marry into the mob

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23 & in love. ♡

men & boys: the difference by

Men & Boys: The Difference
A Guide For Girls

by Ian Sharman

The difference between a “man” and a “boy” has nothing to do with age, but with practice you’ll find it easy to spot the difference.

A boy may hold open a door for you, because he thinks you’re too weak to do it yourself.
A man will hold open a door for you, because he believes you are better than him, and such tasks are beneath you.

A boy will remind you of his birthday.
A man will remember yours.

A boy will dread your time of the month.
A man will know when it is before you do, and have the chocolate ready.

A boy believes that sometimes “no” means “yes.”
A man knows that “no” means “no” and that, in fact, sometimes “yes” means “no” as well.

A boy will want to do things to you.
A man will want to do things with you.

A boy will believe that real men don’t cry.
A man will not be afraid to show his emotions.

A boy will think that the idea of a threesome is awesome.
A man won’t want to share you with anyone.

A boy will spend his time wondering what he can get from you.
A man will spend his time wondering what he can give to you.

A boy will think you should be grateful that he comes home to you.
A man wouldn’t leave without you in the first place.

A boy will tell you what he thinks.
A man will ask you what you think.

A boy may call you “bitch” or “ho.”
A man will call you by name.

A boy will have a back up plan.
A man will be lost without you.

A boy will be afraid of commitment.
A man will think forever is too short a time with you.

A boy will say “If you loved me you would.”
A man will simply say “I love you.”


"I Could Have Been a Mob Wife"

It’s all parties and drama on the reality hit Mob Wives, but Suzanne Corso knows the real deal (diamonds and everything!). She dated a mobster for years—and now she wants to set the record straight on this whole gangster-glam craze.
by Liz Brody

I was 15 the summer I met Tony.* I remember the exact moment: My friends and I are standing on the corner of 18th Avenue and 73rd Street in Brooklyn, during the Santa Rosalia Feast, when he pulls up on his motorcycle. He’s wearing these little shorts, the sleeveless muscle T-shirt, the gold chain with the cross. He gets off his bike just like John Travolta. He’s gorgeous, the kind of guy I’m thinking would never look at me in a million years. All the girls are throwing themselves at him, and he comes over to me and says, “Hi. You wanna take a walk in the Feast?”

I hesitated because I didn’t know him, but he was so damn charming, I agreed. We strolled around, and he bought me a sausage-and-pepper hero, plus an extra one to take home. Later, when I gave it to my Jewish mother and grandmother, they asked, “Where’d you get this? We didn’t give you money.” A sausage hero was a big deal because we were on welfare and received food stamps. Neither of them liked the neighborhood Italians. My Catholic Sicilian father had walked out on my mom when she was 19 and eight months pregnant with me—at least that was my mother’s story. “Gangsters,” my grandma would say. But she ate the sandwich.

The next day, boom—Tony was like, “You should be my girlfriend.” He was 17, and we became inseparable. My mom and grandma were fishy about him, but he started coming to the house and was able to finally win them over. He took me out for lobster and steak, and oh, the gifts. He gave me a black fox coat with silver trim and a diamond bracelet. Soon, though, I realized he rarely went to school, yet he was picking me up in a silver Porsche.

“What do you do?” I asked him.

“I’m in construction.”

A lot of his friends were, I came to learn. Their hands were clean, not a callus to be found, but everyone was in construction.

From Jewels to Abuse

The first time we had sex, I was 15. I’m in his mother’s bed, it hurts, and afterward he says, “Go to the bathroom, wipe yourself and bring the toilet paper back to me.” I look at him like he’s cross-eyed. And he says, “You better do it.” So I do, and, oh my God, there’s blood. “Good,” he tells me. “Now I know you were a virgin.” I should have run so fast.

And I mean fast, because then he started smacking me around in front of his friends and family—backhanding me in the face, pulling my hair—and the girls would say, “Don’t worry. He just cares about you.” Afterward, Tony would come to me and say, “I’m really sorry. I’m under a lot of stress. Here’s a diamond necklace.” Honestly, if you’re a mob girl, getting smacked around is a way of life. And the abuse is taken to a whole new level because you’re going out with people who everyone says commit murder and chop up bodies so they can’t be found. So you don’t say anything; you just shut your mouth and put up with it.

The other thing is, you are never the only woman, ever. I was Tony’s “main girlfriend” and was expected to follow orders. “I need you to be home” is what he’d tell me. Meanwhile, he’s out doing what? “None of your business.” I’d find lipstick in his car, panties in his bed—one time right after we’d made love! But still I stayed. I even dropped out of eleventh grade because Tony didn’t want me in school anymore. Too many boys, he said. People think, How could you? Well, you know what, honey? You’re not in my shoes.

And when you are in these shoes, it’s a very scary situation with a guy who has friends who could kill you. I’ll never forget the time I opened Tony’s glove compartment and saw a gun. When I asked about it, he snapped, “It’s none of your business. Never open it again or I’ll beat the f—king s—t out of you!” I believed him.

Then I started reading news articles about local robberies that had his friends’ names in them. I wasn’t stupid—I knew everything these guys were giving their girlfriends fell off a truck somewhere. About two years into the relationship, I wanted out. I was determined to leave Brooklyn, have legitimate friends and become a writer. But when I tried to break up, Tony wouldn’t let me—and, of course, when you’re seeing a mob guy, you’re not just with him; you’re dating his whole network. You’re completely trapped.

Making a Break

What saved me was Tony’s arrest. I was 19. The judge, Leslie Crocker Snyder, was a big deal, and I went to see her. “You’re a good kid,” she told me. “You’re on your way to college. I’m putting him away. Just go on with your life.” [Tony would ultimately be convicted of two counts of manslaughter and weapons possession, among other charges, and serve more than 14 years behind bars. “I remember him well,” Crocker Snyder told Glamour. “He was very good-looking and had a slight gangster macho and a terrible record. And in the courtroom I could just sense the control his friends and family were exerting on Suzanne.”]

All I can say is that when he went to jail, I felt such a sense of freedom, like bricks being thrown off my shoulders. I wasn’t going to let that chance go. I got my GED and went to college. And I met a great guy who worked on Wall Street. Tony had sent his thugs to intimidate the first couple of men I dated, but this man said he didn’t care. We started going out, and he asked me to marry him six weeks later.

I still have other friends from the mob days. Renee Graziano [star of Mob Wives] was my maid of honor! I love Renee—we all grew up together. I just decided to take another path. I moved out of Brooklyn and became a writer; last year my first book was published, my second is almost done and there’s a movie in the works. Now I know what I didn’t know that first day I met Tony: When you date a mob guy, he controls your whole world. Today I can’t even imagine a man telling me to shut up. Forget the furs and diamonds; I’d rather lead my own life.

Suzanne Corso is the author of the novel Brooklyn Story.

*Tony is out of prison now; his name has been changed at Corso’s request.

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one day

You’ll walk through the front door. Our front door. Even though it’s been three or four years, you’ll still sneak up behind me and wrap your arms around me while I’m stirring the tomato sauce (because well, let’s hope I’ve learned to cook something by then) and Dean Martin’s crooning echoes in the kitchen. You’ll pick me up and set me on the counter, we’ll kiss, and forget all about eating. Because that’s what happens when you fall in love. You become lost in someone. The only things we’ll fight about will include spilling the red sauce on the white tile, and who loves who more. The cold of February will be banished by our lovemaking, and we’ll call off work on rainy Tuesday mornings just to eat breakfast in bed and not get dressed. A white porch swing will be our June evenings, where we listen to the mating calls of crickets and take shelter under constellations we’ll pretend exist for us. A slow, sticky August might make others lazy, but it will only ignite us more. You’ll catch glimpses of tan lines underneath my dress while we ride the train, and I’ll coyly insist I didn’t notice, even as I guide your hand. And we’ll never have to cry anymore, because we’ll have found everything we ever needed in each other. We’ll be home.

"When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free."

Wendell Berry (The Peace of Wild Things)