Ever since that fateful episode of “Sex and the City”, when Berger says to Miranda “He’s not just into you,” I’ve questioned the validity of the statement “He’s just not that into you.” And why is the onus on the woman? On the contrary, what if he just doesn’t have any balls? What if he’s just a nut?

Not that you should date a ball-less nut, but the idea that if a man acts strangely it’s because not into you assumes the fact that all men are self-confident and emotionally available.

For every guy who knows what he wants, there’s another one who’s insecure, overly analytical, and/or just plain kookoo for Cocoa Puffs. For example there was a guy I knew who basically ignored me for 2 years until confessing his undying love for me in a drunken stupor. Then there was the super cute Mark Wahlberg look-a-like who had convinced himself that I would never go out with him. Um hello?! MW is HOT. I would go out with Mark Wahlberg’s left pinky toe.

This phenomenon is one which I like to call “He Just Doesn’t Have Any Balls.” Maybe he never had any balls or maybe he’s a leper and he lost them. Sometimes while I’m talking to a guy, I actually hear them drop and roll away. Yep sometimes you can hear a thud and the sound of them rolling away, much like a bowling ball down an alley. It’s enough to make me want to scream “WAIT! Go get your balls!! They’re rolling away!”

Alas that never seems to work. Take this situation with the Tin Man for example. We met at a coffee shop and hit it off right away. We had witty banter, the same sense of humor, a shared taste in music, and he was gorgeous. Unfortunately he didn’t have any balls.

On our first date the chemistry was thicker than the humidity of an Amazonian jungle. I went home floating on cloud nine, thrilled to finally meet a guy that seemed to be everything I was looking for. He texted me the next day to tell me what a great time he had, and how he couldn’t wait to see me again.

We texted back and forth and I mentioned going to Coney Island at some point, because what girl doesn’t like Ferris Wheels and cotton candy on a date?

And then….radio silence. I didn’t hear from him for 4 days. We were mid-convo so it made next to no sense. I wondered what could have possibly gone wrong. Was my idea that terrible? Did he have a secret girlfriend hiding somewhere? Was he abducted by man-eating aliens? Was he just not that into me?

Though I didn’t want to, I finally caved and texted him, because at the very least I felt he should let me know what happened.

Me: Hey did you get my last text? I never heard back.

Tin Man: I was gonna ask you if you want to hang tonight or tomorrow night and I was thinking about this weekend but I have obligations to help with a friend’s wedding this weekend so I was thinking of when we could meet and then you mentioned that you liked Coney Island but I don’t like Coney Island, so I was trying to think of something similar but I couldn’t think of anything.

Me: So you’ve been thinking about where to go for four days?

Tin Man: Yeah. Well I was thinking there is mini golf which is kind of similar but then I was thinking it might be too hot so then….”

And on his rambling went. His thought process involved more analysis than an episode of “Hardball”.  Instead of just suggesting something else, he analyzed his response for FOUR days. His lack of response was not because he wasn’t that into me, it was because he lacked the “balls” to make any sort of decision. Not exactly a flattering trait. I realized immediately he was more than I could deal with. Fortunately I had the balls to end it.

1) They actively show each other how much they care

“In the streets we say you’ve gotta show and prove. Words are easy. You can say it all day, but then act out a different way,” Ice says. Coco tells Ice that even though she’s been in plenty of pictures with waterfalls, she’s never seen a waterfall as they’ve all been photoshopped in. So what does Ice do? He takes her to a waterfall. He makes a point of not just talking the talk when it comes to showing her how much he loves her, but walking the walk.

2) They keep it hot

Whether or not you appreciate Coco’s particular brand of bootylicious-ness, there’s no doubt that Ice does. Sure she enjoys getting dressed up to the nines in her high heels and tight dresses, but she also does it for her boo. “I actually wore this so you could see the cutesy swimsuit,” she tells Ice while lounging in the pool one day. “You know I do that for you. I even wear my heels for you.”

Even if your thing isn’t acrylic heels, it doesn’t hurt to dress up for your partner and vice versa.

3) They respect each other

They don’t boss each other around. They don’t have a parent-child relationship. They don’t demean or nag each other. In fact, when you compare them to the relationships of fellow reality stars the Kardashians, Ice and Coco seem like downright sages (sorry Dalai Lama). When the couple jets off to Miami, Ice’s friend Marc finds out and shows up intruding on their romantic trip. But Coco makes her dissatisfaction clear without resorting to whining, getting angry, or taking Ice’s initial lack of action personally. All it took was one “Honey…” and an eyebrow raise when Marc walked away for Ice to get the hint. He made sure to tell Marc the next day it was time to give the couple alone time.

4) They’re always learning about each other

On their anniversary vacation to Hawaii, Coco gets to learn more about Ice’s past in the military, seeing the barracks where he stayed first hand. In fact, it was her idea to visit. Though she knows Ice as well as any wife could after eleven years, she’s still curious and inquisitive when it comes to discovering more about her hubby. “It’s amazing that after eleven years we’re still learning about each other,” she says. To which Ice responds, “I think you stop learning things about your partner when you’re uninterested in them. There will always be things about people you’ll never know. That’s a good thing.”

5) They make their relationship the first priority

In spite of their busy schedules, they have an unspoken rule to never to spend more than 24 hours apart. Though sometimes they have to break the rule, like when Coco has to fly to Arizona for four days to help her sister with a fashion show, it’s a rule they take seriously. During their visit to the Sundance Film Festival, Coco was offered a plum movie part much to her excitement. But upon realizing the role required her to be away from Ice for two months, she declined. Her ever-supportive husband encouraged her to accept the opportunity, but Coco had already made up her mind. “I put my relationship first,” she says. “Ice and I’s relationship means the world to me. People say, ‘11 years, how do you make it work?’ It works because I think my relationship is much bigger than a movie.”

6) They’re supportive of each other’s interests

Ice is a manly man. He doesn’t dance and he certainly doesn’t believe in things like ghosts and psychics. But Coco does and that’s all that matters. When Coco decides to take salsa dancing classes, he tags along simply because that’s what she would do for him and he wants to make her happy. He later surprises her by going to her salsa class dressed up and ready to dance with her. But the love doesn’t stop there. Upon realizing how stoked Coco and her mom were to meet famed medium James Van Praagh at a book signing, he invited Van Praagh back to their condo where Coco gets her own personal reading.

7) They listen to each other

When Ice surprises Coco with a private luau for their anniversary, she is completely shocked. Everything she had dreamed of was perfectly executed, from the leis to hula dancers. When she asks Ice how he knew that’s what she always wanted he responded “I knew ever since you were a kid and you watched that damn ‘Brady Bunch’ episode you wanted to go to a luau. I listen to you, even when you don’t think I’m listening to you.”  And listen he did. He recreated what she wanted to a T. No pun intended.

The poster for Girl Model.

Models are victims. At least that’s what we’ve been told. We’ve all heard the stories of young innocent 14-year-old girls plucked from their native Eastern European countries and traded like chattel to model agencies around the world. Picked apart for not being skinny enough at 5’10 and 125 lbs, by a world of evil model scouts. Scouts who live to torture young innocent victims just to make a buck.

(By Rachel Khona)

In the new documentary, “Girl Model”, the filmmaker follows around Ashley Arbaugh a scout and her discovery Nadya Vall, a 13-year-old from Siberia. In it, Nadya is depicted as being lonely, sad, and homesick, living in a tiny model apartment in Tokyo. She is soon sent home with only one job under her belt and a few thousand dollars in debt. To be fair, I haven’t seen the movie as it’s not on Netflix and frankly I’m lazy. And also because as someone who has worked as a booker and scout, I already know how the industry works.

The media picked up on the documentary coming down on the modeling industry with disgust and horror, while completely disregarding the fact that the girls (and guys for that matter) are choosing to work as models.

In my entire time working in the industry, I have never met a prospect who didn’t want to be a model. I’ve seen girls and guys practically beg and cry to be models, whether it’s at a modeling convention or a scouting trip. I’ve had plenty of models ask me why they aren’t working more or why they aren’t making more money. I’ve seen models who are 35 and still desperate to work as models even though their prime has passed. Why wouldn’t they just secure a regular 9-5 job with a steady paycheck? Because they want to be models. They cannot live with the thought of not being models.

The younger ones get wine and dined for free, getting into clubs without waiting in line so the club owners can seem trendy. Girls whose parents don’t have two dimes to rub together are able to buy houses and cars for their parents. How many industries do you get paid $2,000 to the sky’s the limit for a day of work without being required to have any skills, expertise, or talent? No one is holding a gun to their heads forcing them to wear couture and get the red carpet rolled for them. If a girl would rather stay in her native town and live in poverty, she certainly has the prerogative to do that.

When Hailey Hasbrook blogged about her experience working as a model for Marc Jacobs for nothing but free clothes (which is common during fashion week), the media pounced on the story as if she was some modern day slave trapped in designer duds. Her response? She enjoyed working for Marc Jacobs. The reality is walking in a top show is imperative in advancing a model’s career and landing lucrative campaigns and contracts down the road. Any model would kill to walk in a show like Marc Jacobs. Even Coco Rocha, who accused agents of asking her to lose weight, never left the industry. In fact, she is still going strong as one of the top supermodels in the world.

In the words of Marc Jacobs, (via Twitter of course) “If [the models] don’t want to work with us, they don’t have to.”

By Rachel Khona

When most people get engaged, it’s met with rounds of congratulatory remarks, hugs, and champagne. However when pro-birth control activist Sandra Fluke announced her engagement to longtime boyfriend Adam Mutterperl, conservative Fox News (shocker!) pundit Monica Crowley made like a 16-year-old and took to her Twitter account to react the news “To a man?” she tweeted. Clearly any female who supports a feminist agenda and doesn’t have long shiny tresses—befitting a Pantene commercial—must clearly be a lesbian.

Fluke took the news in stride demonstrating the same level of class she displayed when she was verbally attacked by Rush Limbaugh for being a slut. (Note to Rush: a woman in a monogamous relationship is the opposite of a slut. Though calling someone is slut is effed up regardless.) On The Ed Show, Fluke stated that she thought Crowley’s comments were homophobic and that Crowley should issue an apology to the LGBT community. Though I respect her opinion, I couldn’t help but think Fluke was missing the more obvious jab. In suggesting that Fluke is a lesbian, not only is Crowley mocking women who stand up for women’s rights, she is making a subtle dig at Fluke’s appearance. With her long blond hair and perfectly made up face, Crowley is your typical glamazon. If this was Mad Men, She is Joan and Fluke is Peggy. Minus the goodwill.

But this isn’t just an issue of a conservative going after a liberal. Infamous sex blogger Lena Chen remarked, “When people saw what I looked like, they were surprised. Like I wasn’t attractive enough to be having sex or talking about sex.”

Sandra Fluke

Apparently she didn’t get the memo that only supermodels and Hollywood starlets have sex. But more importantly why are women categorized as sluts or lesbians because of their political stances or points of view? The interesting thing about female degradation is that women take an equal part in putting down other women. Whether it’s to feel superior or because they themselves are scared to rock the boat, it only serves to do a disservice to womankind. Don’t agree with a woman’s opinion? Call her a lesbo! A dyke! That’s the way to engage in political discourse!

I’m not sure what possessed Crowley to suggest Fluke is a lesbian. Perhaps she wants to seem cool in the boys club. Or perhaps she’s intimidated of a woman who has no fear of standing up for herself. Either way, all she did was show her ass, so to speak. And her ass is seriously not cute.

From the Clean and Dry Intimate Wash commercial (pre-bleaching)

By Rachel Khona

Personally I’ve never been one to subscribe to the idea that there’s anything wrong with my vagina. Or vaginas in general. I don’t worry if it’s smells funny, (I do shower after all) if the lips are too long, or it’s not tight enough. In fact, I even allowed a guy to go down on me while riding the crimson wave. It’s a vagina for fuck’s sake; it’s functional. It’s not a secondary sex characteristic like boobs. By the time a guy is down there, chances are he’s pretty stoked that he has a naked woman in front of him to begin with. Being upset about an errant hair or variant shade of color would be like going to Disneyland and complaining that Mickey has some lint on his outfit.

But a new company in India does think there’s something wrong with vaginas. They’re too damn brown.

A company in India recently launched a new product called Clean and Dry Intimate Wash. In the ad for the product, a couple are together in the living room with the woman looking longingly at her man. Meanwhile his hunkiness distractedly drinks his (very dark, foreshadowing anyone?) coffee. She then discovers Clean and Dry Intimate Wash a product which actually…bleaches her vagina! Clearly her man wasn’t into her before, because she had a nasty brown vag. After taking care of her icky cooch, he is suddenly infatuated with her swinging her around and flirting. You know what that means. Bowchickabowwow! Problem solved!

It’s true that Indians do have an obsession with all things light-skinned or “fair” as they call it. In fact, when my parents got married my mother’s in-laws were impressed not with the fact that she recently graduated med school, but that she was “fair.” Of course, there are many socio-economic reasons behind this whack phenomenon. For example having lighter skin often means you’re not a laborer spending all your time in the sun. Just as in the Western world having tan skin can suggest you live a life of Paris Hilton-esqe leisure basking about in the sun. It’s also a relic of the Arab and Aryan invasions of earlier centuries, as well as the more recent British colonial rule.

But why pick on vaginas? Why is skin bleaching only marketed towards women and their lady parts?

India has been marketing fair creams for ages, (one that my friend Mina tried in high school to no avail), but a lightening cream for a woman’s nether regions certainly sets a new precedent in making women feel like crap about their bodies. Women have douches, waxes, labioplasty, hymen reinstating, (tres popular in the middle east!) and now bleaching? I wondered pray tell, where are the products to beautify men? Penises aren’t all pretty. They’re not always uniformly colored, sometimes they’re crooked, sometimes they look veiny, and as all of us ladies and gay men have experienced, sometimes they’re too small.

Where’s the solution for all those problems? Why do I as a woman have to be forced to endure the hardship of looking at a discolored cock? The underlying message is the same one it’s been for centuries. Women are meant to be creatures capable of inciting sexual desire not the other way around. Should women have sexual desires they suddenly turn into sluts like Sandra Fluke or Madonna. Hypocrisy much?

So until someone comes up with a way to increase penis size, my vagina is staying the way it is.

So when I moved to New York to live the life of a glamorous fashionista, the last thing I expected to be was broke.
When I first moved to New York, bonuses were aplenty, I got a fresh mani and pedi every week and my wardrobe received a fresh infusion at least once a month. But with the economy tanking faster than a body in the Hudson, our bonuses had all but disappeared and we received across-the-board pay cuts.

Being broke and working in fashion is like being on a diet and working at Krispy Kreme. So when the annual Stella McCartney sample sale rolled around, I knew I was in for trouble. There’s nothing a pescetarian fashionista likes more than McCartney’s vegan-friendly designs.

But still, I was broke. So I told myself, I’m just going to look. It would be research for future purchases.

Once inside, I made a beeline for the shoe section. I inhaled the sweet smell of faux leather and plastic. There were orange fishnet kitten heels, lime platforms with acrylic, pink-and-black crisscross sandals and gray basketweave heels.

Nothing could be better than this. I felt like a starving Ethiopian seeing food for the first time. Just because I hadn’t planned on buying anything didn’t mean I couldn’t try on a few pairs of shoes. I tried on one pair after another, but none of them seemed right.

Then I put them on. It was love at first sight. They were 4-inch wood, t-strap platforms in a denim blue, but what really made them was the cherry appliqué. I stared down at my feet, which were now glowing.

I walked over to the mirror to get a better look. As I stared at my reflection, I began to imagine all the fabulous outfits that would now be complete with the Cherry Bomb shoes. I pictured myself walking to work while rainbows beamed out of me like rays from the sun. People would stop in their tracks and ask themselves who that fabulous vision was. Word of my amazing shoes would travel wide and far across the land—even to places like New Jersey and Oklahoma.
I snapped out of my reverie. I was going to look amazing in these shoes. Fuck it, I’m going to buy these shoes. I scampered over to the line, eager to buy them.

That’s when it started: the voices.

“Um…. you can’t really afford these, even if they are on sale.”

“It’s people like you who are responsible for this shitty economy!”

“Ahhhh! SHUT UP!”

My palms started to sweat. I didn’t want to give them up. I loved my Cherry Bomb shoes. We had bonded, like the time in 1st grade when I picked out my Dressy Bessy doll from Kmart. How could I have given her back after I had picked her? It would have been like giving a child up for adoption.
I began to feel like I was in a chick lit novel, like Confessions of a Shopholic. Next thing you know, I wouldn’t be able to pay my bills and I would be out on the streets. I would start tap dancing in the subway—Union Square, of course—to make some extra cash. I would be too embarrassed to use food stamps so I would only eat once a day, allowing me to lose that last five pounds I’ve always wanted to lose. Before I knew it, I would be hanging out with that crazy schizophrenic man who hangs out on Bedford Avenue.

The line moved forward. I gulped. There were five people in front of me. I took a deep breath and ducked out of the line.
 “Oh, I’m just getting another pair!” I would shout in case anyone asked. I couldn’t let anyone know I couldn’t actually afford the shoes.

I glanced around furtively and pretended to walk confidently back to the shoe section. Were the salespeople looking at me? What about that security guard? When the coast was clear I quickly put the shoes back. I hurried out of there shamefully.

When I got home, I knew I needed to drown my sorrows quickly. How could I call myself a true fashionista when I couldn’t even afford a pair of heels? I should have just called it a day and moved to L.A., where I could dress like a cheap whore and pretend it was fashion—ahem, Uggs.

But I couldn’t give up on my relationship with New York. Not yet.

I pulled out a tub of low-carb, sugar-free ice cream. I didn’t even measure out the serving size. I’ll show that damn economy. When everything turns around, I’m going to buy those shoes at full price, damn it. Or at least at half price on eBay. In the meantime, I still have New York.

Rachel Khona is a writer and sometimes performer living in Brooklyn. She has written for Cosmopolitan, Inked, AskMen, American Way, Richardson and Vaga, where she is a contributing editor. She has also been featured as a dating aficionado on the radio show Broadminded and  Los Originales, as well as the website How About We.  For more, please visit rachelkhona.com.