This week Portable’s Kat George visited the VICE offices in Williamsburg to chat with Slutever’s Karley Sciortino and producer Adri Murguia about VICE’s new video series based on Karley’s blog. There’s not much more we really need to say, other than we’re huge fans of these two girls, and that what they’ve produced is every bit as tender and revealing as it salacious. Above you can watch the third installment of VICE’s Slutever; below you will find a transcript of our conversation, which at times you might find shocking, lending itself to the vulgar, but that at other times betrays a far more thoughtful intention, and an awareness and self-reflexiveness that is sometimes lacking in the testosterone driven environment cultivated by VICE…

(Ed. Note: This is an excerpt of the original interview. To read the full piece visit Portable by clicking here.)

Portable: How did you get involved with VICE?

Karley Sciortino: I was an intern. I guess it was around 2008 because it was around when I started writing my blog, actually, and then one of the girls that worked there was like, “we really like your blog, do you want to write for the VICE blog?” This is when I interned for the guy that was the head of the website, and then I just wrote freelance for them. I’ve been writing freelance since.

P: Do you only write about sex and dating?

Karley: For VICE I guess I mainly write about that, or under the guise of that. I did a series for a while on the website where I was interviewing people with weird fetishes which is where [VICE's Slutever video series] came out of. But then I also am just a journalist for a living, I write for Dazed and V and AnOther, and write about anything that would be in a style magazine.

P: With the Slutever series, is that an idea that VICE approached you with?

Adri Murguia: Well I think it was like a weird thing where the director of content at VICE wanted to make a show for girls and I was producing stuff here, and [Karley and I] had met a couple of times through friends but we didn’t know that we would eventually end up working together or anything, and the director of content here was like, “um, I want you to make this show for girls, I think this is something that VICE needs to do, and theres this girl called Karley and she’s got a really cool blog. You should meet her and you should think of something to do with her.” And I was like, “Oh, OK cool,” and they called her in for a meeting and I was like, “Hey…”

Karley: “We’ve met!”

Adri: “We’ve met ten thousand times, how are you?”

Karley: Originally I guess the idea was a show for girls but we weren’t necessarily going to make a show based on my blog about fetish and stuff. There were a few incarnations… For a while we were going to do a news show where I sat behind a desk and we filmed it but were like, “Oh my God this looks like shit.”

Adri: It was just like someone having crazy brain spasms.

Karley: It was based on—do you remember All That? On Nickelodeon? And it was like Lori Beth Denberg and it was, “Lori Beth Denberg with vital information for your everyday life!” and she was sitting behind a news desk pretending to be a news caster but, everything is pink and glittery. It was that idea where we’d talk about current events but the current events were things like, “We have a new roommate!” And [Adri would say], “I don’t think anyone is going to find this funny at all.”

Adri: Yeah, and then we sat down and talked about other formats and stuff, and then we just realized that doing it according to the blog was the best way to go about it. [Karley] already had so many stories on the blog that it just made total sense to base ourselves off that. And it was also just super cool cos normally we make documentaries and purely scripted stuff like Dalson Superstars. What was cool about this is that it’s half scripted and half not. So it’s half of what we’re really good at which is making documentaries, and also taking a stab at something new which is doing scripted material, and doing it with a writer just makes it so much better.

Karley: All the episodes we’ve done so far are pulled from blog posts that were already there so we kind of agreed to do it in that format of I’m writing something and at the end I’m going to think of a conclusion of what I’m writing.

P: Because it’s a little bit of a parody on Sex And The City as well. There was one episode of opening credits that satired Carrie getting splashed by the bus in the SATC opening credits.

Karely: Oh my God you got it! Some people didn’t get it. I mean, have you seen Sex And The City? It’s a shot by shot remake!

Adri: We came up with the idea and we were like, “Let’s go do it, let’s go do it on Bedford Avenue and make it super low fi and shitty.” And we went out there and it was literally me with like a smoke bomb standing behind Karley. The production photos are hilarious. Afterwards we did it like, shot by shot and it was a fifty second intro, and we were like, “Dude this is too long. You can’t do this!” So we cut it down. I feel like mostly guys didn’t get it.

P: So have you got a whole season of Slutever already?

Karley: We’ve got four and we’re making five.

Adri: We’re working on shooting five now and then we’ll take a break and hopefully start filming season two. We shot everything in about four months … and then it just took a lot of fleshing out of what the concept actually was, like the whole voice over, Karley writing, the parody, how much of it actually is a satire and how much of it isn’t. Everyone just says it’s a really thin line between being an actually smart commentary on modern girls and New York or whatever, or actually just a fucking joke, you know? So I think that just fleshing out that concept took us a few months in post production. We tried a few different edits and we got it to where we wanted it. Also, it’s the first show that VICE has ever had for girls, made by girls, and we didn’t want it to be like, oh, this is so girlie!

Karley: But we also had to keep part of that cos this is how we talk!

Adri: We wanted it to be the best it could possibly be, just because we were making a huge statement releasing it through VICE, which is a heavily male oriented company.

Karley: We’re really proud that it did well because there was a little bit of tension like, “Oh God if they make a girl’s show and girls made it and it didn’t do well,” you know, “We told you! Girls suck!” That’s why we’re excited that it’s doing well now. But then the Sex And The City thing is such a good reference because everybody from the age of 16 to 60 — me and my mom used to watch that show together — loves that show. And it’s funny and I really respect that show but it’s not really an accurate representation of what living in this city, or what a normal person’s sex life, is like.

You know that scene in Mean Girls where they’re getting sex ed and it’s almost like that’s such a good way to make fun of high school sex ed because it kind of was like that. I grew up in a really, super Catholic town and our sex ed was teaching you not to have sex … I remember they had some PTA argument where our health teacher wanted us to learn how to put condoms on a banana and then the parents were like, “No they can’t. They can’t use any condoms.” That’s what it was like. It was kind of combination of that—trying to give something real when all of the outlets you have for sex a lot of the time are not real at all.

P: What does your mom think of the show?

Karley: She saw the first episode. She was so nervous to see it but she really wanted to because she’s part of it. I kind of think she won’t watch the other ones which I’m glad about. I was thinking about it, and there’s not much in it that I don’t want her to see. The only thing I was really nervous about her seeing was the multiple anal sex jokes and I was like, “Oh my God she’s going to think I have anal sex, that’s really bad!” But she watched it and the thing is like a satire and she said, “It was funny, I wasn’t expecting it to be so funny.” I think realistically now she understands that I’m not waiting ’til I’m married to have sex, and she has a sense of humor. She can laugh at herself.

P: How much of what you put on your blog and put out through the show is you and how much is just part of the process of reporting?

Karley: Over the past couple of years I’ve got that question a lot, “Is any of it made up?” And none of it is fake. It’s all based on real life, and then obviously there’s a little bit of character being played in the show when I’m saying things like, “WTF is he even talking about?” I guess it’s an exaggerated version of myself because I talk in internet slag, do you guys not talk in Internet slang?

P: Of course. Everyone does!

Karley: If we didn’t include that it would be a false way that I would talk or I would write. So yeah all of the stories on the blog are true. The slaves are people that have been in my life a long time, and it was cool because I probably would never have met them if it wasn’t for this show. Like I never would have gone out of my way to meet them because it would have been too awkward. I almost felt safer meeting them with a camera crew there, like they’re not going to be a psycho and kill me because there’s guys with cameras behind us.

P: What happens in the upcoming episodes?

Karley: [The one that is released today, episode three], I meet the guy that paid my rent — do you remember?

P: He bought you books?

Karley: Yeah he bought me books—Book Bitch—and he paid my rent for two months, and I meet him. In the fourth one I meet this guy called Sissy Sarah I used to post pictures of, he’s a cross dresser that likes to drink pee… Yeah. It was almost like our relationships were so long, I emailed them for years it was hard picking specific emails to show that they sent me to edit it down because I talked to those people for hours.

Adri: My sense of production changed so much, I would literally be like, “Karley can you send me a few emails of Sissy Sarah asking you to piss for him, or like, asking you to ridicule him online, or some pictures of him with cum on his hands”, or shit like that. And just looking at my email threads about this show, emails from the editor, “Less Karley peeing in the first minute, more in the second minute, thanks. Bye.” and I was like, “What are you talking about?” We went through so many emails from these guys because they’ve been writing to [Karley] for years…

So I would ask, with the videos, do you have like, a favorite one?

P: I think I liked the Sissy Sarah one the best, just because your relationship with him came through the most. There was friendship there. And there was a nice moral.

Karley: That’s true. I liked that too. I’m more into going and interviewing weird sex weirdos. One of my bosses was like, “It’s funny when it’s just girlie dating stuff.”

Adri: I think a lot of the time it’s just intimidating for men to see girls do things like that. You know what I mean? [Karley] is in complete control of the situation, in all of the episodes. It’s a different type of control when you’re literally tying someone onto a bed and spitting into their mouth, and it’s another type of control when you’re going around interviewing your mom, and like, your friend about blow jobs. It’s still pushing some boundaries, giving a blow job to a banana in a public park, but you know, doing something like that with a slave is totally different, whether it’s an Internet slave or just some dude or whatever.

I think it makes dudes uncomfortable sometimes, but I think that the fact that we’re doing this through VICE, and VICE started off making content that wasn’t exactly traditional to say the least, the fact that we’re kind of doing that as girls and we’re a team of girls putting it together I think that that has a good effect on the audience. I think that people that want to know about this show are people that care to know about the production of the show and what we’re about. They get that we’re trying to do something totally different and that’s what’s important, that people actually get it. Even though some dudes are like “This is totally weird,” they take it for what it is.

P: Well it’s different from anything we’ve ever seen VICE do on TV.

Adri: I think a huge part of why it really works and of why girls really like it is that even the way that Karley writes is so relatable and honest and it’s not pretentious, like, “Ugh, my God, I’m just such a sexual goddess.” You know what I mean? You’re like, “Actually, that was weird, I don’t understand what’s going on.” It’s just brutal honesty and we all feel that way sometimes. It’s the same kind of vulnerability that comes across in your blog and what makes you so approachable comes across in the video. A lot of people are saying that the videos are the closest thing to the blog. And that’s what makes it appealing I think, it’s important I think. It’s hard to have girls like [Karley].

P: Is it a feminist series?

Karley: Obviously I guess it is, but people always ask me, “Is your blog a feminist thing?” I think probably the show is more of a product of what feminism has created, and the fact that we’re allowed to do the show is because of what has been done in the past, but I don’t think that we’re actively… There was never, in our conversations about the show… It never comes up as a statement or a feminist statement necessarily.

Adri: But I guess it’s implied, in a way. It just is what it is.

Karley: By saying it’s a sex show “For girls”, normally when you make something about sex you’re doing it to titillate or tantalize for a male audience. But we’re not trying to be sexy, we’re not trying to turn anyone on. I’m glad you got the nice thing. I don’t want anyone to ever think we’re making fun of these people. We want to humanise them, and realize that they can laugh at themselves too. I think they’re looking to laugh at the show as well.

Adri: We don’t want to make fun of people, even though that’s very much the style… Maybe I should word that differently…

Karley: It’s not about poking fun at people.

Adri: Or about poking fun at the situation or anything. I think it’s more about poking fun at ourselves while being smart about it at the same time.

Karley: Learning about other people.

P: So what’s the fifth episode about? Are we allowed to know?

Karley: Remember the girl at the end of episode four? Mistress Amanda Whip who is the dominatrix giving her expert opinion on why guys like to drink pee? So we do a tour of her and her house where showed us all her sex toys and what they do and how to hurt people and we haven’t done the rest of it but the idea is to go to a dungeon situation and she’s going to teach me how to abuse people properly.

Adri: The right way.

Karley: With love!

Adri: I’m excited.

1. Shop On Etsy

You should incessantly trawl Etsy, sending your roommate link after crafty link to weird, wonderful, completely useless shit like this dinosaur planter. “I feel like shopping on Etsy is a really depressed girl thing to do,” my ultra-sensitive roommate finally said to me. So far I have purchased a dinosaur planter, embroidered Katy Perry and Beyonce pillows and some little ceramic pears that say “I Love You” on them. Etsy is basically all the stuff you never knew you needed (or even knew existed), but that is somehow completely essential to heal your broken heart.

2. Shop Generally

You need to purchase at least six new dresses that you can’t afford. You also need to spend a month’s rent on sunglasses. Max out all your credit cards. You’ll be paying for it later but it’s going to make you feel so good when you look like a damn fine hot piece of ass every time you leave the house. It might sound shallow but it’s an undeniable truth that a fancy new pair of heels can instantly restore all your self worth. Ergo, self worth from shoes = good; self worth from men = bad. Money comes and goes, but you’re only gorgeous and heartbroken for so long, you might as well make the most of it.

3. Interior Decorating

I bought a princess bed and eleventy-billion plants, and everyday I’m hatching plans to better my home. It’s therapeutic AND productive. Especially when you invite an attractive male friend over to drill stuff; just stand back and watch the manly. And while it has crossed my mind that one day when I’m not heartbroken anymore I’m going to look around my house and everything will remind me of That One Time When I Got Dumped, I’m also confident that if I play Katy Perry loud enough and jump up and down on my princess bed I’ll be like, “I don’t give a fuck cos I gotta princess bed, weeeeee!”

4.Girls Gone Wild (Male Models Optional)

My mother has always taught me the importance of gal pals and I didn’t believe her when we were all 16 and permanently PMSing, but now that I’m in my mid (OK, late) 20s it turns out that she was completely right all along and Girls Rule, Boys Drool. Get your gals together, get dressed up, ingest all sorts of things that are bad for you. You may or may not want to eventually team up with some male models for an after party and dance around to Journey, but that is optional.

5. Hermit Crabs

It’s New York so chances are you live in a shoebox, but moreover, it’s incredibly irresponsible to get a puppy when you’re this emotionally vulnerable. But you do need something living to love that is NOT a boy. I chose hermit crabs because they’re low maintenance, you can still play with them and BONUS you can paint their shells with pink glitter and give them names like Katy Perry and Beyonce.

6. Crafts

My bestie told me to get a hobby, so I bought some silicone molding to make molds of my body parts which will soon be candles. When you’re fucking up silicone molding and screeching in the kitchen trying to mix it right, the last thing you’re going to be thinking about is a broken heart. And when you finally get it right, you’ll feel very proud of yourself which takes us back to the (slightly adapted) point I made in number 2: “Ergo, self worth from craft = good; self worth from men = bad.”

7. Organized Clubs

Google documents are fun and time consuming, so is being a soccer mom. An active mind heals a broken heart, so get clubbing. So far I have started a book club, a poker night, a netball team and a witchcraft club (“light as a feather stiff as a board” anyone?).

8. Get Moving

Please, don’t develop an eating disorder or anything, but start eating healthy and exercising. You’ll feel great physically, which will make you feel better emotionally, and you’ll also get a banging bod which, if scientific equations by women’s magazines and Kate Moss are correct, will boost your self esteem by at least 247. Also, exercise promotes endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t kill their ex boyfriends.

9. Pretend vigilantism

‪You’re probably thinking of bloody murder right now (unless you’ve been on the treadmill, see above), but we’ve all seen Law & Order. Not only is it wrong, you will get caught, even if you wear gloves. Sit around with your girlfriends instead and convince yourselves you’re going to egg his house. Talk tactics and discuss how many cartons of eggs you’ll need. Really, truly believe that you are going to do this. Then don’t. The trick is in believing that you will.

10. CRY

I don’t mean a quiet tear in private that makes you look super adorable. I mean, “Someone Like You” blasting, empty bottle of red wine, guttural sobbing. To the point your friend has to sedate you with Valium and drag you into bed at 3am while you scream, “But why doesn’t he love me?” at her. It’s cathartic–you’ll wake up in the morning feeling like a brand new person.

Just before midnight last night, I was on my way home from dinner and drinks with the girls. I’d had all of four drinks since 6 p.m, so I was relaxed, but not drunk (i.e. I had not contributed to the situation by stumbling home in a stupor, or putting myself in a bad situation; I was completely cognizant as events played out). As I left the train station, a man approached me. He had been behind me since I exited the train and I was aware of him following me. As I came down the subway steps to the street, he got in front of me and blocked my path. He called me something like “pretty cute girl,” and began asking me about where I was from and where my house was.

I answered as flippantly as I could, all the while quickening my pace to get around him. On the street, he approached me at the lights and began asking me if I knew how pretty I was. For the first time I looked at him in the face and noticed that his eyes were bloodshot which led me to the conclusion that he was either high or drunk. I quickly realised this wasn’t a man who had his wits about him, and being that drunks can sometimes be aggressive and unpredictable, I immediately decided this was a bad situation that I had to get out of quickly.

I crossed the road against the lights and began walking down a side street, where I thought I had lost him. But as if from no where, he suddenly appeared in front of me, blocking my path. I tried to side step him but he matched me. As I was trying desperately to manoeuvre around him, he asked me if he could take me for a drink. I said no but he persisted, and even reached out his arms on either side of his body to block the path. At this point something clicked in my brain and the rest feels like a blur. I looked him straight in the eye and told him firmly that I just wanted to be left alone, then used both my hands to shove him out of the path.

As I sped off, I turned and saw him walking back to the main road. What happened next is even more of a blur. Another young woman, I think noticing my desperation (or had she been behind me all along? I wasn’t sure) had crossed to my side of the path. She fell into step several paces in front of me, which made me feel slightly calmer. However, within seconds of the first guy disappearing, two youths who were hanging out in front of a building, stepped into the path so that I had to walk between them.

I have to preface this by saying that it doesn’t matter what a girl is wearing or how she looks, we are all capable of being victimised. I was wearing full length pants, boots, a huge jacket and my hair in a ponytail. I felt inconspicuous enough, and I sincerely believe that the behaviour I’m about to describe would be no more deserved even if I were wearing a mini dress and stilettos.

The two young men began following me (yeah, I couldn’t believe my luck either) and saying both demeaning and threatening things. They were calling me sexy and describing all manner of atrocious sex acts they were going to inflict upon me, not least with some pretty foul language. I was absolutely terrified. My head was swimming. Everything felt so surreal. Here I was in a dark street at midnight, two men, both at least a foot taller and wider than me following me and describing in minute detail how they were going to “fuck me,” while my only defence was another small girl a few steps ahead of me and my house keys in my pocket, Wolverined between my fingers.

I’m not sure how long they pursued me for. I do know that in my fear I ran out into the middle of a busy main road as cars honked and swerved around me, because the only thing I could think of was to get away from them, at any cost. Once I’d crossed the road and the men were far behind me, the girl who’d been walking near me turned to me and for the first time spoke; “Jesus, and it’s not even summer yet.”

I was furious at her. I was furious that she was so flippant, that she just accepted what had just happened as normal, and even more normal in summer no less. We walked down the street together in silence until my street, where I rushed to get in the front door. Once inside I collapsed. My heart was beating faster than a trance song and I thought I might have a heart attack. I tossed and turned all night, jumping at every little sound outside my window. It was an awful night, and even when I did finally fall asleep I only woke again full of anxiety, my heart still pounding like a drum.

I thought about calling the police last night. Then what? Waiting for them to come find me in the street while I stood with my aggressors? Or scared the aggressors away with the threat of police and then spent the night trying to give detailed descriptions of two men I’d barely looked at in my desperation to evade them? It seemed nonsensical to call for the assistance of the law, especially when there would have been little or nothing that a police officer could have done for me, given the intangible nature of the attack. Why did I feel so powerless? Why should I have to feel so powerless? Why do I see no recourse to actual action when I’m put in such a vulnerable position?

It’s something that happens every day. Men threaten women in the public places regularly, and that’s not to say all men are culprits, but there is a prevailing culture that says it’s OK to speak as long as you don’t touch. I’m telling you it’s not OK. It’s not OK that I’m now afraid to walk in the streets that separate my house from the train station. It’s not OK that strangers, completely uninvited, made me feel unsafe in an environment that should be a safe place for all. It’s not OK that my womanhood was used against me in such a way as to make me feel weak and inferior. It’s not OK that my heart is still beating at a rapid pace and that I’m now struggling with this new anxiety.

So what can we do? Honestly, I don’t know; what I do know is that there needs to be a shift in attitudes. We need to look out for each other, men and women alike. Everyone reserves the right to go about their lives undisturbed. Everyone deserves the right to enjoy a level of bodily and emotional security that should not be subject to the whim of others and their selfish actions. Everyone, no matter what they look like, where they walk, or what they do, is precious, and should be treated as such. No one should ever be interfered with against their will.

I know I’m going to go back outside, maybe even today (I couldn’t even bring myself to go get a coffee this morning, my hands shook at the very thought of leaving the house), because I don’t like to let other people win. I’m the one who gets to win. But what if I couldn’t? What if I was so broken by the threatening behaviour on my doorstep that it affected my whole life, as I’m sure it has affected the lives of others? I feel intensely emotional right now, like an area of my life that I was comfortable in has forever been tainted, because I feel entirely vulnerable and at risk. I know that I’ll never walk alone down that street again, even though it’s not a bad street, or a street where anything untoward has ever happened before, in the six odd months I’ve been walking down it. It’s absurdity at it’s best; the familiar has now become the stuff of nightmares.

The problem is this: You meet Guy. You like Guy. Guy seems to like you. You would definitely say yes if Guy asked you for a drink, but you don’t want to be the one to ask (viva le chivalry!). You drop a hint instead of asking outright—hit the ball into his court, so to speak. You find a neutral medium (email, Facebook etc.) and casually drop your number into a message.

And here is where the whole system breaks down. My dear friend says that the message should be relatively clear: “Thus essentially giving, I think, the sign that YES I might say YES if you ask me out, but definitely giving the sign that YES you should use this number for fun banter/flirting.”

However, using this method, she’s never had the desired outcome, “EVERY TIME the guy has just sent me their number back. Via the medium I sent mine. WTF?! USE THE NUMBER. Ugh. So then I am back to square one?!”

Guy, what up with that? That number isn’t just a ball in your court—there are balls flying at you from all directions, and I know it must be confusing and a little bit overwhelming, but even if you flail your arms about wildly, you’re sure to hit one back over the net, right? As another gorgeous friend hilariously put it, “it’s not even like they hit the ball back into your court. You hit the ball and they picked it up, like they don’t know this ball game at all, and they walked it around the net to give it back to you.”

Is it not enough that we’ve wacked a ball over to you? Do we also need to place the racquet in your hand? While we’re at it, should we show you how to swing? And we know the answer to this problem isn’t, “he’s just not that into you.” Believe it or not, girls have a pretty good spider sense for when guys are into them, and it’s incredibly rare that we’re wrong.

So why no figurative backhand? We’re not looking for a Federer style swing—we don’t expect you to immediately ask us out upon receiving our number; that’s pretty scary and we understand. What we do expect is a text that kicks off some sort of dialogue. Yes, we’re modern women and we are taught to take what we want, but we can only lead you to the water—it’s you that must drink.

Because aren’t you flattered, Guy, that we want you to have our number? Why not flatter us back by getting in contact instead of pitching straight back in a completely cowardly way that makes us think you’re squealing like a little bitch and freaking out in front of your phone? Help us out—we’ll take a little of the responsibility in the contemporary dating game (we’ll even do it happily!) but you’ve got to do some work too. Rome wasn’t built by one woman and some canny flirting tactics now, was it?

So girls, yeah, we’re not completely without fault. We can be crazy, demanding and difficult to appease. But here’s the thing about girls: it’s all tangible. She’s got her period, she’d going to cry and hate you and scoff chocolate. She’s happy, she’s going to spin about and laugh and flick her hair. She’s hungry, she’s going to cry and hate you and scoff chocolate… Wait… OK, you get the picture.

Girls are open books. The only time a girl is difficult is if she has her period or she’s hiding her feelings because she thinks it’s the best thing to do in the interests of the relationship. Because sometimes a girl knows when her feelings and demands are irrational, so she does her best to repress them. Never mind that they always end up boiling to the surface where crying, hating, and eating chocolate will ensue.

I’m gender stereotyping, of course. Not all girls eat chocolate. Some prefer a healthy heaping of carbs or candy. But I digress. Sometimes gender stereotyping is necessary in understanding the differences between men and women, and it doesn’t mean that the binary distinctions are always correct, but they can still be helpful. Women do a lot of atypical things, as do men, but in my experience, when it comes to my relationships and the relationships of the people around me, it’s fairly easy to put people into two very clear, gender specific roles.

And now I’m going to let all the boys in on a little secret—girls aren’t that hard to work out. For instance, if we’ve clearly put effort into our appearance, all you need to do is acknowledge it. A simple, “You look great!” does the trick. Because really (and I think I speak for the vast majority of women here), we don’t really care so much for waxing, makeup-ing and hair straightening. If it were up to us, we’d be more than happy to grow a jungle in our pants and skip the lippy.

We do it for you. We do it because we care, and we only want you to have the very best. And believe it or not, we don’t expect much in return. Just some sort of sign from you that you’ve seen what we’ve done, and are pleased by it. So this is why boys are idiots—the simplest of things, in terms of relationship etiquette, seem to elude them.

If we send you a cute text about missing you or some other bullshit, don’t say something practical about how you’re so tired and work’s a bitch. Or if you do, preface it with a “ditto.” We know WHY we haven’t seen you in a week. And we don’t care. We just want to know that you miss us too. WHAT’S SO HARD ABOUT THAT? Because the thing is, you do miss us. And deep down we know you do. But everyone needs to hear something nice from time to time, so c’mon. Throw us a bone.

Silly boy, do you know how much conflict could be avoided with a simple nod? A simple word or two just so we know we’re appreciated? All those things you think in your head but are too inept to communicate—all those little, tiny, might-seem-irrelevant-to-you things are the key to keeping your woman happy. You don’t have to be an idiot about love anymore, because I’ve told you how easy it is to not be. Don’t worry, it doesn’t emasculate you to say something sweet, and we promise not to tell your friends (although we will tell all of ours, of course). Now make with the compliments and don’t be stingy on the cuddles.

McScary is, you guessed it, scary.  McScary is also rare. From my experience in New York City, people date a lot, and the ratio of McScarys to McMeh?s is grossly disproportionate. We’ve all met McCreep, McNeverCallsAgain, McHuge (work it out), McCriesDuringSex and McBartender (or four). But not many of us have met McScary.

The last time I met McScary wasn’t even in New York City. It was in London. I’d had a rough year blah blah and then one day I met a boy that my heart instantly opened up for. And there is nothing scarier than when your heart starts screaming, “Him, him, Kat, It’s HIM!” Hence the name McScary.

Every second with McScary is the perfect nightmare. It’s like you’re dreaming that you’re eating cheeseburger after cheeseburger [or insert your favorite food here] and it’s so delicious, oil is dribbling down your chin and bits of pickle are stuck to your cheek—but at the same time you’re swelling, getting fatter and more gruesome with every bite. As Beyonce would say, “a beautiful nightmare.” One minute you’re greedily chowing down, the next minute you’re dealing with some severe, long-term health risks.

The time you spend with McScary is like scoffing all those cheeseburgers. The more you eat, the more you want, but the higher the risk of cholesterol, and eventually heart attack, becomes. When I was a younger girl, I used to face McScary with wanton abandon—yeah, I’d pick up like six of those cheeseburgers and stuff them all in my face at once, with no regard for the future pain and possible lockjaw my actions might cause.

And what pain! McScary is scary for the precise reason that he is the one you instinctively know will break your heart. And not break your heart in an argh-screw-that-guy-short-cry-margaritas-and-dancing-with-the-girls-omg-I-totally-like-party-macked-on-two-guys-where’s-my-baggie? sort of heartbreak. I mean real, sordid, you-can-feel-it-smashed-to-pieces-in-your-chest-shards-scraping-against-your-rib-cage-and-puncturing-your-lungs broken.

Most of us have been broken by a McScary at one time or another—that’s how we can identify McScary now. Chances are the first McScary was simply a McDreamy, in the time before you knew what awesome power the person you fall madly in love with can wield.  So now that you’ve been brokenhearted, McScary is scarier than ever. And you’ll find yourself asking, as I am asking myself now, what the hell do I do? Based on the reactions of me and my friends, I see that you have three distinct options:

- Self sabotage so McScary leaves you wounded, but not mortally

- Quit being a cry baby and just roll with it

- Play Katy Perry really loud and dance around in your underpants singing into a hairbrush

I’m a hopeless romantic. And I’ve learned that in the self-sabotage scenario, you don’t get second chances. This isn’t a rom com and you’re not Katherine Heigl (sucks to be you). So I say do the Katy Perry thing to calm your nerves, then hitch up your panties and dive in, headlong. Because the thing is, everybody just wants to be loved. Sometimes when I think about how desperate everyone is for such a simple thing, and how hard such a simple thing is to come by, that’s what really breaks my heart (I seriously cried today when I thought about all the people who want nothing more than love but don’t have it).

So if you have the opportunity—take it. Grab McScary by the balls and squeeze them (not too hard, just enough pressure so it’s sexy); let yourself fall in love. If it doesn’t work out, well there’ll be an article for that too, and I promise you, we’ll get through it together. Hurting is OK—you’re allowed to hurt. That’s why God invented things like red wine, best friends and bacon. And besides, no one likes that deer-in-the-headlights whiny bitch off Grey’s Anatomy anyway.

Follow Kat on Twitter: @kat_george

I love sex. I think sex is wonderful, whether I reach climax or not. It’s fun, raunchy, great exercise and I feel wonderful afterward. What’s not to love about sex? I want to do it all the time—yes, even if I just finished. I’m like one of those kids you see at amusement parks getting off the rollercoaster screeching, “Again, again!

Sure, I have my days where I’m tired or too drunk—I’m not the Energizer bunny, I’m human, just like you. But overall, it would suit me just fine to lie in bed all day on a Sunday feeding the beast with two backs. That’s not to say I like to sleep around or have multiple partners; I’m quite content with just the one, as long as he’s not saving it for marriage.

Sex is something that I’ve noticed to be quite prevalent in New York City, more so than in other cities I’ve lived (Melbourne and London). Everyone is doing it. Think of everyone you know, even that really quiet, geeky guy you think isn’t doing it. And guess what? He’s totally doing it. Like, all the time. Fat people, skinny people, weird people, boring people, loud people, angry people, happy people, shy people, dumb people, smart people, all the different kinds of people—they’re all doing it.

All day I dream about sex; yeah that’s right, like a weird rap/rock song. Sometimes I’ll take a break to think about getting a glass of water or to write about having sex, but even the most mundane things end up becoming innuendos. Like this: Wouldn’t it be awesome to pour this glass of water all over my naked breasts while I’m having sex? Or maybe I’d just really like to be having sex in the shower. Or in the ocean.

Here are some big questions about the whole sex crazed persona (if you relate to any of the above then you should probably ask these questions of yourself, too):

—Am I actually a teenage boy trapped in a young adult woman’s body?

—Is this like that movie with Zac Efron where Chandler is 17 again?

—Is my mother right and my biological clock is not just ticking, it’s slapping me in the vagina in a way that’s completely inconvenient but also deeply arousing?

—How do I control myself?

—Is a baby alien about to explode out of my womb and does that alien also have raging libido?

—How much sex do I need to have to quell the desire?

—Can I pass myself off as a sex addict?

—Do I have an illness?

—AM I SICK?

But eventually it all gets to be a little bit too much; especially when it feels like it’s an obsession. The amount of times I’ve heard my friends say things like, “I have to get laid tonight,” or “I haven’t done it in a month, you might as well shoot me in the genitals,” is somewhat worrying. Sometimes it feels as though sex is the most important, most profound activity in our everyday lives. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want the headline to read “Really Smart Pretty Young Greek Girl Tragically Overdoses… ON SEX!” when I die. What would my mother think?

Follow Kat on Twitter @kat_george

It wasn’t particularly romantic, but it was what it was—amazing sex with someone who for one drunken night would fawn all over me, but from whom I could walk away the morning after without a second thought. That is, until the unambiguous, drunken “Hi,” one would inevitably text the other a few nights later. Everyone knows what that “Hi” means; is there a more profoundly unabashed way to text for sex?

The biggest problem with The One (You Always Go Back To) is that you’re likely to be simultaneously looking for The One, and it can be difficult to let the former go when a potential chance to fall in love comes along. Especially when the sex is: So. Damn. Good. And besides, The One (You Always Go Back To) can’t break your heart—it’s not theirs to break, and it probably never will be.

I met someone “special” in the midst of my summer romp with The One (You Always Go Back To) and for the briefest time there was a probably-wrong-but-not-all-that-wrong overlap. How could there not be when the sex was: So. Damn. Good (did I already mention that?)? I managed to “get a hold of myself” and curb my activities with The One (You Always Go Back To), but that didn’t stop me from flirting dangerously with him the entire time, and I even found myself pining for him more often than I should have been when I was in a relationship.

As soon as my “relationship” ended, you guessed it; I fell straight back into the arms of The One (You Always Go Back To) without even skipping a beat. Lying breathless on his bedroom floor, scanning the room for my missing underpants, mere days after becoming freshly single, I found nothing but a certain confusing feeling, and wondering if I would have to do my walk of shame commando style. Why was I back here? Could The One (You Always Go Back To) be just plain old The One? Was our chemistry so intense that we’d always come back here to bump against each other desperately? Was I still drunk from all the whiskey.

I looked at him, already snoring on the carpet next to me. He was so beautiful. So charming. So good at sex. For a second, I tried to love him. I willed it. I thought about our future: romantic dinners, drives to the countryside, reading the paper to each other in bed on a Sunday morning, gorgeous, tan, golden-haired children. I smiled softly to myself as I retrieved my underpants from where they’d been tossed under the bed. It all seemed so impossible to me in that moment, but less possible still was the notion of not finding myself scrounging for my underpants on his laundry-riddled bedroom floor a week later. I walked out into the night with the sense that I would always come back here. I would always walk this way; it was my routine now.

But something changed, suddenly and unexpectedly. Just as I was preparing to fall back into the old whiskey shot and a root routine, I met someone special. And not “special” like the aforementioned relationship—special as in there hasn’t been any overlap, and not from any want of trying on behalf of The One (You Always Go Back To). It’s a strange thing, the changing of plans, and I get the sick sensation that this might be the end for The One (You Always Go Back To).

Because there has to be an end, right? If you’re not going to make The One (You Always Go Back To) your One And Only, eventually you just have to stop—cut it out, don’t touch those genitals again. Because how many times can you run out on someone before they start looking for a better deal? Don’t they deserve better than to be left high and dry every time your heart seeks something else anyway? How many times will someone take you to bed when you come calling with your broken heart before it exhausts you both? If someone can’t be Your One, can they ever be satisfied with being your fall back? And can you always be satisfied with them simply being your go to when you’ve got the blues? Should you just get out now, before it turns bitter and sours the whole lovely sex thing you’ve had?

Eventually, you have to grow up, I suppose. And part of growing up is being able to find solace in your own company when you’re downtrodden, rather than turning to someone you know you’re only using to boost your self-esteem. The One (You Always Go Back To) will always be just that—what you have is habitual and ingrained. You’ve been acting out the same old scenes with them for so long now that it’s impossible to script new ones, let alone improvise. And that’s when you have to make the decision and The One (You Always Go Back To) becomes The One (You Need To Let Go). It will take willpower, but I think it will be worth it when you’re cut loose, and can be completely unburdened to fall crazy head-over-heels with someone that gives you a companionship beyond a shot glass and a 3 a.m. scurrying tiptoe to find your knickers.

Follow Kat on Twitter @Kat_George