I was introduced to Cherdericka Nichols, the sexy Detroit-born songstress, when I was my brother’s plus-one to her son’s birthday party a few years back. She had worked with my brother before, and through him, I became familiar with the creative world of Cherdericka—pronounced SHA-DARE-RICK-UH.

Cherdericka proudly claims the title of multi-hyphenate, as she builds her world through music, visual art, poetry, and film. Every time I open my feed, she’s giving us more. Whether it’s a song, a visual, or a list of films to watch, Cherdericka is letting us into her universe.

Her debut single, “GIMME MORE,” arrived in 2022 along with a hypnotizing visual that brought her love of music and film to the screen. The Verhoevenesque shots, the Missy Elliott-like movements, and, of course, the music. The music! There’s a lot to take in on the first listen. So you listen again, and then you begin to get it. And once you get it, she has you hooked.

Since then, Cherdericka has contributed songwriting to Beyoncé’s Grammy-nominated album “Renaissance" and released two EPs this year alone, moments, wanted and GA’RAGE. Now she has just dropped her latest single, “BLEU VINCENTS.” It sounds like a song that would play in a movie when the main character finally lets go of her inhibitions and gives in to her desires. I hear it as an alternative cousin to Rihanna’s “Pour It Up”: sexy, bold, and commanding, with indie-pop and electronic production. It’s a perfect single to ring in what I consider the sexiest holiday of the year: Halloween.

I wanted to get to know the woman behind the music, so I challenged her to a game of Truth or Dare, with questions about creativity, ambition, and desire. Here’s how it went.

Round 1

Truth: With songs like “FR’EAK” and “GIMME MORE,” your music boasts a confident, sensual energy. Have you always felt comfortable expressing your sexuality in your work, or is that confidence something you grew into?

I’ve always been a confident person. My sensuality is something that has grown with me over the years, but I’ve always been in love with beauty in all its facets. I grew up around women who loved being sexy and were the HBICs in all aspects of their lives. My mom was my first example. Now I always wake up and think: How can I be sexy today?

And sexy doesn’t stop at just being physically attractive for me. When I feel like I’m growing and learning new things, that’s when I feel the sexiest. Also, I’m a vain Taurus. I took up bodybuilding as a sport at one point because it solely focuses on looking good. And if I’m having a bad day, at least I’m hot having a bad day. Music also allows me to just live in that headspace constantly, so I would also say I may be my most confident and sexy self when I’m making music.

Round 2

Truth: You move across so many creative forms—from writing and producing to singing and performing. What’s the hardest part of being a multi-hyphenate? If you had to focus on just one art form, which would you choose?

Ahh, this is so unfair. I love to do so many things, and it’s always been a point of contention for me with some people. They would always be like, “You need to focus on one thing,” but I think that’s something that people with limited talents say and think.

But back to your question: if I had to be imprisoned doing just one thing, it would be writing. Since I could hold a pencil, I’ve been writing. I’ve had journals since I was about 8. With pen and paper, so many things can exist, and I can be as descriptive, vivid, sad, happy, or whatever with just those two things alone. So I would choose writing. It truly is a gift that keeps giving to me.

Round 3

Truth: Was there a particular person, moment, or feeling that inspired “BLEU VINCENTS”? What sparked the song?

Dare: Name three artists you haven’t worked with yet who you’d want on a “BLEU VINCENTS” remix.

Can I please answer both the truth and dare here? Funny enough, this song was inspired by an older demo I’ve had for a few years. It’s a jazzy record, but it was called “Pussy Lake,” and one of the opening lines was, “My pussy blue, can you come through?” Well, the producer was telling me that he didn’t think I should write that, haha. So we were sitting there experimenting with it for a while, and I just didn’t want to let the idea of it go.

I was listening to Project Pat’s “Cheese and Dope.” There’s a section in the song where the backing vocals go, “Go pimpin’, go pimpin’,” and I was like, wait, I want to do something like this. And instead of it being directly about my little lady, I instead focused on trying to make a record that focused on sex being a euphoric drug, and that’s how “BLEU VINCENTS” came about. Also, I would want to feature Doja Cat, a production flip from Missy Elliott, and, of course, Project Pat.

Round 4

Truth: What I enjoy most about your music is the unpredictability of the genre. You give us a bit of everything. You’ve described your artistic journey as “slow, intentional, and chaotic”—maybe that chaos has something to do with it. Has there been a moment when you felt pressure to make your work more understandable, marketable, or easier to categorize?

Dare: Choose one: a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden or a visual album directed by one of your influences, Wes Anderson.

Can I please answer both again?!

Oh brother, do I get irate about this a lot. When I first started making music, I made this electronic record with some poetry I’d written (it only exists on SoundCloud). That serves as a lighthouse for me and my creativity. I’ve grown and am still developing as an artist, but there hasn’t been a moment so far when I’ve been conventional.

I think the frustrating part of it all is that I’m not trying to not be conventional. This is who I am and how my brain works. These are the colors, sounds, visuals, ideas, etc. that I think are cool. The hardest part about being unconventional is that people are always late to your party. I’ve had so many meetings over the past few years where they’re like, “We love her, but we don’t know what to do with her.” But it’s OK because pretty soon, I think those same people are going to wish they came to my party a little sooner.

Wes Anderson would be a dream, but I’ve been feeling more chaotic as of late, and I think I want Park Chan-wook to direct a visual album for me. The way he’s able to tell a story through framing alone is mind-blowing. Every aspect of the frame is important, from lens selection to where an item is placed, the colors, the pacing. Ugh, I’m still reeling over No Other Choice, and The Handmaiden is one of my all-time favorites.

Round 5

Dare: Finish these sentences without overthinking: “The song I put on when I’m feeling down is…” “My comfort film is…” “One thing I’m embarrassed to admit I love is…”

The song I put on when I’m feeling down is “Djougou Toro” by Volta Jazz.

My comfort film is Norbit.

One thing I’m embarrassed to admit I love is beating a dead horse. I don’t let things go.

Round 6

Dare: Fuck, Marry, Kill: Music, Film, Books.

Omg, this feels like a sin to even consider killing any of these, but let’s see. I would marry books—they literally hold all we need in this world—fuck film (I love movies, so I’m assuming this is one of the greatest fucks of my life), and I know this is crazy, but I would kill music. (I would still get pieces of her in books and movies, so I guess she gotta die.)

By the end of our game, Cherdericka was calling me her twin. With so many shared interests and similar tastes, I could see why. We’re always chatting about movies and books through DMs, but it was fun to get into how she creates, what makes her feel sexy, and why she refuses to limit herself to one art form.

What I love most about Cherdericka is that you never know where she’ll take you next, and I’ll keep following her into whatever strange, sexy world she dreams up. She says people are always late to her party. Consider this your invitation to arrive early.

Stream “BLEU VINCENTS” on all streaming platforms, and explore more of Cherdericka’s world at cherdericka.com.

Warning: This essay contains spoilers for Season 1 of Furious and discusses sexual assault, child sexual abuse, sex trafficking, and domestic violence.

Watching Hulu’s latest crime thriller, Furious, has captivated and enraged me every Monday night for the past six weeks.

The show begins like your typical crime drama, where a team of FBI agents is tasked with hunting a vicious serial killer. But when the agents learn that the serial killer is a woman, that’s when things start to get interesting.

Catherine Grace, played by Lola Petticrew, tortures and kills the powerful men connected to the sexual abuse she endured as a child. Catherine is brilliant, terrifying, and, at times, disturbingly easy to root for.

Catherine is a killer, yes, but she is also a victim—as is every woman at the center of this series. They’ve all been victimized by a man, an institution, or, frequently, both. And each has developed unconventional, sometimes destructive ways of coping with her trauma.

Alice Black, played by Emmy Rossum, is the FBI agent hunting Catherine. She is also a survivor of domestic violence. Her ex, and former colleague, used to drag her out of the shower to beat her. And when Alice reported his abuse, the department treated her like a traitor for speaking against one of their own. Alice’s trauma follows her into every part of her life. She is isolated at work, afraid to shower alone, and seeks rough sex with guys she meets on an app.

Nora Washington, played by Quincy Tyler Bernstine, leads the FBI’s sex-crimes unit. She has spent so long battling racism and misogyny inside the bureau while absorbing the horrors of crimes committed against children that she has become a cynical, high-functioning drunk. We watch Nora finally let down her guard as she drunkenly belts Meat Loaf’s “I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)” in a tropical button-up—a stark contrast to her usual dark, buttoned-up FBI wardrobe.

Catherine, Alice, and Nora are very different women, but they’re all living with the same unbearable knowledge that the system they were taught to trust does not protect women equally, and oftentimes it does not protect them at all. And the way each woman copes with this reality is what makes this series painfully alluring.

In the first episode, Nora tells Alice a version of Medusa’s story in which Medusa, once a beautiful young priestess, was raped by Poseidon in Athena’s temple. Athena then punished Medusa (but not Poseidon) by turning her hair into snakes and making her gaze turn anyone who looked at her to stone.

Medusa was violated but became a monster, while Poseidon remained a god.

That same misogynistic logic drives Furious: men can violate women and remain powerful, while the women they violate are punished and judged for what their trauma turns them into.

Catherine is clearly the Medusa of this story.

And Jay Easton, played by Peter McRobbie, is Poseidon, the most powerful man and the most dangerous. Easton has been molesting and abusing girls for decades and getting away with it until Catherine Grace comes along. And she knows men like him do not operate alone. They require an entire ecosystem.

They require recruiters (like his own daughter) who deliver vulnerable girls. They require doctors and medical professionals willing to treat victims without asking too many questions. They require police officers and federal agents willing to look away. They require friends, relatives, and business associates who may know of their cruelty but value their proximity to power more than the safety of women. That is why Catherine’s fury is not reserved solely for her abuser.

Furious is very intentional about displaying how deeply misogyny is embedded in our legal system and our society. The callous commentary made by some people supposedly responsible for investigating violence against women will infuriate you. Police officers, federal agents, and even medical examiners speak about certain victims—particularly sex workers and girls who were trafficked—as though exploitation made them less deserving of dignity.

It is one of the most devastating truths that Furious uncovers. Our institutions prefer a clean victim: one who leaves no room for doubt. One who never placed herself in a vulnerable situation, trusted the wrong person, or made a decision that could later be used against her. Even then, she may never receive justice, because the system wasn’t built to protect women.

I was twenty-two when I learned just how true that is.

After a long day of babysitting, I met a man from Tinder and two of his friends, a married couple from Jersey, for drinks. They were coming from a concert at MSG and seemed like a cheerful bunch. After one round, we all decided to go back to his apartment to smoke on his rooftop.

Shortly after we arrived, his friends said they needed to hurry home to relieve their sitter. They said their goodbyes, and then it was just us.

We went downstairs and sat in his kitchen while he rolled another joint. He was clearly the Grateful Dead’s biggest fan; photographs from concerts decorated his apartment. He was definitely older than his profile suggested, but he had that old-school-rocker look about him, and I didn’t mind it.

He put on a record and sat beside me on the couch. We smoked and made out before he offered to give me a massage.

I lay on my stomach wearing nothing but my underwear. He rubbed oil across my back while I closed my eyes and relaxed. As he neared my lower back, he paused. I assumed he was reaching for more oil.

Then he quickly pulled my underwear to the side and penetrated me.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I yelled, lifting myself as though I were doing a push-up to get him off me.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said. “I got carried away.”

“Yeah, you absolutely did.”

I grabbed my clothes and got dressed. He began to panic and walk toward me, apologizing profusely.

“Don’t come near me.” He froze. We were both silent for a moment.

I had never been more afraid of someone. My heart was beating so fast.

What if he kills me?

I tried to act calm so I could make it out alive. Then, as I was nearing the door, he asked if he could give me money for a cab home, as though cab fare could pay for what he had done.

I refused and hurried out, hoping he could not sense enough of my fear to try to stop me.

Once the outside air hit me, my heart began to slow down. I took a breath and prayed. Then my mind tried to rationalize what had just happened.

I shouldn’t have stayed once his friends left. I shouldn’t have taken off my clothes. I put myself in danger.

I knew none of this was my fault. Still, some part of me was trying to determine what I had done wrong.

I immediately went to the nearest police precinct. I had learned enough from Law & Order: SVU to know that evidence needed to be collected as quickly as possible.

The first officer I spoke to placed me in a room, where I waited for two more officers, one male and one female. Then they asked me what felt like a million invasive questions.

What I remember most clearly is how often the female officer used the word if.

If he raped you.

If he assaulted you.

“Do you have his profile?” she asked.

I opened the app, and, of course, he had unmatched me.

“Always screenshot their profiles,” she told me, as though I should have been better prepared to be assaulted.

The details of that interrogation are blurry now, but I will never forget her energy. It felt as though I had made every wrong decision, as though I had placed myself in that situation.

I wondered whether they believed me.

Where was Detective Benson when I needed her?

Then a female captain entered the room. She was warmer and more delicate with me as she explained what would happen next.

I rode in an ambulance back to the scene of the assault. It was two in the morning, and police cars and an ambulance surrounded his apartment building.

Through the window, I watched him walk out of his home in handcuffs. I confirmed that it was him.

An officer spoke into his radio.

“Take him in.”

For a moment, I felt relieved.

They had him.

I felt proud of myself for being brave enough to report him.

The following day, I received a call from an assistant district attorney assigned to evaluate the case. He scheduled a meeting, and when I arrived at his office, I told the entire story again.

“What do you want out of this?” he asked.

I didn’t know how to answer. Was I supposed to have researched the possible punishment for rape before coming to the meeting?

“I just want to make sure he won’t do it to anyone else,” I said. “Whatever that looks like.”

For weeks, I heard nothing from the ADA or the police department. Eventually, I called the office myself. His assistant said he would call me back.

When he finally did, I was sitting on a bench alone in Central Park. I could tell by the tone in his voice that he did not have good news for me.

He told me that the office would not move forward with my case.

First, my emotions went still. Then the truth settled over me and I lost it.

I started crying and screaming in the middle of the park, scaring all the pigeons away. I couldn’t rationalize why they refused to move forward with my case.

I had reported him immediately. I did a rape kit. I had done everything survivors are told they are supposed to do.

And it still was not enough.

I was humiliated. I was furious.

I am still furious.

So when it comes to Catherine, I understand her fury.

There are days when I have wondered what it would feel like to hurt the man who hurt me. Not because violence would undo what happened. But when someone traumatically alters your life and then continues living theirs without consequences, it can leave you with a fury that never completely goes away.

Understanding Catherine’s fury does not mean I condone her actions. Not everyone harmed by Catherine was responsible for what happened to her, and her actions traumatized people beyond the men she intended to punish. But when institutions repeatedly fail victims, you start to ask yourself: what if I took matters into my own hands?

Nearly half of women in the United States have experienced some form of contact sexual violence in their lifetime. More than one in five have survived completed or attempted rape.

Sometimes, while riding the train, I look around the car, counting every woman I see, and wonder:

Did it happen to her too?

How many of us are carrying some version of Catherine’s fury?

The finale of Furious answers that question by revealing that Catherine is not the only woman carrying this kind of rage.

For most of the season, Alice believes she is fundamentally different from Catherine—until she confronts Jay Easton and he recognizes her from a recording of her childhood abuse. Alice then suffocates him and lies about his cause of death.

Alice is supposed to be the series’ hero. But she is also a victim. And she was furious.

That fury turns her into a monster.

Victim. Hero. Monster.

By the end of the season, none of those labels belong exclusively to any one woman.

Furious understands that female rage does not emerge from nowhere. It is cultivated by every report dismissed, every case buried, every predator protected, and every victim interrogated as though she were the one who committed a crime.

Many real-life monsters like Jay Easton go their entire lives without facing consequences because the system protects them to protect itself. Women are not afforded that same protection. Catherine certainly was not.

In the end, Catherine goes to prison, where she will be forced to answer for her actions.

Nora and Alice continue working within the institution that has failed them time and time again.

Jay Easton dies having never faced any legal consequences for the lives he destroyed.

The violated woman became a monster. The man who violated her remained a god.

And that makes me furious.

If you or someone you know has experienced sexual violence, support is available through the RAINN National Sexual Assault Hotline at 800-656-HOPE (4673), by texting HOPE to 64673, or through online chat at RAINN.org.

Statistics: Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, “About Sexual Violence.”

Every summer, I tell myself I’m not going to get too invested in Love Island, and every summer, I end up yelling at women on my screen for ignoring the same red flags I have ignored in real life.

Which is crazy, because who am I to judge?

The truth is, most women, have dated men similar to the ones on Love Island. A man who wasn’t honest enough to reject you, confident enough to adore you, or healed enough to handle being chosen by you. We watch these girls crying by the fire pit and think, Stand up, as if we haven’t also sat across from a man who gave us absolutely nothing and tried to turn it into something more.

That’s what makes Love Island so addictive. It’s not just the bikinis, the bombshells, or the dramatic pauses before a recoupling. It’s watching our worst dating instincts play out in 4K and realizing that the villa is not that different from real life. The only difference is that in the villa, there are no phones, no distractions, and nowhere for anyone’s ego to hide. Which makes feelings grow faster and standards drop lower especially for the women of the island.

That’s why we shouldn’t judge them so harshly. Instead we should learn from them. Learn how to notice red flags sooner and trust our gut faster when it comes to men.

Here are a few things this season of Love Island USA can teach you about dating:

1. Once you’ve rejected him, stand on it.

There’s a strict rule my friends and I follow: don’t go out with men you rejected initially. Because for some reason, they’ll always resent you for it. Or worse, they will try to get their lick back.

Sometimes a man isn’t persistent because he likes you. He’s persistent because you once denied him, and winning you becomes a revenge fantasy.

KC Chandler’s entire Love Island experience revolved around his initial rejection from the girls. He was coupled up by default to Aniya Harvey, and stayed with her until the infamous Casa Amor, where he re-coupled with Titi Davis. Aniya broke down at the fire pit as she watched KC walk in with his new connection. KC then recited a speech about how he wasn’t chosen in the villa and that with Titi he felt seen. Now, I can see why KC found another connection. He and Aniya weren’t compatible. Fair. But it was not just his disrespectful words and actions toward Aniya while he was away that earned KC so much hate; it was what his behavior revealed about his intentions. His ego was bruised from the start, and he wanted Aniya to feel what he felt on the first day: rejected. Not because Aniya did anything to him, but because he never got over being nobody’s first choice.

That’s the thing about some men. They don’t always process rejection as information. They process it as disrespect. So when you finally fall for them, they don’t think, Wow, she sees something in me. They think, Now I have the power.

When I was living in Los Angeles, I went out on a date with this art dealer from Miami named Gavin. I wasn’t physically attracted to him, and he was also one of those guys who liked to name-drop every other sentence. So afterward, I told him that I didn’t feel a romantic connection and that we should just be friends.

He agreed and said he still wanted to keep in touch.

Over the next three months, he sent me a bouquet of flowers every two weeks. He would FaceTime me every once in a while to, in his words, “check in on my favorite friend.” It was sweet, and I thought maybe I had been wrong about him.

His birthday is on Christmas, and since I didn’t have plans that year, he invited me out to Miami to celebrate with him.

When I arrived, Gavin rolled out the red carpet for me. There was a driver waiting at the airport. A few dresses he bought were laid out on the bed when I got to his place—options for what I could wear that night to his birthday party. I chose a neon yellow mini dress with a sexy purple stiletto. Very Miami.

At the party, I started to warm up to Gavin. He introduced me to all his friends, who adored him. He checked on me all night, even when people were pulling him in every direction to take a shot or a photo.

Now, as I said, I wasn’t attracted to Gavin at first, but when we got back to his apartment, I was all over him.

The next morning, we hooked up again, and it pains me to admit it, but I was falling for him.

Anyway, after that trip, he remained the sweet, consistent Gavin until two months later, when he was back in LA for Frieze art week. He stayed with me, and I was so excited because I had never had a guy stay with me before. At first, things were cool, flirty and fun. Then that weekend we ended up at the same house party in the hills.

When I saw him, obviously I went in for a hug.

But he side-hugged me.

Like he was making it clear we were just friends.

Weird.

Then I noticed a tall brunette woman standing not too far behind him, smiling awkwardly. I introduced myself to her, and she told me her name was Joey.

That’s when it clicked for me.

The night before, he had been texting with a “Joe” and told me it was a buyer he had been trying to lock down for a couple of weeks.

Now, two things can be true. She could have been buying some work. But at that moment, I realized he was giving her more than a painting.

I was mad at myself for not trusting my initial read on him. That he was arrogant and opportunistic. And it felt worse knowing that I let a five, a FIVE, play me.

At least KC is cute.

Damn.

2. Know when he’s just not that into you and move on.

For women who have a hard time determining if a man is into them, well, if you’re questioning it, most likely, he’s not.

Watch the way Gal Tshnieder treated Jen Terry when he wasn’t really into her. He was passive-aggressive. Instead of just saying, “I’m not feeling this,” he gaslit her into thinking she was being insecure. But he also kissed Jen behind a pillow, so if she couldn’t grasp his feelings towards her after that, I have to say she ignored the signs.

Men can be very obvious when they like someone, and even more obvious when they don’t. The problem is that some women interpret disinterest as mystery.

And it’s not.

They just don’t want to come off as assholes, which, ironically, is exactly how they end up coming off.

There’s an entire movie about knowing when he’s just not that into you, but maybe it needs to be modernized for today:

He’s not that into you if he says he’s not into PDA or physical touch. If you ask a man his love language, the majority of them will say physical touch. So if he suddenly becomes a virgin around you, that’s your number one indicator.

He’s not that into you if he doesn’t compliment you. And not just your physical appearance. Your humor, your outfit, your ambition, your taste, whatever. If a potential match isn’t complimenting you, then take it as one of two things: either he thinks you hear it enough, which is a red flag, or you’re not his type.

And that’s okay. You’re not everyone’s cup of tea, so don’t try to be.

He’s not that into you if he speaks about future plans but never includes you. For example, you meet a guy from Chicago, and you say, “I’ve always wanted to visit Chicago.” He says, “You should, it’s a beautiful city,” instead of, “Really? I’d love to show you around sometime.”

One is rejection.

The other is an invitation.

He’s not that into you if he doesn’t remember the things you tell him. If you find yourself constantly reminding a guy about details about you, then chances are he doesn’t want to remember them because he plans to erase you from his memory pretty soon.

Be aware of these things so you can avoid wasting your time and energy on men who are not interested in you.

3. Beware of the man who tries to humble you.

Men who are into you but need to take you down a notch to feel comfortable are the ones you must be extra careful not to fall for.

This is Kayda Bosse and Zach Georgiou’s whole dynamic on Love Island USA. Zach thinks Kayda is attractive—and he is too—but he’s insecure. So he plants seeds of doubt in her mind to mess with her self-esteem.

I have a friend, Linda, who’s been married to her Irish husband, Jack, for almost six years. They married fast, and although Jack’s a nice guy, in terms of his looks and finances, I always felt like Linda was marrying down. I mean, Linda has her flaws, but she’s a ten on her worst day, ya know?

So one afternoon, at a Mexican restaurant in Astoria, Linda tells me she and Jack separated for a year.

“I just felt like he didn’t like me anymore,” she said.

They both dated other people during the separation.

“When I saw the messages he was sending this girl, I literally broke down,” she told me. “The things I’d been asking him to do for me, he did for her so easily. So quickly.”

“So let me get this straight,” I said. “You pay half the rent, and he can’t even afford to compliment you or take you on dates?”

She reluctantly nodded, like she already knew what I was thinking.

Divorce.

You’d think Jack had just lost interest. He hadn’t. In the beginning, Jack complimented her, took her out. Then Linda got a job bartending at one of the most popular bars in the East Village, bringing home twice as much as he did in tips—probably not because she makes a good Old Fashioned—and it made him insecure. So naturally, he had to humble her a bit. He would pick on her insecurities by saying things like “Are you sure you want to wear that? You always complain about your stomach.” He knows her stomach is fine, but he has to give her something to stress about before she walks out the door.

I started to wonder if there was any sign that Jack was an insecure man from the start.

Then she told me about a conversation she and Jack had early in the relationship. They were on a date, rating their celebrity crushes and whatnot, when Linda asked him, “On a scale of one to ten, what would you rate me?”

Now, any logical man would know two things.

One: it’s a test.

Two: it’s a very easy one.

You say any number greater than ten.

Duh.

But no. He said a nine.

His explanation?

“I couldn’t say a ten, because that would be perfect, and no one is perfect.”

That was a huge red flag, and she ignored it.

You can’t wife an insecure man.

Now, Zach’s method of humbling Kayda is subtle but nasty—he ruins intimate moments by introducing doubt. After a romantic night in the Hideaway, he asks her a hypothetical about his own disloyalty: “What if I explored a bombshell?” Then, when he returns from Casa Amor and they reunite, there’s a moment where Kayda is trying to forgive him for making out with the girl dressed as an angel during the heart rate challenge. And instead of letting it be sweet, he asks: “What if I brought another girl back?”

Like, what is wrong with this guy?

It’s just another way of fucking with a girl’s head and self-esteem. Just like Jack did to Linda.

If Love Island USA teaches us anything, it’s to trust your gut.

A man will show you exactly who he is and what his intentions are. You just have to be honest enough with yourself to pay attention.

So the next time something feels off, believe it. Believe it before he makes you feel crazy for asking for the bare minimum. Believe it before you start shrinking yourself to make an insecure man comfortable. Believe it before you find yourself waiting for some grand reveal to confirm what you already knew.

Because a man who likes you should not make you feel like a detective, a beggar, or a contestant waiting to be chosen.

You are not in the villa.

You can leave.

Dating apps are…well, frustrating. Shallow. Draining. Exciting. Ego-driven. Sexual. Fun. Weird. The list goes on.

I don’t like to be too cynical about online dating because, to be fair, it’s how I met the only two boyfriends I’ve ever had. So I know love can be found there. But finding the one on a dating app is very much a needle-in-a-haystack situation.

However, in this day and age, dating apps and social media are a dominant force in connecting with potential romantic partners. Which means you now have to create an online persona that is true to you, but also the most appealing version of yourself.

If you don’t want to do that, then you should consider dating the old-school way: by approaching people in real life. To each their own. But for those who do take part in the digital trenches of romance, you should keep reading.

Creating a dating profile is like putting together a small virtual exhibit of your life, and some people, like myself, are really good at curating them. I know what photos to use and what to say to make a profile feel attractive, interesting, and just mysterious enough to leave matches wanting more. And it’s not easy, especially if you’re not someone who takes photos often. But I’ve helped enough of my friends, both men and women, build profiles that show their best sides.

More often than not, men seem to have a harder time on apps. And although men are shallow, women are… dare I say, even more shallow on dating apps. Of course, we care about more than looks, but on an app, you are being judged in three seconds by a woman lying in bed with one eye open and Love Island playing in the background. It’s up to YOU to make a profile that catches her attention.

So, for the men who feel like their likes are low and their matches are going nowhere, here are a few dos and don’ts of dating profiles that I guarantee will help:

Don’t include too many group photos.

I can appreciate one good group shot. One. It shows you have friends, which is nice. But if I have to play “Where’s Waldo?” just to figure out which man you are, you’ve already lost me.

Also, and I know this is harsh, but don’t post group photos if your friends are hotter than you. I’m just going to be thinking, Wait, who’s the guy next to him? And now your profile has become an ad for another man.

Don’t post photos with women close to your age.

Even if they’re just a friend, co-worker, or cousin. Shit, not even your sister. Don’t post photos with women close to your age. Unless it’s your mom, I do not want to see it.

Most women are not looking at that photo and thinking, Wow, he must be great with women. We’re thinking, Who is she? And once we start asking that, it’s a wrap for you.

Don’t make your ethnicity your entire personality.

If your bio is just flags showing where you’re from, or if you use the prompt “First round is on me if you can guess my ethnicity,” I need you to stop.

Do you really think you’re so exotic that I need to guess where you’re from? We live in New York City, the melting pot of the world. Nothing is exotic here.

It’s fine to be proud of where you’re from. That can be sexy. But there is a difference between culture and gimmick.

And secondly, no matter what, ALL ROUNDS ARE ON YOU.

Don’t make a profile that appeals more to men than to women.

I think some men misunderstand the assignment when it comes to dating apps. A prompt will start with “Together, we could…,” and a man will say: “hike, boulder, play video games, go camping.”

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New York City has endless date-night possibilities, but if you’re planning an evening with a woman with high standards and impeccable taste, you want to take her somewhere worthy. A place where the food is unforgettable, the drinks are taken seriously, and the decor is as sexy and sophisticated as the person sitting across from you.

Here are five places in Manhattan that left a lasting impression on a hot girl like me:

Portale— For the tastiest branzino in Chelsea

126 W 18th St

I went to Portale on a first date a few months ago, and when I learned the modern Italian restaurant was led by acclaimed chef Alfred Portale, I knew I was in for a treat.

Then I walked into the spacious dining room, with its white-painted brick walls, marble tabletops, and large brass mirrors throughout, and the room confirmed it. Portale has that grown Chelsea feel—polished, romantic, and sexy enough to make you happy you wore your cutest heels.

Although nothing came of the date, I’ve been back several times since.

And the branzino is the main reason. Sweet cherry tomatoes and briny olives sit beneath a piece of fish with the crispiest skin. It’s one of the best dishes I’ve ever tasted. I like to pair it with the Prima Bella Spritz, a mix of Aperol, bell pepper shrub, and Prosecco. And for dessert, the olive oil cake.

I crave this menu a few times a month, so basically, I’m in a long-term relationship with Portale now.

Best for: Princess treatment—the service is next-level—and a warm, elegant dining experience.

Order this: The branzino, the Prima Bella Spritz, and the olive oil cake.

The Ivory Peacock— For the best dirty martini in NoMad

38 W 26th St

As a dirty martini connoisseur, people always ask me my favorite place to get one, and The Ivory Peacock—a glamorous bar in NoMad that bills itself as home to the second-largest gin collection in the world—is the first place that comes to mind.

The room feels like a Victorian gin palace: antique chandeliers, 19th-century Louis XV giltwood mirrors, plush velvet seating. The sophistication carries into the mixology.

The Dirty Gibson martini arrives with a chilled carafe on the side so it stays cold and crisp the entire time. The notes of grapefruit from the Drumshanbo Gunpowder Gin, combined with the onion brine, bring together a layered, sophisticated, unforgettable sip.

It may be my favorite martini in Manhattan. It’s also the perfect place for a nightcap—or to keep the night going downstairs at PLOUME, an exclusive speakeasy that is just as impressive as the bar above it.

Best for: Gin and martini lovers, dancing queens, and seeing where the night takes you.

Order this: The Dirty Gibson with the Peking duck croquettes.

COQODAQ— For the fanciest fried chicken in the city

12 E 22nd St, Flatiron

There’s nothing more impressive than when someone secures a reservation at a sought-after restaurant in New York. COQODAQ is that reservation.

The room is stunning—golden-lit arches glowing against a nearly black room that makes you feel like you should be dressed in Prada. The highlight of the menu, being fried chicken, seems absurd in contrast to the sophisticated decor, but that’s the point.

We started with their chicken nuggets—yes, chicken nuggets—that came with a side of caviar, roe, and truffle. And honestly? Those were my favorite bites of the night. The fried chicken is delectable, don’t get me wrong, but there was something special about those crispy golden nuggets. This is the restaurant you book when you want to make an impression.

Best for: Girls that aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty, even in their finest attire—and serious foodies.

Order this: The nuggets, mac & cheese, glazed fried chicken wings, and the frozen yogurt.

Wild Cherry— To eat and be entertained

38 Commerce St, West Village

Another sought-after reservation: Wild Cherry.

This is the popular girl of the West Village. The restaurant feels like a movie set—not just because of the retro design, intimate square footage, and complimentary popcorn, but because on any given night you might spot someone famous, and no one makes it weird. When we first arrived, I spotted a well-known film director casually ordering a drink at the bar, and nobody flinched because Wild Cherry is for cool people.

The menu leans into American classics like cheeseburgers, thighs and fries, which I went straight for. It was a great pick. The chicken was juicy, and I loved the crispy fries soaking up all the gravy beneath them. We ordered both the dirty martini and the espresso martini; both were well-made and exactly what I needed before the show. We finished with a sweet, moist, and extremely tall slice of coconut cake. It was the cherry on top.

Afterward, we caught You Got Older next door at Cherry Lane Theatre, which made the whole night feel even more cinematic. The show has since closed, but the formula still stands: dinner at Wild Cherry, then whatever film or performance Cherry Lane has going on next door. It’s a standout date night, especially for the art girlies.

Just make sure you’re refreshing that Resy page—these reservations are hard to get, and they should be.

Best for: Cinephiles, thespians, and “it” girls.

Order this: The Caesar salad, thighs and fries, coconut cake—then check what’s playing next door.

Swan Room— To satisfy the eye and the palate

54 Canal St, Lower East Side

Swan Room is the perfect place to start or end the night beautifully. It lives inside the former Jarmulowsky Bank, a 1912 Beaux-Arts building on the corner of Canal and Orchard.

The architects restored it using the original blueprints: vaulted ceilings, arched windows, and pink Tennessee marble floors that recall Grand Central. It is so elegant and beautiful, you’ll want to spend most of the evening looking up.

For my martini girlies—this is the place for you. Swan Room has made the martini its specialty, with a whole page of its menu dedicated to it. There are signatures like the San Sebastian, or you can get it just the way you like it. Mine is dirty, garnished with three blue cheese-stuffed olives. If it’s an extra special night or a double date, order their martini service. It arrives in a golden swan bowl, a photo-worthy moment.

Best for: Martini girlies, double dates, and fly girls.

Order this: The wood-fired oysters, steak tartare, and the martini service.

So there you have it. The next time you want to impress a hot date in Manhattan, you already know where to go. You can access my map of NYC and other places here. And if you’re a man reading this and taking notes—good. For the full syllabus, read What a Hot Girl Wants on Dare Is The Truth.

Giving head to a man is much harder than going down on a woman. And yes, I’ve performed on both, so I am speaking from experience. This is why I have a hard time believing in going Dutch in heterosexual dating. Women already do more in the sexual arena.

And before you argue with me about this, first, grab an English cucumber, and if you really wanna challenge yourself, lie on your back, on a bed, with your head hanging off the edge. Then place the cucumber as deep as you can into your mouth—but wait—cover your teeth with your lips like a blanket to dull them. You don’t want to accidentally skin the cucumber as you vigorously place it in and out of your mouth. And when you think you’re about to choke…

No—don’t stop!

Hold it there, in the back of your throat for a few seconds…

Did you gag?

No?

Well, congratulations, you’re a pro! But if you couldn’t do it, then you’re not in a position to argue with me on this.

The point is, women give more sexually, and more often, with absolutely no guarantee of an orgasm. So no, I don’t believe in splitting the bill. Not after I’ve already been expected to bring beauty, charm, banter, birth control, flexibility, and a gag reflex to the table.

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So where were we?

Ahhh. I love Miami.

The days here are slow and sun-soaked, and the nights are unreal.

For a Badd Bitch Miami is like a dream come true. Everything you want is at your fingertips.

But, like every city, it has its flaws, and the longer you stay, the more the fantasy begins to crack.

By the second week of my trip, my body was starting to give out from the excessive partying, and I desperately needed a sauna. The Equinox in the building was free for residents, so I dragged myself downstairs and ran into a girl I used to know from New York.

Ana Philipe, twenty-six, profession unknown, didn’t look like her old self.

She had fuller lips and a body that had been carefully constructed. She used to be as small as me. Now she was…built.

“Omg babe, how long has it been?” she said, jumping off her mat mid-plank to hug me.

“Like, seven years,” I answered.

“That’s crazy. We can’t let that happen again.”

She pulled out her phone to get my number. Fresh manicure. Cartier bracelets stacked on her wrist.

Then we did that thing girls do—we said we’d get lunch or lattes, both knowing it wouldn’t happen.

I didn’t take it personally, though.

From her Instagram, I already knew the life she lived. Designer bags, luxury cars, private jets. She never showed her man—but he was always there. In the background. In the captions. In the lifestyle.

Miami is full of girls like Ana. They’re beautiful, strategic, and careful. Especially about who they bring around their man. Because securing a cushy lifestyle is the top priority here, and they can’t have another bitch coming around and messing that up.

Later that week, two girls Zeta had worked with in New York, named Shanice and Mel, DM’d her to hang out. So we invited them to a pool day at the Four Seasons.

Mel, twenty-six, is a cute girl, but wasn’t the most put-together, and if I’m being honest, I didn’t recognize her from the photos Zeta showed me of them earlier. She’s originally from Jersey but has been in Miami for the last few years, selling multimillion-dollar homes. So she’s got that going for her.

Now Shanice, on the other hand, was a badd bitch, twenty-four, from the Bronx, and has the kind of body that makes people stare—curvy but thin in all the right places. She wore a bright red CELINE bikini that popped against her dark skin and had the kind of confidence that comes from getting everything you want.

When the bill came, she pulled out an Amex without hesitation.

“Oh, let me Venmo you for our drinks,” I offered.

“No, don’t worry about it,” she smiled.

“It’s on her man,” Mel added.

“He’s not my man.”

“If he gave you an Amex in your name, that should be your man.” Mel snapped.

“He’s not the first,” she said, slipping her Chanel sunglasses on before leaning back into the hot tub.

We made plans to meet back up later that night, but at the last minute, they canceled. Said Mel wasn’t feeling well.

So instead we went out with my friend Ben, who invited us to a hookah lounge in the Design District. When we got there, the place was so dark and smoky it blurred the room. People were packed into different sections, while bottle girls illuminated the dark crowd every few minutes with dazzling signs and sparkling bottles.

Ben led us to his section, and Zeta leaned towards me.

“Don’t freak out, but J. Cole is sitting right there.”

I played it cool, but inside, I was losing my mind.

Ben poured us drinks and handed us hookah tips.

“We don’t smoke hookah.”

“I’ve got weed too, but you gotta roll it.”

“Perfect.”

I grabbed the bag and pulled Zeta to the bathroom for better light. On our way back through the crowd, we spotted Shanice and Mel.

Posted in a section across from ours.

With Gunna.

Ah.

So that’s why they canceled.

“Weird ass bitches,” Zeta muttered.

I didn’t disagree.

But I also understood.

In Miami, every girl is trying to get chosen, and sometimes that means eliminating the competition.

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Andrew, fifty-eight, is an attorney who owns homes in Chicago, New York, and Miami. We met years ago at his New York Marathon party, where I was working as a cocktail server. Although Andrew keeps an estranged wife in Lincoln Park and a girlfriend in Columbus Circle, he was still inviting me to stay at his place in Miami with no strings attached, supposedly.

When he first invited me, I hesitated to accept because Andrew is the type of guy who loves to remind people of what he’s done for them.

We were having dinner at Portale the week before my trip, and he casually said:

“Remember when I took you and your friends to Tokyo?”

Unprovoked. Just a little reminder of how generous he is. Mind you, this was ten years ago, when I was nineteen, so you do the math.

Andrew isn’t ugly, but he’s definitely not someone you’d look twice at if he didn’t have something to offer, and he knows that. Which is why he works overtime to be everyone’s savior in hopes that “generosity” can compensate for his insufferable personality.

“Do you remember Luisa?” he asked.

Luisa is a forty-five-year-old actress from the D.R., whom Andrew introduced me to a year ago when I ran into them walking down Madison Ave. He claims to be “helping her get back on her feet” after a nasty divorce from a doctor in Jersey. But, knowing Andrew, she’s probably his latest project. He gets a new one every couple of years, and they’re usually of the Latina persuasion.

“Yes, I remember her,” I said. “That’s your girl, right?”

“No, she’s just a friend, but she might come to Miami for a few days,” he continued. “I just need you to be extra nice to her.”

“I’m always nice.”

He smirked. “Well…she’s a little insecure because I told her we used to date.”

I nearly choked on my steak.

Now let me be clear: Andrew and I had an arrangement. Has he taken me on trips? Yes. Has he given me money? Yes.

But at the end of the day, Andrew is just a wallet with a mouth.

Not someone I would ever call my boyfriend.

“And why would you tell her that?”

“Because she asked.”

I hated how men like Andrew romanticized transactional relationships to make themselves feel desirable.

But whatever. The trip was already booked.

I just hoped Luisa wasn’t holding a grudge over nothing.

We almost went the entire trip without seeing Luisa. Until Friday afternoon, when Zeta and I came back from the pool to find a trail of my clothes scattered across the floor.

“What the fuck?” we said in unison.

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Badd bitches love Miami.

Why? Because in Miami, being beautiful isn’t just praised, it’s prized.

The city is a candy land of wealthy men who want to spend it on you—and I’m not talking about old, wrinkled men clinging to money. The young ones are rich, fit, and generous too. And the women? Stunning, diverse, polished, and clearly being taken care of.

I was staying at the Four Seasons Residences in Brickell. I know—very fancy. But an old friend needed a house sitter, and I happily volunteered in exchange for a two-week vacation. I invited my best friend Zeta to stay with me.

And as soon as we landed, we were on the move.

Albert—a thirty-nine-year-old financial advisor—who had been desperately trying to earn Zeta’s affection for months, just so happened to be in town and invited us to dinner at Sexy Fish.

Badd bitches love Sexy Fish.

It’s not just an upscale Japanese restaurant; it’s an opulent, underwater-themed nightclub where showgirls dance on tables while you eat tartare and caviar. The bathrooms—floor-to-ceiling iridescent pink tile, mirrors everywhere—were an influencer’s dream, with girls snapping and posing in every corner. The restroom line stretched out the door. As we waited, we met Sam, a young, energetic guy who spoke like the night was already his. He invited us to join him at Story after dinner.

“What are you, some sort of promoter?” I asked. I have avoided promoters ever since I developed a taste for better quality liquor—and men.

“No, nothing like that, I’m just having a night out and want to show some New York Girls a good time.” It was that simple; we were in.

We ditched Albert and met Sam in front of the restaurant. He was with a friend and asked if we were comfortable riding in separate cars with them. We were confused by his question until two valets pulled up, one in a light blue Lamborghini and the other in a lime green. I had to laugh.

I could already imagine what my male friends would say when I posted it to the group chat later:

He rented it.

And they were probably right, but I enjoyed the ride anyway. Sam was sweet, but like most men here, he was flashy. When we got to the club, he ordered top-shelf bottle service. There were girls swarming his section, hoping to get invited in. He let Zeta and me choose who could join us, which was kinda hot. The night was like a movie, and when we were ready for it to end, Sam called us in an SUV to take us home, no questions asked.

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The next morning, I googled him over breakfast and found out that he’s a crypto founder who made a shit ton of money on early Bitcoin investments and a trading platform he sold before the age of twenty-five.

“Damn, maybe you should’ve got his number,” Zeta said, handing me my phone back.

“Nah, it wouldn’t have gone anywhere.”

I’d probably never see Sam again, but that’s how Miami works: every night feels like a lucid dream. Then, when you wake up, you realize just how surreal the city can be.

No one here is looking for anything real.

Just a good time—a fantasy—and someone to play it out with.

Miami is fun—as long as you don’t forget what it really is:

A city of fleeting connections.

I forgot that once, a few years ago.

With Guy.

Yes. The silver fox with the British accent. That Guy. When we first met, he was splitting his time between London and Miami. Now he’s based here full-time.

I hadn’t seen or slept with him since 2019.

Our last encounter ended badly. He had tried to orchestrate a threesome between a girl he was dating at the time and me. I was crushed and blocked him shortly after. For years, I kept my distance even when I was in his city.

But this trip...I gave in.

When I texted him, he responded almost instantly, like no time had passed at all. He offered to take me and Zeta out to dinner at Soho House.

That night, I dressed with intention. I was about to see the man I once adored. I wore a brown bandeau top and a tiger-striped maxi skirt that accentuated my best features.

Before we went downstairs, I turned to Zeta.

“Do not let me go home with him tonight. I’m not fucking him.”

She looked at me, already unconvinced.

“Uhhh… okay, girl.”

“For real,” I said. “I’m not.”

And before I saw him again, I truly meant that.

Guy was waiting for us downstairs. As we approached him, my heart started racing.

Fuck.

He was still as handsome as ever. Salt-and-pepper hair, sun-kissed skin, a lean build that suggested he still went on his morning runs.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, pulling me into a tight hug and kissing me on the cheek.

Be strong.

I introduced him to Zeta, and we headed to Soho House.

Dinner was easy—familiar. We hadn’t spoken in years, but being with him felt no different. He and Zeta got along well, carrying on about music, which they both loved. When he went to the bathroom, Zeta leaned in.

“I get it,” she said.

Of course she does, everyone gets it. Guy could charm the pants off a straight man, and I hated that about him.

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After dinner, we went to the rooftop of the 1 Hotel, where he lived. The night air was warm, and you could hear the ocean humming beneath the music. There were only two available stools at the bar, and he offered them to us, but I waved him over to share mine instead.

I was practically sitting on his lap when a man nearby approached us. From his outfit, accent, and the two curls falling from his temples, I gathered he was Hasidic.

He looked me up and down and, without breaking concentration, asked, “How do you two know each other?”

“We’ve known each other for several years,” Guy answered.

“Several years?” he repeats skeptically, “What was she like, twelve?”

We all laughed at the absurdity of the question. “No, she was well into her twenties when we met.”

Twenty-three to be exact.

Guy was playing it cool even though Avi from Brooklyn was being wildly inappropriate. Before he left, he had the nerve to ask me for my number as if my position on Guy’s lap meant nothing. I started to wonder if Avi might know something I didn’t. Maybe he had seen Guy before and knew I was just one of many.

After about an hour of drinking, we started feeling tipsy, so I called a meeting with Zeta in the bathroom.

“I’m going to stay with him,” I blurted. She stopped putting on her lip liner and turned to me.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Because remember what you said earlier?”

“I know what I said,” I sighed. “But I just need to get it out of my system one more time… a last hurrah with the best lover of my twenties.”

She looked at me like I was crazy.

“Alright, don’t say I didn’t try to stop you.”

“I won’t.”

Guy sent Zeta home in a car, and we went upstairs to his place.

His apartment was exactly as expected—sleek, masculine, built for seduction. But what caught me off guard were the details.

A giant Valentine’s Day card was displayed above his television. A bathroom drawer filled with condoms. Not casually stocked. Stocked.

It wasn’t subtle. He had friends.

I’d always known Guy was a player. But something about seeing it so plainly, so unapologetically, jarred me. One moment, he was passionate, loving, and gentle with me—then there were moments, like the threesome, that made me wonder if he was purposely hurting me so I wouldn’t get attached. Or maybe he was just oblivious to how deeply I felt.

I sat on his balcony quietly, smoking and letting my mind wander to places I knew would only irritate me—like imagining how many women had been in this exact spot before me.

On the same outdoor bed.

Listening to the ocean.

Music playing softly in the background.

Waiting for him.

A moment later, he joined me with drinks.

“What’s on your mind, gorgeous?”

“Nothing,” I lied. “It’s just been a while… I guess I missed you a little.”

That part was true.

He sat beside me and pulled me onto his lap, his hand settling at the back of my neck. He kissed me like he knew exactly how to quiet my thoughts.

“Only a little?” he asked, still holding me there.

And before I could answer, he began touching me in a familiar rhythm. His hand made its way up my skirt, his fingers slid between my thighs. His touch alone made me more obedient than I’d like to admit. But when I nearly came on his fingers, and he leaned in, low against my ear and growled, ‘good girl.’

The next thing I knew, I was naked, riding him beneath the night sky, no longer thinking about anything at all—not even who might be watching.

Silly Girl, you always fall for his tricks.

The next morning, he drove me back to Brickell. The sun was warm on my face, Pitbull was playing on the radio, and Guy’s hand was resting on my thigh while I ran my fingers through the back of his head. Earlier, while I was half asleep, I felt him kiss me before his morning run, and later, when he returned. After his shower, he joined me in bed again, cozying up behind me, and my body naturally moved closer to his. He kissed me beneath my ear, then whispered, “I missed you,” before falling back to sleep.

It was the sweet little moments like that which made me feel like Guy thought of me more than just a temporary fantasy, and maybe as someone he could’ve built a life with—if the timing hadn’t been all wrong. I remembered a conversation with his friend Anders from a couple of years ago, while we were sitting poolside at the Delano. Guy took a call, leaving us unattended.

“So tell me,” he said, “what’s a twenty-three-year-old doing with a fifty-three-year-old?”

“What do you mean? He’s my boyfriend.”

Anders laughed.

“Guy, is not your boyfriend.”

The look of confusion on my face must’ve been obvious, because he softened his delivery slightly.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “He’s not anyone’s boyfriend.”

Back then, I thought Anders was just jealous, but I soon realized he was absolutely right.

Guy had already lived a life before me. The marriage, the kids, the structure. Now he wanted something easy. Fun. Uncomplicated.

And I was perfect for that.

Miami was built for that.

The men get beauty. The women get access.

The nights are unforgettable. The energy is addictive.

Miami is fun—as long as you don’t forget what it is:

A city of fleeting connections.

Editor’s note: Names and identifying details have been changed for privacy.

P.S. There’s more to the story! Read part 2 here.

In the last decade, many of New York’s most prominent nightlife institutions have closed their doors for good. Yet somehow, Le Bain remains. Perched atop The Standard Hotel with panoramic views of the Hudson and downtown Manhattan, the iconic nightclub helped raise a generation of New York club kids—and has clearly stood the test of time.

Since opening in 2010, Le Bain has been one of Manhattan’s last true rooftop clubs, known for its fashionable New York-meets-European crowd—hence the creperie tucked away on the top level. On any given night, you might find models, DJs, tourists, and fashion editors sharing the same dance floor, all packed inside a space that feels both glamorous and slightly slutty.

I hadn’t been in years, but the moment I stepped back inside, it was clear: Le Bain still runs on the same chaotic New York energy it always has.

On Wednesday evening, my cousin Dane texted me:

Pull up with me to Le Bain tonight. No excuses.

I was surprised that the club I used to frequent once a month in my early twenties was still in the weekly club rotation. At first, I was going to decline. Le Bain is known to be mixy, and I knew there was a good chance I’d run into old friends and maybe old enemies. But then I remembered my friend Jordan, who had just relocated from LA, texting me earlier that he was “starving for a real New York night.” When someone moves to New York, there are plenty of trendy new clubs to take them to—but only a few that are considered a rite of passage. Webster Hall. The Box. Pianos. And of course Le Bain.

So I texted him:

Get ready. I’m popping your Le Bain cherry tonight.

My cousin said to meet him there at 11, which I knew really meant midnight. Living in LA for the past few years, I’d forgotten how late New Yorkers start the party. I’m six months into my thirties, and midnight on a Wednesday felt… wrong. But tonight wasn’t about me. It was about Jordan.

Jordan met me in Harlem, and we rode downtown to the Meatpacking District together. Dane and his boyfriend had just arrived when we pulled up, and the line was making its way down the block. But Dane paid no mind to the people waiting and made his way to the front.

Connie Fleming was working the door.

A legend. A Thierry Mugler muse. A nightlife icon.

Okay, Le Bain is still that girl, I thought. She looked at us—our outfits—up and down. I wore a bright yellow corset with a lace miniskirt, black knee-high boots, and a lace choker with a diamond-studded cross hanging from the center. I looked like a sexy gothic pin-up doll.

After a slight nod of approval, she asked, “Whose list are you on?” Although at that point it didn’t matter—she had already decided if we were in or out.

Clubs like Le Bain appreciate style above all else. If you’re pulling a look, you’re a priority. The line didn’t matter. The list didn’t matter. They made room for you.

We floated inside and took the elevator up. The doors opened to flashing lights, bodies dancing in a steamy cloud from the hot tub, and the sweeping panoramic windows that make you feel like you’re partying inside the skyline. I almost forgot how beautiful it was up here. Dane greeted everyone like he owned the place and led us straight to Juanita’s section, where he immediately started fixing us all drinks.

Juanita is Dane’s best friend and the woman you should know if you want to be anywhere worth being. She’s more than a host, she’s a vibe curator, an entertainer. When she spotted me, her smile as infectious as her energy, she pulled me in for a warm hug.

“Dare, I didn’t know you were back in the city!” she says.

“Yeah, I just got back a few months ago.”

“Well, welcome home, hunny,” she hands me a glass of champagne before drifting off to greet more of her guests. Nearby, I noticed Jordan taking it all in: the view, the hot tub, the music, the lights. The room was packed with the usual suspects: NYC socialites, models, DJs, and the kind of people who seem permanently glued to nightlife, but surprisingly, no one I recognized. So I relaxed a little and danced with Jordan for what felt like hours. Stopping only to refill drinks and touch up my makeup.

When it hit 2 a.m. I thought I was in the clear.

But I thought too soon.

As I was downing a shot of tequila, I saw my ex-best friends making their way towards the section. I hadn’t seen Maggie and Dru in years, and our fallout wasn’t easy. To this day, people, even in LA, still ask me about my former posse.

We all kept it cute and said our hellos. Maggie’s greeting was noticeably colder than Dru’s.

Dru is a well-known DJ and a major figure in the wave of internet-born artists who made a name for themselves in New York during the mid 2010s. She is actually the one who introduced me to New York nightlife. Maggie, a model, was still beautiful as ever and, as I could see, still hangs with the same people from our past.

Cody, her gay bestie, whom I never cared for, was with them. He’s a certified moocher who follows the well-off Maggie around like a dog.

“Dareeee!” he shouted when he saw me. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

Yeah. That was the point.

I hugged him anyway, despite his phony energy.

“And who’s this?” he asked, eyeing Jordan.

I introduced them, and suddenly Cody was acting like he was such a good friend of mine while whisking Jordan away into the crowd. Same Cody.

I couldn’t be mad. I wanted Jordan to have fun, and Le Bain was on its best behavior tonight. But seeing my old friends at the club where we'd shared so many memories—and realizing we weren’t making any new ones—felt strangely sad.

I needed fresh air. I needed a spliff. Immediately.

I had to pull Jordan from under Cody’s claws so we could head upstairs to the open rooftop. As we made our way up, a guy with a familiar face stopped me.

“Dare?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“You don’t remember me?”

He pulled out his phone and showed me his Instagram. I was still lost. Then he opened our DMs.

The last message he’d sent me was from 2019, and it read, and I quote:

“I wanna eat your booty like groceries.”

He leaned closer. I could smell the liquor and tobacco on his breath.

“The offer still stands,” he said.

I laughed nervously and told him I was there with someone, nodding toward Jordan. Jordan caught the cue immediately, linking his arm with mine as we slipped past him and continued upstairs.

The top level of the rooftop was quieter. There were just smokers, city lights, and the hum of the music below us.

I found two seats and lit the joint I had tucked away.

Jordan looked at me and smiled.

“What?” I asked.

“I’m having so much fun. Thanks for inviting me. Your friends are so sweet.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It was nice seeing old friends.”

And I mostly meant that.

Nightlife changes fast in New York. Clubs close, scenes disappear, people move on. Yet somehow Le Bain is forever.

A glittery monument to all the people you used to be in New York.

Editor’s note: Names and identifying details have been changed for privacy.

It’s winter in New York, which means two things: the air hurts your face and the “hey, you around?” texts start circulating like chain mail among New York singles.

I am guilty of it, too. But at least I tried to settle down before the temperature dropped this year, prefacing every date with the “I’m dating intentionally” line. Though even with intention, nothing stuck. I guess I am famously single. I have situationships. A few tasteful arrangements here and there. But a boyfriend? That’s rare for me. So naturally—like all the other New Yorkers who didn’t participate in cuffing season—I’m hitting up my fuck buddies, or what I like to call, my dick appointments.

Every woman has at least one. I just happen to have three. The men you would never date but love to fuck. These guys are also famously single. In New York, it’s usually male models, personal trainers, cinematographers, or directors. I don’t know why, but men in these professions always seem to be single even when they’re taken. They are sexual emergency contacts. The ones you call when you’re dying for an orgasm.

Because the truth is: it’s not always about loneliness. It’s about convenience.

I can go on a date or get laid easily. That’s not the issue. The issue is starting from scratch. Flirting from zero. Pretending we’re mysterious over overpriced drinks, knowing that we would absolutely go to bed with him if the vibe is right. But if the sex is bad? Now he’s just another body you don’t want to count when your doctor asks how many partners you’ve had this year.

At least with fuck buddies, there’s no disappointment, the walls are already down, and you both know exactly what you came for.

I texted my star player, Manny, first. A half-Mexican, half-Cuban film director with dick so good it makes you want to write about it (which I have) just so you can relive it over and over again. We tried dating, but we’re incompatible in almost every meaningful way, which is exactly why I can casually hook up with him. It’s highly unlikely that I’d fall in love—or worse—be dickmatized by him.

Dickmatization is a sickness some women catch when the sex is really good, but the post-nut clarity never arrives, so you start confusing sexual chemistry with compatibility. Suddenly, his red flags are “things you can fix,” and you’re endorsing nonsense because the dick is divine.

I’ve trained myself out of that illness. I don’t let good sex convince me someone is good for me anymore. No dick is worth the drama, but some are worth a seasonal visit.

Manny is the dominant type, which works perfectly for us in the bedroom, but outside of it, not so much. Everything has to happen on his terms. Once, before work, I initiated sex, but he wasn’t in the mood. Fine. I got dressed, did my makeup, and the second I was fully clothed, he finally looked up from his computer, undressing me with his eyes.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked.

I said no. But I was mad. I knew he wanted me to beg for his dick, which is fun sometimes in a slutty, 1 am, kinda way, but it wasn’t something that I had time for right before work.

“Come here,” he says. I reluctantly obey, and when I’m within arm’s reach, he pulls me onto his lap and starts kissing me on my neck.

Long story short, I was late for work.

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There are times when being overly organized feels like a burden, but it becomes my superpower whenever it’s time to plan a trip, put together an outfit, or connect friends with other friends.

Most people probably don’t spend hours researching every speakeasy in Mexico or sketching out outfits to fit the theme of a trip (which is actually very helpful for anyone who never wants to overpack again).

I’ve become that friend people text the moment they land somewhere new.

“Dare, I’m in Tokyo! Where’s the best vintage and thrift shopping?”

“Dare, I’m in Miami! Where can I go to meet men with yachts?”

I’m not saying I’m some all-encompassing woman of knowledge, but I have been to places, and I have seen things. I’m usually one or two degrees removed from a complete stranger. My friends always laugh and ask, “How do you know so-and-so?” The answer is usually a random, roundabout way.

The point is: I take life by the horns. I’m a seeker, a taster, a wild girl. So, I’m launching a new segment of my Substack: Dare Knows Where—a mix of cultural journal and travel guide.

My first installment is for art lovers like myself—those who plan trips around galleries and museums. Recently, I spent two and a half weeks exploring Berlin, a dream city of mine for over a decade. During my visit, I found Berlin to be one of the richest cities I’ve ever experienced in terms of art, culture, and history. In fact, Berlin feels like a museum itself; every street holds a story and reminders of its complicated past in everything you see.

Now, let me share a few places where I got lost in art in Berlin:

📍 Hamburger Bahnhof

Admission: €16 (about $20)

Artists I loved: Klára Hosnedlová, Toyin Ojih Odutola

Hamburger Bahnhof is a museum that feels like a city within a city. The installations here stretch the idea of space and memory, displaying hyper-conceptual art that still holds emotional punch.

Klára Hosnedlová’s exhibition Embrace felt like stepping into a parallel universe straight out of Stranger Things. Celestial, unsettling, and immersive—performance art without the performer.

Toyin Ojih Odutola’s exhibition was one of my favorites of the entire trip. Upon entering, you’re transported into a fictional train station, with each stop representing a chapter in her artistic journey. Her work reminds me of the beginning of a sketch she never erases. She wants you to see the anatomy of the piece—like an X-ray of a painting—revealing how her mind works and how her figures come together.

📍 Galerie Deschler

Admission: Free

Artist: Lennart Grau

I passed Galerie Deschler one night on my way to dinner in Mitte—an essential neighborhood for art lovers—and, through the window, spotted a painting of a voluptuous nude woman lounging beneath a leafy tree, her gaze fixed on her rippled reflection in a moonlit pond. Something about its brooding atmosphere called me back the following week.

Lennart Grau has since become one of my favorite painters. His thick, bold acrylic strokes form figures that seem to have been born from a cloud of smoke. There’s movement in his work, the same kind of movement as smoke escaping a joint. Maybe that’s why it spoke to me so deeply.

📍 Galerie König (St. Agnes)

Admission: Free

Artists: Stephan Balkenhol, Johanna Dumet

Galerie König is a brutalist church-turned-gallery with energy you can feel the moment you step inside. The work here plays with scale—cinematic, towering, mood-shifting.

I was stunned to learn that Stephan Balkenhol’s enormous wooden sculptures—including a massive carved head staring at its full-bodied counterpart—were carved directly from tree trunks. His lifelong devotion to the human figure feels grounded, intimate, and monumental all at once.

Johanna Dumet’s FOOL FOR A LIFETIME builds a playful, intuitive world through outdoor sculptures and a series of 22 oil paintings depicting a deck of cards and a towering 15-foot house of cards. Together, the works feel game-like, unpredictable, rooted in pleasure, and tied to family legacy.

📍 Galerie Eigen + Art Berlin

Admission: Free

Artist: Ulrike Theusner

Ulrike Theusner’s work is immediately enticing. Her exhibition Passengers of the Night—inspired by Mikhaël Hers’ film of the same name—pulled me in instantly.

One piece in particular caught my attention: a man standing alone, wrapped in what looks like a towel, placed against an open countryside. Theusner’s use of multi-colored pastels and relentless strokes creates a psychedelic effect if you stare too long. She makes the kind of art that feels like it’s vibrating beneath the surface.

If you’re someone who prioritizes art and culture when visiting new cities, Berlin will give you more than you expect. Let yourself wander. Walk into spaces just because what’s through the window stops you. Getting lost in art here isn’t accidental—it’s the point. And if you do it right, you won’t just leave inspired. You’ll leave changed.

Click here for a free map of my full Berlin guide—food, bars, neighborhoods, and places I actually lingered at.

Until next time,

Dare

I know I wasn’t the only little girl walking around in my mom’s heels at seven years old, convinced that one day I’d be a contestant on America’s Next Top Model. And even now, I still feel grateful for Tyra Banks. Not just for teaching me how to walk in heels, but also for showing me what ambition could look like on a Black woman’s terms.

Tyra’s influence on me came in phases. I remember first seeing her as Will Smith’s girlfriend on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, not even realizing she was already one of the world’s most successful supermodels. Then she was Stacy in Life-Size, playing a literal Barbie come to life alongside Lindsay Lohan. I remember thinking: Wow. She’s perfect.

As I moved into my teenage years, my afternoons were filled with The Tyra Show and my evenings with America’s Next Top Model. It felt like she had done it all—runway, television, film, business. Tyra was everywhere, and she made me feel like I could be everywhere too.

Years later, when Tyra returned to TV as the host of Dancing with the Stars, I tuned in immediately. It was the first time I had ever watched the show, and I was excited to see Tyra back on my screen, but the internet wasn’t celebrating with me. People were angry.

In recent years, Twitter—and now think-piece culture at large—has been attempting to cancel Tyra Banks over resurfaced ANTM clips. Critics argue that she was overly harsh, particularly toward women of color, and that her judgment crossed the line from constructive criticism into cruelty.

I revisited episodes myself. I won’t pretend Tyra’s approach was always perfect because it wasn’t. Still, context matters.

To understand, remember: ANTM was a reality television show—edited for drama and engineered for conflict. It focused on fashion, one of the most competitive, unforgiving, and historically racist industries. Most significantly, Tyra was pioneering—building a modeling empire and a mainstream media platform simultaneously as a Black woman, at a scale no one had achieved before.

Tyra Banks is not a villain. She is just paying the cost of being first.

Her contributions to Black history, women’s history, and pop culture are far too significant to be erased by viral clips and hindsight morality.

Let’s be clear about what Tyra did: She created and hosted the first major modeling competition show and became one of the first supermodels to host a daytime talk show. She starred as a Barbie-like lead in a Disney film and confronted industry power players on national TV. She became the first Black woman to land a solo swimsuit cover in Sports Illustrated, transitioned from high fashion to commercial stardom, built longevity in an industry that discards women as they age, and created space for future stars like Eva Marcille, Winnie Harlow, and Toccara Jones.

So yes, people can label Tyra a “toxic celebrity.” She was harsh with contestants—especially Black contestants—used spectacle on her talk show (fat suits, exaggerated segments), upheld unrealistic beauty standards, and sometimes pushed people beyond their comfort zone.

But here’s what rarely gets asked:

Would you not push harder on people you believed in?

Was Tyra cruel, or was she honest about the industry she survived?

Why are we judging her methods as if she weren’t speaking from lived expertise?

And why does Tyra receive more vitriol than her peers, when she was the one creating opportunity instead of gatekeeping it?

If the criticism was too much for some contestants, would the fashion industry—far colder and far less forgiving—have been any kinder?

Instead of canceling Tyra Banks, maybe we should cancel the fashion industry that trained her, rewarded her toughness, and profited from those same impossible standards.

Tyra didn’t invent the system. She navigated it. She survived it. And then she opened the door behind her—inviting future generations to walk through, grow, and redefine what is possible.

Tyra Banks isn’t the villain people want her to be. She is flawed, like all of us—but not all of us have contributed so much to a community. Our willingness to tarnish her legacy for not being perfect is a testament to our unrealistic expectations of women. As I wrote in We Deserve Better Than This, “women are expected to arrive fully formed, unblemished, and exceptional.” No room for flaws, trauma, or growth. I suppose that, too, is the cost of being first.

As complex as women are, there is a code to us. Not a cheat code, a compatibility code. Once you understand what kind of woman you’re dealing with, everything becomes much clearer.

I’m not just a woman.

I’m a hot girl, a badd bitch if you will.

And being a hot girl isn’t about looks alone. It’s about standards, taste, and running a tight program with men, because experience teaches you that if you don’t, your time will be wasted. Most men want access to beautiful women without wanting to match the effort it takes to maintain them.

Hot girls and so-called high-maintenance women aren’t unreasonable. We’re just realistic about dating dynamics. We know men desire us for our looks and often don’t take us seriously at first. So yes, we make them work for it. The only men who take issue with high standards are the ones who can’t meet them. Which is why if you’re a man who can’t afford a hot girl—emotionally, financially, or energetically—then stop reading. This isn’t for you.

If you want a down-to-earth, sneakers-to-the-bar girl, pursue her. But if you’re approaching women in heels, with polished hair, fresh manicures, and impeccable style, understand that what you’re seeing requires effort—and effort expects effort back. So, if you’re a man who is willing to put in the effort, then keep reading. This is how you seal the deal with a hot girl.

Fine Print: Let me be clear, sealing the deal can mean many things. A second date. A night together. A relationship. A marriage. That’s your business. These are simply some tips to make any of those outcomes more likely.

1. Be A Man With A Plan.

Don’t ask a hot girl what she wants to do. Have a plan. Tell her when you want to meet and where you want to take her, and ask whether she wants to be picked up. That level of intention is attractive. You’re already winning before the date even starts.

And understand this: women are researchers. Most of us will know a lot about you before we meet. So do your research too. It’s incredibly attractive when I can tell a man has actually read something I wrote or has taken the time to learn about my work. It separates you from men who want access and makes it clear you’re interested in more than just my body.

2. Don’t Call Me Sexy. Impress Me.

All women love compliments—when they’re genuine and well-timed.

If you’re approaching her on an app, your first message should never be generic or thirsty. When a woman already leads with hotness, pointing it out tells her nothing new. If you like her eyes, say that. If you like her style, say that. Be specific and tasteful.

Under no circumstances should you call her sexy.

Women like me—and my other baddie friends—hate being called sexy outside of very specific contexts: the bedroom, a club fit, nudes. Otherwise, it feels like you just want to fuck, which is probably true, but until that sentiment is felt on both sides, just omit the sexually charged compliments from your vocabulary.

When you meet a hot girl in person, you should compliment her appearance within the first five minutes. Ten minutes max—and that’s pushing it! She didn’t roll out of a yoga class to meet you. She spent time getting ready. That effort deserves acknowledgment.

If you don’t say anything, she’ll notice.

And yes, she will talk shit about you in the group chat.

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3. If I Look Materialistic, Why Would You Approach Me With No Materials?

This should be obvious, but it still needs to be said:

Women who care deeply about how they look understand material reality.

It doesn’t mean we are gold diggers. We’re not expecting yachts or black cards. What we do expect is a man who understands what it costs to look good and respects that investment.

I’ve dated men who weren’t rich but still understood one simple rule: if you’re not adding to my life, you’re not staying.

There are plenty of women who pride themselves on being low-maintenance and believing in 50/50. Hot girls are not those women. And that’s not a flaw, it’s a preference. One you can opt into or walk away from.

4. It’s The Thought—and The Flowers, That Count.

Most women—not just hot ones—love flowers and gifts. Flowers are alive. They last. They remind her of you every day until they die. They make women feel feminine, seen, and chosen.

But don’t just buy any flowers. Know the woman you’re buying them for. Her favorite colors. Places she loves to travel. Some countries even have signature flowers; details like that matter.

Although I’m a hot girl, I’m also a nerd. I adore comic books and graphic novels. One man once gifted me Neil Gaiman’s special edition of Death. When I tell you it made me want to jump his bones, I mean it.

Gifts don’t need to be expensive.

They need to be thoughtful.

5. You Snooze, You Lose.

This might be the most important rule of all: Be Consistent!

If you already know a girl likes you, you’ve done the hard part. Consistency is where most men fall short.

We like busy men, just not men who are too busy for us. If you can’t send a simple ‘good morning,’ ‘good night,’ or ‘how are you?’ once a day, then I’m not the one for you.

I’ve dated men who own Fortune 500 companies. Men with children. Men with lives fuller than most. Every single one still found time to check in daily.

It’s rare for someone to have a valid excuse for complete inconsistency, and an undeniably attractive woman is constantly being approached, so if you snooze, you lose.

Hot girls aren’t asking for too much. We’re asking you to be realistic. If this feels like a lot, that’s okay. Hot girls aren’t for everyone—and everyone isn’t for us. But if you want to date one, there are things to consider.

Now you may ask:

Happy Dating and good luck out there.

My first British lover was the kind of man you only see in movies: handsome, impossibly charming, and dangerous enough to make life interesting.

His name was Guy. We met during Fashion Week, September 2017, at the Soho Grand Hotel—back when I was deep in my avant-garde bag. I was wearing a vintage equestrian helmet, a steampunk corset, a mini skirt, and tall black boots. Man, the things I wore in 2017… honestly, it was like I lived at Beacon’s Closet.

Magz, my model bestie, was pulling me through the crowd like a VIP handler with ADHD. She knew everyone, and she greeted them with a kiss on each cheek. Then, over the noise, I heard:

“I like your hat,” in an English accent.

I turned to a six-foot man with blue eyes you could drown in. He had thick salt-and-pepper hair and was dressed in a black suit, cut so well he looked like an MI6 agent on holiday.

I stared at him a second too long and forgot to thank him because Magz yanked me away before I could compose myself.

At the bar, I scanned the room for him, but he was gone.

The party was jumping—models, designers, and influencers filled the small grand ballroom with couture silhouettes and slurred accents. A few drinks later, Magz and I headed outside to smoke a joint when I spotted the mystery man behind the velvet entry curtains, standing there like he was scoping the scene for his next target.

The target was me.

“Magz, I’ll be right back.”

I walked over to him with the kind of confidence that comes with free champagne.

“I forgot to thank you earlier,” I said, “so thanks.”

“You did thank me, but that was kind of you to walk over here just in case.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to think I was a bitch or anything.”

“That is not what I was thinking,” he replied, eyes dragging over me like he was memorizing every detail.

“Oh? What were you thinking?”

He stepped in close. I could smell him—clean, expensive, something woody that felt like it cost more than my entire outfit.

“That you’re the sexiest girl here,” he murmured.

My face was heating up. I smiled bashfully. What was happening?

I consider myself well-trained in the art of flirting, but this man was my worthiest opponent.

“We should grab another drink,” he said, like he knew I had no more words left in me.

I glanced at the bar. Absolutely not doing that line again.

“Upstairs, in my room,” he added.

I then sent a quick text to Magz:

Me: Hey, so I’m gonna go hook up with this guy lol. Look at me.

I waited for her to read the text and make eye contact from her section. When she did, I discreetly nodded in his direction. She smiled and began texting.

Magz: Bitchhh, he’s sexy af! Have fun and be safe!

Me: Always.

Then off I went.

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I just returned from a five-week trip to Europe, visiting London, Amsterdam, and Berlin. While I had intended to post more frequently during my journey, I found myself too busy living in the moment. Also, my phone was stolen, which made it much easier to live in the moment.

But here it is now, the postcards I never sent:

London

I started in a city I know well, and one that owes me nothing. The food scene has improved, but the pound is still cruel to the dollar, and every cocktail felt like a small financial decision. Still, there’s an undeniable energy to London that seduces you into late nights around Dalston Junction and nightcaps at Shoreditch House. It’s the kind of city that convinces you you’re richer, funnier, and sexier than you really are.

London is the city of charmers, and of course, the dates are always exactly that. The men are charming, handsome, and—believe it or not—sexually superior. There’s something about the Brits... It’s as if they take formal courses in pleasure, but I elaborate more on that here.

What I enjoyed most about my time, though, were the days spent catching up with friends I hadn’t seen in way too long, and nights that ended with a lingering kiss from a handsome date on a rainy corner.

London, you’ve done it again.

Amsterdam

Outside of Paris, Amsterdam is the most beautiful city I’ve visited in Europe. The way the city lights twinkle along the canals and illuminate the bridges is a vision that will live rent-free in my mind. It’s a quieter, calmer place than I expected—but as sleepy as it seemed, there’s one part of Amsterdam that never rests: the red-light district. It’s crawling with mostly male tourists, flooding the narrow streets with hungry eyes and stomachs full of beer.

And yet, not a single male escort in sight. In 2025, I was surprised that the windows only displayed one kind of fantasy.

The men in Amsterdam are distractingly attractive—the handsome that makes you feel like a dog in heat. Everyone speaks English so clearly that it’s almost unsettling, like they’ve been practicing with Americans their whole lives. There’s also a quiet pride in the city’s connection to New York. You know, it was once called New Amsterdam, people love to remind you.

I had planned to walk or bike my way through the city, but it was cold and rainy for most of our stay. Then my phone was stolen—snatched from right under my nose. That was the final sign.

Amsterdam, I appreciate your beauty, but I think we’re done.

Berlin

Ah, Berlin—the city I’ve dreamt of visiting for a decade. I came for the art and left with a crush on the chaos. Everywhere you turn, there’s something that reminds you of their history: graffiti that feels like scripture, fragments of the Berlin Wall, and even the walk signs vary depending on what part of the city you’re in. Now, one con is that the people aren’t the friendliest, and they definitely have their share of crazies, but as a New Yorker, I didn’t mind.

Berlin’s pulse is grungy, unfiltered, alive. The nightlife lives up to its myth—techno raves in warehouses that stretch until sunrise, where people only leave to return with more liquor and party favors. But for a non-smoker, Berlin is brutal. You come home reeking of cigarettes, wondering how your clothes became an ashtray.

The men? Arrogant. Beautiful, but painfully self-assured. (More on that later.) Still, the food was incredible, the trains outshone every other city I’ve visited, and somewhere between the cigarette haze and museum walls, Berlin carved out a place in my heart.

Overall

This trip was pricier and more stressful than I expected. Not just because I didn’t have a phone half the time, but because traveling as an American right now is intense. Politics follow you everywhere, and protests are happening in nearly every city. The dollar is weak, and your pockets will feel it.

But travel is a form of learning—and I learned a great deal. This time away left me feeling more inspired than I have in years. I came back with stories, notes, and ideas I can’t wait to share: food and travel guides, cultural observations, and truths on dating, politics, and pleasure abroad.

So when I ask myself, Was it worth it?

Absolutely.
Every Penny.

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There was no way I was going back to New York.

Even though the thought crossed my mind, I had to remind myself why I came here—and what I left behind.

I was just shy of twenty-four when I packed my life into a few suitcases and moved to Los Angeles with my twin brother. We came for several reasons: for me, the chance to pursue acting and screenwriting; for him, to dive deeper into animation and contemporary art. Together, to build on the momentum of our brand, Dare Dollz—the stylish, sexy clay dolls we created out of boredom that unexpectedly gained a loyal online following and quietly launched my career as an art director. More than anything, though, we moved to put space between ourselves and our toxic family.

We didn’t have much saved, but enough to sublet a large room in Koreatown from a small man with a needy cat. Imagine two grown adults crammed into one room—easels, canvases, too many clothes—and the constant scratching and meowing of a stranger’s cat outside the door. My brother and I were close, but this was testing our limits.

The first six months were a blur of commissions, gigs, and constant adjustments. We were doing okay financially, but Los Angeles, like New York, is expensive—and one job never feels like enough to sustain a decent life. I worked part-time as a nanny. He assisted an event planner in Beverly Hills. In between, we cranked out stop-motion animated commissions for musicians and brands, while taking on soul-sucking gigs like customizing basketballs at bar mitzvahs. We were grateful not to be broke, but we were pouring our creativity into everyone else’s visions and saving none for our own. I neglected auditions and writing altogether. We were too drained to chase the dreams we had moved for.

In L.A., most creatives are dealing with the same struggle—working multiple gigs while waiting for the moment they can finally afford to invest in their own dreams. And although artists make up nearly 5% of the city’s workforce—more than in any other U.S. city—that visibility doesn’t guarantee sustainability.

It’s a city full of side hustles, where working doesn’t mean you’re succeeding—it just means you’re still surviving.

So we decided to put the gigs and commissions on hold. It was time to invest in ourselves, our characters, our world. We started developing the Dare Dollz comic book and leaned into selling merchandise—T-shirts, prints, and accessories. The merch moved surprisingly well. It was exhausting in its own way, but at least it was pushing our brand forward, not just paying the bills.

Then, the week before Christmas in 2019, a life-changing email landed in our inbox.

The sender was the son of an A-list entertainer. Let’s call him Marcus. He wanted to hire us as lead designers for an animated project called Mofey’s Trap — a claymation series about a chaotic world inside a clogged bathroom drain, inhabited by wisecracking bugs and gangster critters. The hook was that his dad, a comedic giant we all grew up watching (and who my grandparents still watch daily), with a net worth that could have bought the entire street I lived on, would voice the main character. And of course, there was the money.

At our first virtual meeting, Marcus gushed over our portfolio. He told us he’d been a fan, had bought our merch, and recognized our influence in the wave of internet-born artists. He buttered us up—a little too good, when I think about it now. We were talking sets, characters, storyboards—the whole thing. After an hour of bouncing ideas, he offered us the job.

It was the kind of offer that makes you believe God has been listening. The cons were obvious: Dare Dollz and every other project we cared about would have to pause. But the pros? Exposure, money, bragging rights for our grandparents—and maybe even a new apartment where we wouldn’t have to sleep within arm’s reach of each other. The pros won easily.

I sent an agreement with an invoice: $6,280 for conceptualizing and designing the characters and set. Marcus signed off and paid fifty percent upfront. Just like that, the fire was lit.

We locked in. Days belonged to our jobs, nights and weekends to Mofey’s Trap. We pulled all-nighters sculpting insect-like clay figures with microscopic details, painting glistening eyes, hand-stitching tiny outfits. As we neared completion, the set began to feel alive. Each character had a story, and we would imagine which entertainers' voices could bring them to life.

Marcus said he liked what he saw in photos and videos, but wanted to see it in person. In February, he flew from Atlanta to L.A. and visited our “studio”—our living room, bedroom, and closet all in one. We had purchased small, cheap sofa beds from Walmart to save room and put up dividers to separate our work and personal areas. It wasn’t glamorous by any means, but Marcus seemed down-to-earth and unbothered by the marijuana-clouded hallways we led him through to get to our apartment.

He lit up when he saw the set. He was impressed but confused about how the characters would move. He didn’t understand how much labor stop-motion actually required — that animators, like us, shoot twelve to twenty-four frames for a single second, meaning nearly 1,500 frames for one minute of footage. It wasn’t something that could be done quickly. When we explained it, he shrugged, as if it were just a minor detail that could be glossed over.

He left with a few notes, plenty of compliments, and a handshake that sealed our faith in him—and in Mofey’s Trap.

For the rest of February, we worked on Marcus’s notes, fine-tuning details we thought were already solid. Communication slowed, but we chalked it up to his newborn and the headlines about a mysterious, deadly virus spreading. The news, as you know, turned out to be true — and on March 4, 2020, Los Angeles officially went into lockdown. Coincidentally, that same day, we finally heard from Marcus again. He texted that he was happy with the changes and ready to start building the rest of the team.

We were relieved. That night, we boxed everything: the dolls, the sets, the storyboards—preparing them for shipment. But before we shipped, there was one thing left to handle: the remaining balance.

I sent the final invoice. We waited for the confirmation, imagining the relief of seeing those numbers hit our account—groceries, rent, a little breathing room during the apocalypse.

Instead of payment, there was nothing.

Nothing but silence.

We didn’t harass Marcus for the money. Instead, we rationalized his silence. Everyone was scrambling in those first weeks of lockdown. Grocery shelves stripped bare, body counts on the news. Maybe clay figures weren’t his priority.

Like most people, we lost our jobs. Sure, unemployment helped, but without the gigs that padded our income, we were fucked. Our landlord didn’t care about pandemics. Groceries didn’t either. Asking our mom for a loan felt like swallowing pride—especially since we’d left home on a sour note. (That’s another story for another essay.)

As weeks dragged on, the uncertainty of the future and the state of the world got to me. Panic attacks hit like waves, each one pulling me into a deeper state of depression.

Eventually, we caved and asked our mom for help. Her loan bought us time, but we knew we needed something else and fast.

By late April, masks had become a fashion statement. My brother had a knack for customizing clothes—hats, shirts, sneakers—anything that could hold paint. His mask was no different. He painted a wide, gleaming smile with grillz, inspired by Peewee Longway. When he put it on, the illustrated grin seemed to belong to him. It wasn't just stylish—it was genius.

I suggested we sell them, and he enthusiastically agreed. Within hours of posting online, DMs exploded with orders. We turned our kitchen table into a factory line—painting, packaging, labeling. Demand surged so fast we switched to printing to keep up. Hundreds sold, then hundreds more.

Those masks paid the rent, filled the fridge, and gave us back something we hadn’t felt in months: stability.

At the same time, commissions began trickling back in. With live-action productions shut down, brands scrambled for remote content. Animation didn’t need a set—it needed us. As The Ringer put it: “Animation is one of the only sectors in the entertainment industry that hasn’t been forced to shut down during the pandemic, leading to a boom for a format already on the upswing.” Suddenly, animators had the upper hand. For once, we weren’t just surviving—we were succeeding.

By September, we had saved enough to move into a three-bedroom, 1,700-square-foot duplex. We turned the spare into a studio. We were moving on up.

Then, on September 28, Marcus resurfaced.

His message was full of excuses—COVID, a new baby. Meanwhile, his wife was on Instagram flaunting trips to Cabo and Aspen, boarding private jets in designer sweats. She was no different from other celebrities flaunting wealth at the end of the world — except her husband owed us money.

An amount that was pocket change to them, but could do wonders for us.

I thanked him for reaching out, re-sent the invoice, and waited.

Once again—

Silence, and an unpaid invoice. 

A year later, mask sales slowed as the world reopened, but Dare Dollz kept growing. We launched new merch, rented our home as a production space, and—finally—neared completion on our long-awaited comic book. For the first time since moving to L.A., it felt like things were falling into place.

Then came the call from our mom. I won’t go into detail, but family business pulled us back to New York. But weeks away from L.A. meant paused orders, lost bookings, and bills piling up. By the time we got back, we were scrambling to stay above water and had to return to our soul sucking gigs.

At that point I just needed a sign from the universe that all of this work we did wasn't for nothing and while scrolling through Instagram one day, I got it.

I saw a post of Marcus's parents celebrating his mom's fifty-seventh birthday in Paris. She was dressed in head-to-toe Chanel; his dad was grinning his signature grin against the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower. That's when it hit me — we still had an unpaid invoice.

So I reached out.

This time, I warned him we’d pursue legal action. His reply dripped with arrogance. He called us “desperado” for pressing the issue two years later. The word stung most because, in that moment, I feared it was true. I was desperate. And I felt embarrassed for asking for the money that was owed to me. Crazy, right?

But I didn’t give up. I called a lawyer in Atlanta, who said something like:

That’s when embarrassment turned into anger.

I wasn’t just broken—I felt disrespected. Like every person who doubted me was right all along. I was drowning in regret.

Life as a full-time artist is depressing because most people don’t respect creatives.

People don’t see us as essential, but we design the logos you wear, the restaurants you dine in, the ads you scroll past, and the shows you binge. Without artists, the world is blank.

Yet too many of us starve, scraping by on gigs and unpaid invoices. And at that moment, I asked myself: “Is this really worth it?”

I didn’t mean pursuing art. I meant pursuing life.

It’s dark, but it’s the truth.

Eight weeks later, when I was Googling “storage near me” and posting our used furniture on OfferUp, an email arrived.

From Puma.

They wanted a Dare Dollz x Puma collaboration: dolls styled in classic Suedes, a custom installation, and an interactive display. At first, I thought it was a scam. It all sounded too good to be true — we’d been fooled before — but then they sent over their proposed budget, and I didn’t know our worth until that moment. I read it three times, expecting the digits to shrink each time I blinked. Still, we didn’t let ourselves get excited until a friend in management reviewed the paperwork. He legitimized it, called it a career-defining opportunity, and encouraged us to do it. We let Puma know we were on board, and they paid fifty percent upfront.

It felt like someone had thrown us (me) a life jacket in the nick of time. Thank god.

Over the next couple of months, we built and reinvested in Dare Dollz. We created stunning figures and designed an interactive display where guests could pose inside a life-sized Dare Dollz box. The most significant feat, though, was finishing our comic book just in time for the activation, so that every attendee received a virtual copy.

The activation launched April 21, 2022. The event space was transformed into a world we’d built, shoulder to shoulder with other artists of color. Family, friends, and celebrities filled the room. Standing in front of our display, my throat tightened, and my face was wet. For a moment, I thought I was drowning again. But then I realized I was crying — a happy cry, because this was it. The moment that made everything worth it.

By that October, after a year of rebuilding, my brother and I took a month-long trip through Europe. One afternoon in Bordeaux, we sat on the deck of our Airbnb surrounded by nothing but—

Silence, sunlight, and paid invoices.

For the first time in years, I felt weightless—not because the struggle was over, but because we had made it through. And maybe that’s the truth of surviving as a creative in dark times: you bend, you adjust, you obsess, and you keep going.

Octavia Butler once wrote:

I finally understood.

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