Punch-drunk sex

I know this will shock y'all, but I've recently been considering working as a phone sex operator after graduation. Unlike my search for straight jobs, this has been exceedingly fruitful and painless. I posted my "resume" (which includes key questions like bra size and fetish experience) on Friday with a website. Shameless SAT reference alert: This webiste is to the adult industry what Idealist.org is to the non-profit world. I applied with a few agencies, nearly all of which have responded to me. It's disconcerting that I've achieved a 10% reponse rate when I send out my resume, cover letters, and writing samples, and about a 75% response rate when I want to talk dirty to complete strangers.

I had my first interview tonight, and I can't say I wasn't a *little* nervous. I'm confident in phone sex skills, and the generally pleasant sound of my voice, but it's intimidating to feel as though you'll be critiqued. Another part of the awkwardness of the impending interview was knowing that I'd be having phone sex with a potential boss. We're socialized to keep our professional and sexual relationships miles apart, but in the sex worker world, there is no such seperation. If you want to be in a porn, you've got to show your skills to the director/producers. And if you want to be a phone sex operator, you've got to perform for the owner or manager.

I was clearly still thinking like a straight employee because I assumed that my potential employer would be taking notes as I spoke and moaned, then offering criticism and suggested improvements. That was probably the stupidest assumption I have ever made. The interview actually turned out to be an enjoyable 90+ minute conversation. Before you ask, yes, it included phone sex. And no, I did not fake the orgasm, but more importantly, neither did he.

Long story short, yours truly may soon be a bonafide sex worker, at least in the auditory sense.

Here's what some of my friends are saying (more to come as reactions come in):

Toby: I don't even want to know. LOL

Me: i got a job!
Mike: yay!
Me: i'm gonna be a sex phone operator!
Mike: awsome?

Me: i was worried that i would get sketched out, but it was surprisingly easy to have phone sex with a random stranger
Co-worker: now, i would have assumed that you just pretend, cuz i mean how many times in a row can you do that when you are workng
Me: well, i think you do most of the time, but if i feel like doing it, i will
Me: i like masturbating
Co-worker: shut up
Co-worker: my life sucks and yours doesnt
Me: yeah...i have orgasms on job interviews; you can't have them while hooking up
Co-worker: bitch

I thought today was going to suck when I barely slept thanks to the fake orgasms Russell was giving my co-worker in the living room. That's how we know the "Let's Get Evicted" party was a success--people who don't live here were hooking up in our living room. Gross. But lo and behold, there is some justice in the world. Oh yeah, and I got a badass needle exchange shirt from my internship boss. Friggin' sweet.

Desert Island

My desert island, all time, top five break ups, in chronological order are as follows:

Andrew: I met him the week before I lost my virginity to someone else. I was a senior in high school, and my relationship with him represented something pure. He was probably the only person I fully let in. We never had sex, and that’s the only time that’s ever happened. Three months passed, and when he told me it was over for reasons I have yet to understand, in my teenage angst, I cried for days. It took a long time to get over him. I don’t believe that we can never let go of first loves, but I do believe that there is an element of those moments in every other relationship we have. I also believe our theoretical hearts only get broken once. But I still call him every time I find a new chip in mine.

Phil: End of freshmen year of college, I spend four months dating a 5’8’’ shmuck with a tiny dick. What can I say, I didn’t know any better. I never actually loved him, but he makes his way into the top five because of the reason we broke up. Through a fluke, I discovered he was married. Tricky bastard thought I wouldn’t figure it out. I ratted him out to his wife. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. I wasn’t so much sad that the relationship had ended; it probably would have shortly anyway. I was pissed that he had lied to me, and that I had been a part of something I considered morally reprehensible.

Jay: I met Jay sophomore year. Things were good, not spectacular, but good. It sounds boring, and maybe it was. We dated for almost a year and a half. I broke up with him because I didn’t want this to be the breadth of my experiences. I in fact broke up with Jay to become a hussy. At 20, I felt like I couldn’t limit myself, which is all of course complete bullshit. At 22, I know that I limited myself more by doing what I did. Being with him was comfortable. So comfortable that I worried I’d never be brave enough to try for anything else. Of them all, he’s the one I wonder most about.

Ricky: End of junior year, I ended up in a fling. What a way to start the summer. I didn’t expect anything to develop from it. We fought all the time, and I mean really fought. Standing in the middle of the street screaming at each other simply because it was raining. The next day, he’d call and we’d have the kind of make-up sex that literally leaves marks on you. He was obsessed with the idea of being in love, which is addictive at first. Eventually, I just got tired. How could anyone feel so strongly for months on end? I can’t talk about how it ended. There are pieces of him still lingering in my life. When you look at me in the right light, you can still see it, though I do my best not to miss him.

Chad: This is possibly the worst one, perhaps because it’s the most recent. Chad didn’t say fuck, or have sex. He said make love, even though I knew that wasn’t what we were doing. He was the best kisser in the history of kissers. He’d put his hands on the sides of my face, and deliver this soft, slow, long kiss. And it just made me melt. He had a great laugh, which showed that one of his top teeth was just a tiny bit crooked. It’s funny the things we choose to remember. He broke up with me two days before Valentine’s Day, and even though I’m not a romantic, I can’t lie and say I wasn’t crushed. He told me it was the hardest thing he ever had to do, and that if it were a different time, things would be different. Neither of those things was a comfort. The whole thing was like a fucking movie, and situations like that should always be avoided. I fucked three guys that week. Falling off the wagon is bad enough, but in this case, the wagon backed up and ran me over.

Now, two weeks before graduation, I’m filled with nostalgia over the top five. They each marked the phases of my college life and my relationships with them captured who I was in those moments. But college is almost over, and it’s finally time to say good-bye, once and for all, to the all time top five and head on down the road.

“Most of the time, I'm halfway content. Most of the time, I know exactly where I went. I don't cheat on myself, I don't run and hide, hide from the feelings that are buried inside. I don't compromise and I don't pretend. I don't even care if I ever see her again, most of the time.”

Beautiful girls

"I need to hear four words before I go to sleep: Good night, sweet girl. I'm easy, I know, but a man who can muster up those four words is a man I wanna stay with."

The Persistence of Memory

“She wakes early on a Saturday with the warm morning sun on her face, and finds the other side of the bed empty. If she turned over, she would see him pulling a white t-shirt (that isn’t his) over his dark curly hair and quietly slipping out the door. But she doesn’t turn over. She doesn’t think about the (in)significance of this moment. She doesn’t analyze the social circumstances and historical narrative that conceived moments like this. She doesn’t feel guilty, or ashamed, or really anything. She picks up a small notebook and pen from under the night-stand. She flips through the first few pages, finally stopping on a half-filled page. It’s a numbered list, and she adds his number and the date to it. His image has already begun to decay in her mind. Was his shirt blue? Were his eyes green? At this point, it doesn’t matter. He is reduced to a number. She writes “Chris?” and closes the book before falling back to sleep without considering that he won’t even remember her as a number, let alone a name.”

We let total strangers into the most intimate parts of our body. We expose ourselves completely to people we don’t even know. And at least part of us knows that if we bothered to get to know them, we wouldn’t want to sleep with them anymore. We don’t attach meaning to sex because we don’t see people; we see an act. We fuck, we orgasm, and then we realize that’s a person between our thighs. Our memory knows a thing or two about repression though, and allows us to move on. Images of someone melt, mesh, merge, and mold around thoughts in our minds. A memory boils down into a number. Then we wear our numbers like badges of simultaneous honor and disgrace, but often forgetting the people themselves entirely. I keep a list. I’ve become obsessed with remembering. I remember because I know how terrible it is to know you’ve been forgotten. I force myself to remember because I know it’s so much worse when you forget.

"Hi, Pot? This is the kettle. You're black."

I hate it when I sleep with someone and they keep calling. Even though I've been trying to give up my hussy ways, I occassionally relapse. I relapsed last Sunday, and even though he's a perfectly nice boy who was perfectly good in bed, I don't want to talk to him anymore. I'm sure I'd probably sleep with him again, given the chance. After all, he does have a tongue ring.

Despite being the worst movie ever made, I thoroughly enjoy coyote ugly stories. It's happened to all of us--you wake up next to someone so awful that you'd rather chew your arm off than have to stick around for the morning after. My problem is that I started having that kind of reaction every time I went to bed with someone. It was like an allergic reaction to potential commitment. And while I can be a henious bitch who uses people for sex, I don't like to hurt their feelings. Agatha has no problem "forgetting" to return the calls of her sexy British philosopher, but I foolishly keep answering the phone. What's a girl to do?

I've got a date with the boy from last week tomorrow. We're having dinner just around the corner from my place. He tries to be smooth and thinks I don't notice. Silly boy. Guess that means I've got to clean tonight. Ugh. I'll be sure to let y'all know how it goes. Let's hope I can keep from laughing.

On an unrelated note, I've decided to make my parents really proud and become a sex phone operator after college. Surely that will mean LOTS of hilarious stories, which is one of the reasons I do most everything.

Hustlers and thugs beware

As further proof that I'm still retarded at adult dating, I offer this story.

I went on a date last night in Dupont. We headed to a trendy pool place in Dupont, which was empty when we got there. We played a round of pool and had a few beers. The conversation was good, and we ended up completely losing track of time. We like the same things, we hate the same things. We both made fun of the yuppie guys trying to impress their over-tanned, fake Louis Vuitton sporting dates with unnecessary pool positions they weren't cool enough to pull off. All in all, things were going very well. I planned to go to a party afterwards to alliviate any temptation to sleep with him on the first date. By 11:00 pm, we were still sitting in the bar, completely unaware that several hours had passed. Eventually, we headed out towards the metro. As far as first dates go, this had been one of the least awkward and enjoyable, and completely sans fucking. Imagine that. Once we got to the metro though, and the goodnight kiss seemed imminent, I retreated to immaturity. He leaned in and kissed me, and I smiled to encourage him to kiss me again, which he did. Then, I did something I kicked myself for the rest of the night...I started giggling.

I would love to say that facial hair was tickling me, or that I was giggling at the drunk asses out for Thirsty Thursday. I wasn't. I giggled at the ridiculousness of kissing. Yes, I am in fact a third grader.

Moments of silence

I think it's astonishing that fifteen minutes can change everything. Fifteen minutes can become the most lasting memory you have of someone. How can fifiteen minutes replace everything that came before it? How can fifteen meaningless, insignificant little minutes predominate over months and months of other moments. Fifteen minutes that you can't ever change, or forget, or keep from being the first thing you remember. Fifteen minutes in which you said nothing. Just fifteen minutes, and you become a number...you become someone else.

In some movie, I can't remember which one, the protaginist said that our lives were made up of just a few big days--days that changed everything. I'd argue that everything can change in less than a day; less than an hour. I shudder to think of the days and moments that someone else would say made up my life. Maybe those big days changed me, but they aren't who I am. I refuse to let them be all that I am.

The words of one moment linger in your mind, and no matter what, you can't erase them. And sometimes you feel guilty because you miss hearing them.

You're no fucking Elvis

I apologize for the lack of updates recently. Things have been somewhat busy on the boy front, and with life in general. I'm certain that the boy I was fucking a few weeks ago is interested in more than fucking. Isn't that what hussies secretly hope for? It's one of those famous urban relationship myths, the fuck buddy who turned into a great love. But there's a reason why it's just a myth. We categorize people, sort them to keep our lives simpler. It's perplexed me for some time now, but we can't jump from one category to another. And while attraction and desire account for a lot, it isn't enough to make me swoon. I don't know what makes it so difficult to see him in a different way, but I just can't. I keep fucking him, because, frankly, I love knowing that he's interested and can't have me. I love the idea that I'm somehow unreachable to him.

Simultaneously, I started fucking a new boy today. I never get tired of hearing that I'm the best someone has been with. It never ceases to amaze me that whenever I hear that, I know it's not going to be the best that I've had. The sex was definitely good, just not amazing.

I would really love to write more and supply you all with the witty banter you've come to expect, but I'm tired and I basically can't attempt to produce anything worthwhile. Perhaps in a few days I'll feel more creatively inspired. Let's hope. In the mean time, check out Toby's blog for the first installment of Vivid Blurry Radio. Enjoy 30 minutes of us generally being inappropriate, and glimpse the splendor that is our lives.

Reason number 743 that I'm going straight to hell

As though the blasphemy and pre-marital fucking weren't reason enough, when I read that the pope died today, my immediate thought was that it was an April Fool's Day prank. Those crazy Catholics.