Where are the women?

D ammit, 45 minutes late again. That means I’ll get the cramped elevator for sure. If one more old man stares at my boobs I swear — “Namaste, madam.” “Namaste, sirji, how are you?” “Very good, thank you madam. Where shall I drive you today?” “The Secretariat — but I’m
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What a Bolshevik taught me about hookup culture

By the week before spring break, it had become apparent that my recent fling with a tall and charming older friend had reached a quiet end.   There was no formal discussion of this fact. I didn’t expect there to be; to have addressed that something had existed and then
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