Narratively

Our wealthy California school had a hookup game where boys “drafted” girls, then tracked their sex acts. A decade later, my classmates still debate whether “FSL” was harmless teenage hijinks or a symptom of toxic rot in our elite enclave.

Everyone from bawdy bachelorettes to married lesbians pay Ray the masseur to get them off. And he gloats that when it comes to female pleasure, he’s the G.O.A.T.

I fell 20 feet out of a redwood tree and when I came to, my memory was shattered and a man I’d broken things off with was telling everyone we were together. Then I found out why.

As James V came of age, his evil ex-stepfather and a counsel of unscrupulous gatekeepers hatched a scheme to keep him from power: distract him with an ungodly amount of intercourse.

As a filmmaker, I thought I could write the screenplay for my own love life. When I got lost in a hailstorm at 12,000 feet, searching for my ex, I realized I desperately needed a new ending.

A 19-year-old student was inundated with lewd messages and fake Facebook profiles pretending to be her. The most shocking part was the person behind it all.

My dad, Dr. Drew, spent decades hosting Loveline, which gave guys the wrong idea about my own expertise in bed. No one ever saw me for me—until I figured out how to see myself.

In fourteenth-century England, one of the only ways a woman could get a divorce was if her husband was impotent. But first, she had to prove it in court.

I should have expected my relationship with my boyfriend to crumble during quarantine. More surprising is that I fell back in love with my husband.