Once upon a time, I dated one guy for a long time. But instead of living happily ever after with me, he woke up one day and decided he wanted to “go through an asshole phase” (his words, not mine). After dumping me and proceeding to flirt and hook up with a lot of mutual friends, my once-love promptly forgot all about his sappy promises of “forever” and pretended we had never met.

You could say I was heartbroken.

Because I had always been “a good girl,” I hadn’t really dated around before the Ex, and was pretty flabbergasted at the entire dating process. Plus, I was grieving like some kind of Victorian widow in black and wasn’t thinking straight. Additionally, I was going out and drinking a little more — even though I was completely conscious of the fact that drinking a little more was going to make me cry a little more come hangover time. All of those factors combined meant that I decided my only life choice was to do what all my friends were doing: hooking up with random dudes because I could.

It took me a while to get a lay of the land (haha. Get it?), but after a few stumbles into emotional territory — haven’t you heard? Emotions don’t belong in hook-ups — I totally got the hang of it: meet a guy, make it obvious you’re easy going, be physical early, and then convince him to sleep with you after 1 or 2 dates. Guys are very easily convinced, and playing up my free-spiritedness made it easy for me to seem totally okay with everything. Even though, in the back of my wound-up mind, whenever the guy was snoring too loudly or fumbling around like an idiot, I would fear that I was not made for random hook-ups, I kept at it.

Because everyone was doing it. I’d hear stories and see things on TV and decide time and time again that the whole world was hooking up. This is what new feminism was; taking back your sexual power, doing it because you could, making sure guys didn’t have all the fun.

It’s not like I went crazy, but after a few years I had to use two hands to count the amount of people I had slept with, and for awhile, that was a sense of pride. I had successfully thrown off my clammy good-girlness and had become a woman! …or something.

But always this sense, this weird, little mosquito of a thought, would be buzzing around my brain. I refused to listen to it because I already knew what it was saying and I really didn’t want to hear. This is not what you want…it buzzed whenever I turned over and realized the person next to me was not very attractive, or even cool. This is annoying and not fun and you don’t need this in your life…it buzzed when a guy would become too attached and I knew I was probably going to hurt him. Honestly, whoever this is, it’s not you.

It took me three years to take the earplugs out. Three years to admit the truth. Of course that wasn’t me. Sex is great and I dig it a lot but I’m an independent person – I don’t need the extra awkwardness of a guy I don’t know or even like attached to my hip. I never needed it. What I was looking for was someone to love, and each month, 6 months, year that it didn’t happen…I decided that something had to fill that void. Even if they filled it with bad jokes and boring conversation.

So even though I knew it all along, I decided to admit it to myself last night: I regret almost every guy I hooked up with. I learned things about myself for sure, I learned a good amount about human behavior, but I don’t think I needed an STD scare and a bunch of awkward goodbyes to learn those things, either.

Because no matter how much I cringe, these events are still part of my life, and I’ve allowed myself to become a better, more confident person through them – which is why I’m not crusading against random hook-ups. They can be positive experiences. They can be fun. But letting society or guilt or revenge push you to have them? Take my advice: it’ll never work the way you want it to work, and it’ll never feel the way you want it to feel.

There’s nothing wrong with having fun and loving your sexual side. Love it all day long. But always listen to that little buzzing in your brain. It’s just trying to make sure you treat yourself the way you deserve to be treated.

I remember going to the circus once in my life and not being particularly enchanted by it. The modern acts didn’t thrill me at age 6, and I certainly wouldn’t pay a couple hundred dollars now to watch unhappy, mistreated animals plod around with their heads down, or to laugh at completely generic, mindless slapstick comedy routines (that’s what George Bush and Britney Spears are for). There’s something I’ve always loved, however, about antique circus art, be it from the harlequin-oriented Victorian era or the tattooed 20′s. Where are today’s knife throwers, horseback dancers and puddle divers?

I suppose most of them probably died practicing their craft, and not many have attempted to recreate the feats more recently. I know I wouldn’t.

I’ll tell you what I would do, though: I would wear the aforementioned ruff, or a daintily-puffed princess sleeve (or maybe even a full-blown mutton like Lanvin showed last season). Most of us are already wearing leotards as outerwear thanks to American Apparel’s (head scumbag) Dov Charney — why not add some sequins to the equation? As an aspiring editorial wardrobe stylist, I have been dubbed “steam punk” in my garment choices- and, though I’m not fond of the term — (Hi, Dances of Vice holds a Victorian-to-30′s-themed party?! Queen Victoria’s reign began in 1837, which makes that theme a century-long time span. Take a quick second to look at Wikipedia and see how much fashion evolved during that period.) I find that, alright, sure, I do own about 12 Dover clip art books full of Victorian art from my brief obsession with becoming a tattooer, I appreciate the subject matter of many of The Decemberists’ songs, and I like pocket watches, monocles and compasses! So sue me. What I’m trying to get at is now, of all times, is probably the easiest time to ever walk around New York in a majorette-type ensemble and not get beat up.

Okay, so you hate me now. You think I’m the most pretentious 1850′s hipster you’ve ever (not really) met and you think, if I dislike the 21st century so much, maybe I should go back to my own time/ maybe I should marry the 19th.

But, shit, I own J Brands, and I’m blogging here. And I just think it’s time to clown around!

To prove her point, the article’s author explained how she’s often cat called when she walks down the street, and laments about the days when men tipped their hats and said “mornin‘” instead of leering at a pair of breasts and saying “yee!”

Even though I think she’s got a point when she talks about certain forms of traditional chivalry going out the window (the last time a man tipped his hat at me was…well, never, and not once has anyone ever thrown a jacket over a mud puddle), I’m pretty sure that using cat calls to define the death of chivalry is just plain incorrect.

Look, men have been cat calling women since the day they realized their mouths made sounds and breasts were awesome. Sure, Victorian dudes opened carriage doors for us and offered their elbow when the terrain got rough, but don’t think they weren’t whistling and jeering under those handlebar mustaches and cute little bowler hats. Perhaps they weren’t shouting “aye, mami!” when a fine looking bustle walked down the street, but you can bet a Victorian chick knew when a Mr. Darcy was hating to see her leave, but loving to see her go.

Basically, cat calling sucks (especially when you’re walking back from the gym looking like a dead rat and KNOWING the only reason that creepy guy is yelling at you is because you have boobs), but just because certain men are vulgar and annoying doesn’t mean that the species as a whole has quit on us. Why, just the other day, a guy waited .5 seconds before grabbing a seat from me on the subway! He considered letting me sit for .5 seconds longer than most.

[What do you think? Is the Chiv dead? Let us know!]