelance writer residing in New York City.