Sex by the numbers

Friend: i am a hussy
Me: me too
Me: i had sex with three people last week
Friend: hahaha
Friend: that's disgusting
Me: disgusting, but still awesome

So there are some numbers for you, nosey-pants. Not that three tells you a whole lot, but at least you know what I was doing last week. And I don't update that regularly because I generally only update when I have a story to share, which usually only happens when I fuck someone. And while I'm sure that my sex life is more active than most of yours, it's never going to be that active. So sadly, I cannot update daily, or even every other day. The best you can hope for is three times a week. I'm sure you'll last though; I do. Besides, the minimal number of posts makes you enjoy it all the more when I do post.

Life as we know it

On Sunday morning, while my guest and I were enjoying my temporary lack of roommates, I heard a loud knock on my door. I couldn't imagine who would be at my door at this time of day, but I grabbed my blanket and went to look in the peephole. I saw the face that I least want to see when I am orgasm hunting: Russell. And not just Russell, but Russell and cases of beer and a girl. I open the door, dressed only in my blanket and hiss "What the hell are you doing here?" Apparently, Russell had made arrangements to have a NASCAR party at our apartment. I remember hearing about it, but not that it was this Sunday. The cases of beer meant I had to invite Russell in, but I'll be damned if he's going to cock-block me. So I went back into my room, and had possibly the best sex of the weekend. Admittidly, it was kind of hot knowing that there were people in my living room.

After my guest left, Russell commented on his "shit-eating" grin. What can I say? I'm just that awesome.

The morning after

It's not just a pill, it's a sick and strange feeling of combined guilt and elation. At 5 am, the first thing I noticed were nearly knee high black boots and a studded belt on my bedroom floor. Boots like that can only mean one thing. Confirming my suspicions, I quickly recognized the black and gold condom wrapper next to the trash can. Dread.

At 7:30, I woke again, more confused than the first time. The boots were gone. Did I dream this? Did last night really happen? Of course it did; there's no denying it. But to the more critical question, where are those boots? I laid in bed for a minute or two, trying to piece together the events of the evening. Slowly, I recalled the when, the where, and most upsetting, the who and the why. Just as I was gathering my thoughts, I heard the zip of those boots. Boots like that require a good 10 minutes to tie, and about 30 seconds for the final touch--the zipper. In a morning after situation, the sound of a zipper is both disturbing and comforting. On the one hand, it means that the person who loved you so much the night before is trying to sneak out before you wake up. They do not want to see you again. On the other hand, the sound of the zipper is a comfort because you don't want to see them again either, and now you don't have to. Even more than that, the sound of the zipper and all it symbolizes is a comfort because it is so familiar.

Should I lie and say that I didn't miss that sound? Should I say that I wasn't craving it? Should I say that it was better when I thought that sound wasn't coming? I probably should, but I won't lie to you. That sound is always coming, but in the morning after, at least I know when to expect it.

For a moment I was surprised by the zipper, and I jumped out of bed. I burst into the living room, hoping to catch him in the act, but alas, the next familiar sound: the click of the door closing. Now, I cannot explain why I did what I did next. It makes no logical sense. I didn't want to see him, he didn't want to see me. And furthermore, I was wearing nothing but my purple blanket. I opened the door, stepped into the hallway and just starred at him. I said nothing, I felt nothing. I just looked at him. He turned around, and said "I didn't want to wake you." He opened his arms and hugged me, pressed my face into his shoulder. Then he simply walked away. And I just stood in my hallway wondering how that damn mohawk managed to stay exactly in place.

About an hour and a half later, I found this note on his pillow: "I hope this won't confuse your life as much as it has mine."

Guilt.

I won't go into our long history together. I won't go into why I invited him over, or why I drank half a bottle of tequila. I won't go into why I fucked him. All I can say is that I hate it when I get what I want.

And she's back in the game

Well folks, it took half a bottle of tequila and a Beyond 7, but I'm offically back and likely better than ever. Stay tuned for updates about tonight and this weekend.

Bridges burned

I am not going to blog about this weekend. Certainly, there are things to be said, but I'm not ready to say them.

I fucking hate everyone who bitches about Valentines Day. Yes, Valentine's Day is one of the greatest examples of American consumerism. It's a manufactured holiday created to increase revenues between Christmas and Easter. We get it. Move on with your fucking day. It's not single awareness day. It's not an opportunity for you to whine about not having a significant other. Really, no one gives a shit. That's as retarded as people referring to Christmas as "Jewish Awareness Day." If the worst thing you have to deal with in your sad little life is not having a boyfriend, then shame on you. No one cares that you're single. In fact, you being single is a detriment to our economy. So either spread your legs and do your part or shut the fuck up. And even if you are fucking someone steadily, I still don't want to hear about it.

No time to continue my rant...I've got some serious fucking to catch up on. It is entirely possibly that the hussy in me may be back. It is also entirely possible that I am just trying to distract myself. But who the fuck cares?

"Oh yeah, and Happy Valentine's Day."

Technically there is a new post below the one about the free clinic. It was a draft that I just finished today, so enjoy and stop bugging me.

Welcome to the free clinic: The right of passage for our generation

Oh the free clinic. Sure, we all laughed when Vicki posed outside a Texas free clinic prior to her HIV test, but it's not that funny in real life. First of all, due to high demand, my choice of appointments was very limited. So 10:40 am on a Tuesday it is. Getting up early always has its challenges, but getting up at 8:30 to have my vagina poked by a stranger and scraped is more difficult than normal. Regardless, I got up to find our apartment only running cold water. Super. The one day I can't skip a shower and the water is fucking freezing. Showered and dressed, I trudge to the Metro to meet my friend, who is a dear saint by the way for coming with me. I was advised to arrive 15 minutes early to complete all my paperwork at Planned Parenthood, though as soon as I walked in, I knew 15 minutes would not nearly be enough. The paperwork took me 35 minutes and included a 6 page packet on who Planned Parenthood may share my confidential health information with. Yet another super part of my super day. Good thing I was 40 minutes early, though that didn't seem to matter since I sat in the waiting room until 11:20. My poor friend passed out on my shoulder whilst I watched a man with an eye patch (yes, just like a pirate) duke out a family fued on Judge Hachett. Finally, my turn. Before I continue, let me just fill you in on some of the fears that I've been experiencing prior to this visit.

Reading about STI's and HIV all day at my internship filled me with the fear of god to get tested again. I used to be anal about testing...every six months, without fail. But alas, just as I began racking up sexual partners, larger gaps between tests became a reality. So, I've essentially convinced myself that I have some horrible disease which will make me the least desirable sexual partner in a 10 mile radius. In addition, I am terrified and disturbed by male ob/gyns. On a practical level, male ob/gyns make no sense. Let's consider this from another angle. If you had a problem with your foot, would you go to a pediotrist who was born with no legs? Of course not, because he or she could not possibly understand the complaint you have. From a gender theory perspective, male ob/gyns are intimidating. It's a complicated explanation that I did very well while sleep deprived last week, so I'll try to replicate my argument. In every interpersonal relationship with men, women are made very aware of the gender of the male, and of their own gender based inferiority. For example, when I talk to another girl, I'm not consciously thinking, this is a girl. Yet when I talk to a guy, I am at least always subconsciously aware that he is male and I am not, and thus he has power that I do not have. Combine that gender based power with the vulnerable position one is put in during a pelvic exam, and it can be down right frightening. I've never gone to a male ob/gyn. In fact, I've gone to the same woman for the past 7 years. For some reason, I convinced myself that only men would staff Planned Parenthood. Talk about illogical.

So, the first order of business once behind the locked and frosted glass door of the clinic was drawing blood. I'm not the biggest fan of needles (who is?) but the nurse was awesome despite my veins constantly playing hide and seek. She then asks me if I want to wait a week for my HIV results or if I want to get them in 20 minutes. Umm...duh. Oral swabbing it is! Then it's off to the exam room for what promises to be the best part of the day. I assume the position, and am joined by a former hippie and nurse. She glances over my medical forms and asks me a series of questions that I already answered in the forms. Here is some excerpts from our conversation for your enjoyment.

Nurse: How many cigarettes do you smoke a day?
Me: 10. [Lies]
Nurse: Well, you should really consider quitting.
Nurse: How many sexual partners have you had in the last 3 months?
Me: X number.
Nurse: Well, I think you should try to limit the number of partners you have to take better care of yourself.
Nurse: What kind of contraceptives do you use?
Me: I always use condoms.
Nurse: Well, I encourage you to keep that up.

Moments later, after taking my blood pressure...

Nurse: Your blood pressure is a bit high. You should have that checked out.
Me: Could it possibly be from stress and irritation?

Then the fun part. I could tell you a bunch of information about me and my cervix and how we don't get along with speculums, but I won't. That's just an overshare. Anyway, things finish up and she returns to tell me I'm HIV negative.

Let's all have a big sigh of relief. 1, 2, 3, and togther. Exhale.

In one to three weeks, we'll find out how I faired on the other tests. As Lola always says, "Pray for chlamydia!"