Bachelor Nation fan-favorite Ben once charmed another brown-eyed girl. Becca Parone, his “ex,” revealed the truth about Ben and their relationship in an Instagram Live tell-all.

On one fateful night in 2012, it seems Parone and the then 27-year-old Ben shared a quick elevator ride in a NYC midtown high-rise. According to Parone, being with him was exciting at first. “He was always so mysterious, which was sexy. But as time went on, he couldn’t let his walls down to let me see his heart,” Parone told her nearly 1,000 Instagram followers.

Parone explained how she and Ben had so much in common, like riding elevators and smelling good. “He was wearing Absolu Instinct by Armani,” she reminisced. “How u kno? [sic]” one of her 32 viewers typed in the comments. “You never forget your first love’s scent.” She straightened her spine, “Also, I went to a department store and sampled every men’s cologne.”

After grabbing a third White Claw, Parone continued with climax of the story, and apparently, her existence. “As I looked into Ben’s green, no, hazel–no–blue eyes, I think? Whatever, blue — he looked back at me as if to say, ‘You’re cute, let’s go out sometime,’ so I smiled at him and he told me to make room for the delivery guy.” Parone blushed, reflecting on the memory. “He was so honest and vulnerable. I realized I had already, like, fallen for him.”

Sam Donober, a sushi delivery driver who encountered Parone, remembered her well. “She was just standing there, staring at the tall dude. It was super awkward. I had to push her out of the way with my delivery bags,” he said.

In the livestream, Parone fought back tears as she gulped down the last of her White Claw. “This was my fairytale, you know?” she said shakily. Then she paused and took a deep breath. “But behind Ben’s charming smile and perfectly chiseled jawline was a cheater. As he left the elevator, his phone rang and he answered, ‘Hey, babe,’ right in front of me, as if I didn’t exist.” Parone wiped away a single tear. “He stole that elevator ride from me. I’ll never get that moment back.”

How did she cope after a heart-breaking betrayal? “I tracked down his phone number on LinkedIn and told him he’s a disgusting ***hole who deserves to die.”

When asked for comment, Ben responded, “Who?”

Woman Dishes the Dirty Details on ‘The Bachelorette’ Contestant, With Whom She Shared a 30-second… was originally published in Lady Pieces on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’d rather be at home in my pyjamas

While groups of humans gather
do you call a group of humans a murder?
Sure, let’s go with that

While the murder gathers
they caw to each other
until the one in front
orders them gently into silence

They are told to close their eyes
They are not together anymore
They are alone. They must not think…
not think… not think…

…don’t think!

Breathe in and out
in and out
in and out

tick-tock, tick-tock
tick-tock, tick-tock

Someone here brought their watch
even if no one is here
even if you are alone
even if you are not thinking

You’re not thinking, right?
Oh, right. Don’t think.

Breathe in and out
long and deep
fill your lungs

… with the various smells that make up this overheated room

Oh, no!

Breathe, out, out, out

Get rid of that funk
What an interesting word
f-U-n-K
Oh, my. Do people ever shower?
You’re not certain
of anything anymore

You might be paying to get farted on
:unpack this idea when you get home:

Wait, what’s for supper?
Maybe you should order dinner...
Will it be
Lebanese? Indian?

How about you
s t o p t h i n k i n g? ? ?

Oh….yes
breathe in, and out
Not too quickly…

The f-U-n-K might take over
In fact, it already has. Oh, no.

Breathe out out out out out out out
You might be hyperventilating
Slow it down

in… out… in… out… in… out

Ok, that’s better

You think
even though
you shouldn’t be thinking
right now…Oh, hey

You can sneak a selfie
right after this
It’s about time
you changed
your profile pic

Your skin looks best
after a good sweat

It’s all that inner peace
I bet.

#innerpeace: a yoga poem was originally published in Lady Pieces on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Michael Myers

Looking for love on the spookiest day of the year? Must love the strong, silent type and a man in a black garden jumpsuit. William Shatner fans welcomed. I’ll break out of prison this Halloween to kill Laurie Strode, but I won’t break your heart.

Jason Voorhees

Momma’s boy. Don’t ask me to go swimming. I love summer camp. Not a big fan of Manhattan. Mother talks to me… a lot.

Jigsaw

Love riddles and solving puzzles? What about creepy puppets on tricycles and elaborate feats of engineering? For this to work, you’re going to need access to multiple abandoned buildings in nondescript metropolitan cities. I play games… but not with your heart.

Ghostface

All I need to know is… what’s your favorite scary movie? Halloween? A Nightmare on Elm Street? Friday the 13th? Or, if you want to keep it meta AF, Scream? Just answer my horror movie trivia questions correctly and I won’t want to see what your insides look like. I wouldn’t mind feeling them ;).

Leatherface

The most important rule of this relationship is that the saw is family. Speaking of family, mine will probably filet you on a hook and devour your flesh. Must have an attractive face. FYI, there will be a lot of running with chainsaws in the Texas humidity. Must stay hydrated to avoid slowing me down. No vegans.

Pinhead

Suffering? Pain? Pleasure? Seemingly endless sequels? If this sounds like the perfect relationship, open up the Lament Configuration and come to Hell where we will suffer together for all eternity. Hope you’re into piercings.

Freddy Krueger

I’m burning for you, baby, and ready to slash my way into (or right through) your heart. Think fedoras and Christmas sweaters are hotter than the fire that melted my face? If that sounds like the perfect man for you, I’m the man of your dreams… or nightmares. Must love children.

Norman Bates

We all go a little mad sometimes, but I’ll fall madly in love with you! Mother will make you sandwiches while I tend to my taxidermy. Speaking of Mother, she’s won’t like you… AT ALL.

Hannibal Lector

I’ll capture your heart… and eat it, too. Along with your liver, spleen, brain, etc.

The Tinder Profiles of Your Favorite Horror Movie Killers was originally published in Lady Pieces on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It all started one morning when I was pouring myself a bowl of Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes and I saw him, there, on the box. To my surprise, something stirred inside of me. I had seen Tony the Tiger before of course, but I had never really looked at him, and now I felt like I was seeing him for the first time in all his striped glory. That capricious smile, that athletic frame… how had I not noticed it before? Tony the Tiger is a feline Adonis.

Some may view this as a bold or even vulgar statement, but once you see it, it’s hard to unsee. My reasons for this fascination are multifold.

First off, Tony is RIPPED. Just look at those biceps. I bet his arm didn’t even hurt after he got the vaccine. He could pick me up and twirl me around with one furry orange hand (paw?), no problem. Judging by his toned muscles, he has an annual gym membership.

Besides being a lustworthy piece of tiger ass, he’s good with kids! Kids love Tony. He’s like a fun uncle who lets them eat sugary foods until their teeth rot. But he’s also a father figure, the type of guy who would spend his afternoon playing catch with the kids.

I know he would be a tender and caring lover. After we finished making each other roar with pleasure, he would look deep into my eyes and whisper in that deep, sexy growl “that was grrrrreat.” He would even make me breakfast the next morning. The breakfast would be a large bowl of Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes because of contractual obligations, but still.

My friends don’t understand my attraction. They tell me my quarantine dry spell has lowered my standards to a dangerous level. I think they’re insecure because Tony could kick any of their boyfriends’ asses in a fight. Not that Tony is the type of guy to get in fights. He’s very committed to being a role model for the kids.

Obviously, I’m not seriously trying to pursue him! (Although Tony, if you’re reading this, call me.) I’m just saying, hypothetically, if somebody told me I had to choose one food mascot to rail me, I wouldn’t think twice.

Meanwhile, I’ll be stocking up on Frosted Flakes.

Tony the Tiger is Sexy and You Can’t Change My Mind was originally published in Lady Pieces on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Drivers all over the country are about to get a huge wake up call.

This week in her driver education course, local teenager Amanda makes a fascinating discovery, certain to change the lives of millions.

Classroom instructor Mrs. Smith asked the age old, yet obviously rhetorical, question, what do you do at an intersection?

“I’m not a genius, but I’m fairly certain that stop signs mean to stop,” Amanda said in the online class’s group message board during a discussion. Her instructor says that she was caught completely off guard. “No one had ever come to that conclusion before. Most people just keep driving,” Mrs. Smith claimed.

When asked to further explain herself in this discovery, Amanda continued with “yield signs mean to yield.” The class rippled with applause at the new found information.

Drivers of cars all across the country will take Amanda’s advice and begin stopping at the big eight-sided signs.

What does this mean for the future? Amanda has no further comment regarding the matter, but it’s sure to turn heads; both ways!

Breaking: Local Teen Discovers Octagonal Red Signs Mean “Stop" was originally published in Lady Pieces on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Discovery

The first step in the process. You either hear it from a friend, see it online, or Amazon’s algorithms perform their trickery.

You’re telling me there’s a sock mask you can wear for 60–90 minutes that slowly peels the dead skin off your feet? And it costs less than a pedicure that I want so bad but can’t responsibly or safely get because of a pandemic?

Add to cart, baby!

Anticipation and Fear

Once you’ve completed your transaction, you wait for your latest, and most disgusting impulse buy. You’re excited and nervous. It’s like that time you sent a MySpace message to the boy in your geometry class who looked like an extra on The OC.

Is it going to hurt?

Will my feet get raw?

Did I just waste $20-$25? I could buy avocado toast and an oat milk latte instead!

Are foot peels, avocado toast, and alternative milk lattes the reason I will never amass the wealth of previous generations?

Possibly. That, along with multiple economic disasters at key points of our generations life, wage stagnation, the housing crisis, climate change, etc.

Then, one day, the notification appears… it has arrived.

Maybe you just ordered the lone foot peel mask. Or, maybe you added to your order of medicated shampoo and a female urination device. However you purchase the mythical foot peel one thing is clear; going to be like the Battle of the Bastards on your calluses.

You excitedly open the package and examine your newly acquired treasure. Your heart rate increases — screw the gym — skin peeling beauty treatments is your cardio now!

As you prepare your feeties for cracked heel annihilation of 2020… panic ensues.

Do I really want to do this?

Yes, yes, you do.

Will I feel the skin sloshing around in my socks? Absolutely, yes. This will happen. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

Chill

You crack open a White Claw and get to business. The mask is on. There’s no going back. You set a timer on your phone. Your finger hovers over the play button on 1,000 Pound Sisters. It’s your time to shine, baby.

Back To Reality

The timer goes off. The chill ceases. You wash your feet off, per the instructions, and sock up.

You feel like an idiot for fearing a plastic sock full of acid. Life goes on.

Denial

A few days go by and nothing. You were anticipating an Olive Garden cheese greater scenario and have been sorely let down. Little do you know, the shit is getting ready to hit the fan, and the skin is about to come off.

Forgetfulness

Again, you go on with your life. Another week goes by. The foot peel is like your prom dress from 2006 — forgotten. You fall asleep at 10:00 pm on a Saturday night re-watching 30 Rock for the 1,000th time while drooling in a recreational NyQuill coma.

Life is good.

BUT… you wake up refreshed from your NyQuill coma. You put on your shoes and socks. Maybe you go for a run (yeah, right!). Maybe you stand in the kitchen aimlessly staring at the Target Weekly Ad.

It doesn’t matter what you’re doing. All that matters in the moment is the feeling in your sock. It’s something you’ve never felt before and you aren’t sure you like it or understand what’s happening.

Then, it dawns on you…

THERE’S FUCKING FOOT JERKY ALL OVER THE HOUSE

No further explanation necessary.

Folks, we’ve escalated much faster than we thought. Just when you think it’s safe to take your socks off before your nightly couch drool-fest…

It happens.

It peels.

You take your socks off and behold the majesty of the foot peel.

IT. IS. GLORIOUS.

The THERE’S FUCKING FOOT JERKY ALL OVER THE HOUSE phase is not to be trifled with. This is when the shit gets real. The peel has not failed. It has claimed you.

There is no going back.

Possible Regret

Not everyone will go through this phase, only the faint of heart. As you’re watching foot skin peel off in the shower and clean it out of your drain along with wads of your own hair, your heart might fill with regret and shame.

As shocking as it is seeing your own skin peel off, it’s what you came here for. You RSVP’d to the dead skin party and you don’t plan on leaving early.

It’s like Hotel California, you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.

Relief

Just as soon as it begins, it ends.

You throw your foot jerky-less socks into the laundry basket and admire your baby-smooth feeties.

You feel oddly accomplished. If you can survive the sloshing off of your own foot skin, think of everything else you can accomplish!

The DIY Pedicure

Now that your feet look like they belong to a human again and not Bigfoot, you get out your favorite nail polish and hop to it!

Well, not so much hop as awkwardly adjust yourself and perhaps throw a boob over your shoulder to get to your big toe.

Finally, you emerge from the trenches with a fresh coat of paint that resembles something Jackson Pollock created while driving down a gravel road on in a go-kart. Diligently, you take a cotton swab and dip it in some acetone to put the finishing touches on your masterpiece.

You promise yourself that you will put lotion on your feet every night AND sleep in socks. It’s time to turn over a new leaf; and you’re going to start with your feet.

Back to Your Nihilist Garbage Person Existence

A few weeks go by. At this point, you’re back to living your regular life of drudgery. Maybe you’ve been wearing the same $8 sweatpants you bought in college and your husband’s old wrestling t-shirt for three days whilst covered in Cheeto dust.

You’ve long given up on putting lotion on your feet every night… you’re an adult, damn it! There are things to do like watch 1,000 Pound Sisters, attempt to understand cryptocurrency, and look at your own period blood. Ain’t nobody got time for that!

Eventually, you realize your feet resemble a poorly maintained country road. You let it go for far, far too long. There is no way you can maintain this mess.

It’s time to pull out the big guns… pro pedi time, bitch.

You swallow your pride, slip on some flip-flops, pull up some erotic Buffy fanfic on your phone, slide back in the massage chair, and let a licensed nail tech judge your poor life choices.

The Emotional Stages Of A Foot Peel was originally published in Lady Pieces on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

More and more naïve feminists are espousing the importance of destigmatizing our monthly flow in articles, college courses, and twitter diatribes. If they had it their way, everyone would learn to be comfortable saying the word “period,” even when they’re not discussing grammar. They’re trying to create a world in which men can pick out tampons for their partner or friend without looking like a befuddled man in a cleaning commercial. We must put a stop to this at once.

We need to remember what our periods are capable of. As a paralyzing poison that allows us to capture men and suck out their life force to nurture our bodies, we can’t allow them to discover the truth about our monthlies. Obviously if men discovered how much paralyzing blood we release every month, they would try to weaponize it. It is our sacred weapon, entrusted only to us.

And it’s not just the menstruation itself we need to keep quiet. We have to keep all period-related paraphanelia out of the public eye. Whenever a man sees a woman’s tampon string, his head rotates 365 degrees. This traumatic event has an impact that lasts a lifetime. After that, any string makes men physically sick. They can’t even practice the knots they learned from boy scouts. Instead of blowing out birthday candles, they vomit on the wick tips.

And let’s not forget what happens at work when a spot of blood shows through our dress pants. The entire office goes up in flames.

We must stay silent about our menstruation. There are dangerous repercussions if we don’t. Our periods are a sacred birthright that tie us to all of Mother Earth’s creation. Like volcanic eruptions, our flows are powerful. Our fertility is like an unending ocean. And like the Venus Flytrap, we must hide that part of ourselves until we are ready to attack and liquify all men.

Ladies, We Need To Stop Talking About Our Periods was originally published in Lady Pieces on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.