Peanut Butter Paradise

“Love is the ultimate outlaw. It just won't adhere to any rules. The most any of us can do is to sign on as its accomplice. Instead of vowing to honor and obey, maybe we should swear to aid and abet. That would mean that security is out of the question. The words "make" and "stay" become inappropriate. My love for you has no strings attached. I love you for free.” -- Tom Robbins

Staring out the passenger window on my way back to the bus station, I could hardly believe that this trip was over already. How is it possible that time away from work slips by so much faster than time at work? Why do the moments with those you care most about seem so short and infrequent?

As some of kind of sick self-torture, I enjoy making promises to myself that I know I won't keep. Like my New Year's resolution, or the idea that I wouldn't sleep with him until penance had been paid, security was established, and understanding had been reached.

We slept together long before any of my self-made promises could be accomplished, just as I knew that we would. But it wasn't until the last few hours together that I felt at ease. Despite the childishness of the expression, I truly meant it when I said that sleeping with him makes my heart hurt. I don't think there's any more eloquent way to say it; the response is so basic that language desperately fails to capture even a portion of it.

The last time we slept together, just a short while before I left, was a needed reminder of the reason we stay. I often forget it, but it has a way of making itself known at the appropriate time. I shan't say too much more about it for fear of vulgarizing a pure memory, but I will say that it was probably the best time I've had in nearly a year.

It's amazing to me how easily a little good can overshadow so much bad. It's also amazing how quickly things turn from Lollipop Lane in Fantasy Land back to the mean streets of Reality.

Even before the weekend I had asked him not to come to my birthday party. At the time, it seemed like the right move to make--if you're single, you should act single; especially on your birthday. It probably still is the right decision. Now, and perhaps ever since I uttered the words, I secretly hope that I'll head out to my party and find him standing outside my door. Forget everything else. On this day, at this moment, there is no one else I want to spend it with.

Just Say No to Leprechaun Sex

I often wonder where some boys get the balls to approach women. If you’re a 5’6’’, chubby, unemployed, socially awkward, and ridiculously hairy man with coke bottle glasses, inconceivably poor fashion sense and the personality of a box of rocks, what delusion are you under that makes you believe anyone wants to sleep with you?

At what point do you look around the bar and think, “I bet I have a shot with that girl.”? Can the male ego really be that secure?

Last spring I was at a bar with friends, dancing together as drunk girls seem oh so inclined to do, when a walking caricature squeezed himself between my friend and I. Merrill, who hailed from Long Island and sported the classically cool look of ultra-thick glasses and mop of red curly hair reminiscent of one of the Stooges, honestly believed that he was exactly where he should be; that of the dozens of men in that bar, we were desperate to be humped by him and him alone. I made several barbed attempts at decimating his masculinity and self-esteem, but he was unrelenting. He was literally convinced that my friend and I were going to take him home and perform a live Skin-a-max show for his entertainment purposes. Clearly our efforts to be unforgivably harsh to him were mere signs of the playing hard to get syndrome. They weren’t, and eventually Merrill got the picture, but why were we forced to spend half of our night out dodging a creepy, ugly guy who never stood a chance with either of us?

The entire phenomenon baffles me, and I see it everywhere—men honking at women driving down the street, guys doing landscaping yelling at the girl trying to catch a cab, the non-English speaking men who persistently try to convince me that we’re meant to be together. I suppose you miss one hundred percentage of the shots you never take, but come on. There has got to be some more efficient way of seducing random women. Most of these tactics don’t even produce a positive result. For example, Merrill, at best, got publicly reamed by two girls and, at worst, could have spent the night with an ice pack. Honking at me while I walk down the street doesn’t make me want to fuck. It makes me want to pick up a rock and throw it through your windshield. And when I’m having a bad day, there’s a strong chance that I will.

What I find most amazing is the bravado and persistency with which men who have no chance will pursue a shot in the dark. Take last night as another example. I had a date with a leprechaun. Well, not literally, but it paints a certain image for you. Short, fat, glasses, bad clothes, bad teeth, worse hair, poorly chosen facial hair, lame jokes, and a disturbingly creepy vibe to him. And that was just my initial analysis. It only got worse from there. Not only did he explain that Jewish men are religiously obligated to please their women, but he mentioned it three times. If that’s not an exercise in overcompensation, I don’t know what is. About half an hour into this horrendously awkward outing, I fake yawned as obviously as possible and complained of how tired I was. “Oh man, 10:30 already? Geez, I’d better get home.” But he couldn’t take a hint. No, I tried to be nice, but he just wouldn’t let me. He offered me a massage. *shudder* The mere thought of his pudgy little hands touching me, even through my clothes, makes me want to set myself on fire. I politely declined. Mere moments later, he offered again, as though I wasn’t sure in the first place. If you want to piss me off, the easiest step is questioning my judgment. The second easiest step is being ugly and lame. This boy was well on his way to some serious displays of anger. I try to play nice, but underneath it all, I can be a real bitch. But I restrained myself slightly, and declined again. Finally I couldn’t take anymore when he asked if, since I didn’t want a massage, if I’d mind giving him one. My response:

“I can’t think of anything more repulsive than a leprechaun giving me a massage. Except me having to give you a massage.”

I tried to let him down easy, but in the end, as with so many previous cases, I finally had to push him out of the plane without his parachute.

Put it back the way it oughta be

And now for adventures in absurdist metaphors.

If you feel like a tomato is a vegetable, does it matter if you know it's a fruit?

I mean, tomatoes grow in a garden with other vegetables. I'll never see migrant workers climbing trees to fill basket after basket with red ripe tomatoes for mass consumption. I have never driven past a tomato grove. I'd put tomatoes in salad or on pasta, but would never eat them with ice cream or a delicious shortcake. In a world filled with sweet and wonderful berries, juicy oranges, perplexing kiwis, and reliable apples, there can be no room for tomatoes at my fruit table. So what if the tomato is the fleshy, seed-bearing part of a plant? In the core of my being, I feel that tomatoes are indubitably not fruits.

Am I wrong?

In short, yes.

But why?

Because tomatoes have the characteristics of fruits, and thus, are in fact fruits.

Perhaps, but I feel as though tomatoes are vegetables.

Your third grade teacher lied to you. Feelings or opinions can be, and in this case are, wrong.

Does this make sense to anyone else?

Til Death Do Us Part?

One of the most inimitable facets of being a hussy is laying claim to a plethora of lovers with diverse backgrounds and situations. In the long lines of boys seeking mature, commitment free frolics, there are bound to be some who are regretfully attached. Not all have take the long walk down the short aisle, but most have. Why would you bother cheating if you weren’t bound to someone else by slightly more than your word? In my humble opinion, there doesn’t seem to be much to gain in that situation. May as well just break up and be done with it.

Twice now I’ve found myself host to attached lovers. In fact, one of my very first forays into adult sexuality was via an insipid and spiritless affair with a married man. At the time I was a significantly different person; perhaps one of greater moral fortitude. After only four months, the relationship ended when I informed his wife of the true nature of her husbands numerous “business” trips. You might wonder what obligation or privilege I thought I had to spoil his fun, and rightfully so. Technically I was as guilty as he was, and as much a part of the pain inflicted on his wife as anyone else. Truthfully, the reason was because I was selfish, and sought to punish him for lying to me. And punish him I did, but not to make the wife feel better or because it was the right thing to do. Never trust me with your secrets.

A year ago I foolishly stumbled into another affair. Based on the learning experience the first affair provided me, I remain confused as to why I allowed it to happen again. There are innumerable difficulties in being a proper mistress. Most obviously is the fact that you are, and will always be, the other woman. You are not a primary participant, yet you haven’t the buoyancy of casual bystanders. Plus no one likes to share their toys. Beyond that, it’s important to note that affairs are not relationships; not even casual ones. There is absolutely no reciprocity in an affair because as a mistress, you aren’t, in fact, a real person. You exist merely as a fantasy. In the mind of the boy surely enamored with you, you don’t have a job to attend everyday, laundry to do, or friends to see. You never feel sick or bitchy or simply like being left the hell alone. You exist solely for the pleasure of that other person in the way that only fantasies can—adorned with thigh high stockings, garter belts, and balcony bras erotically posed on a bed/desk/counter/floor at all times. It’s wholly unrealistic to think a married man wants anything else in a mistress. If he wanted to see comfy cotton panties or hear about someone else’s day, he probably would have stayed home with his wife. At least fucking her is free. That’s what leads us to the benefits of being a mistress. It’s one word, and it’s so shallow that I’m ashamed to admit I fall prey to it. Presents. Mistresses get lots and lots of presents. New clothes, nifty tech toys, all manner of other toys, jewelry, lingerie, fancy room service, and anything else that isn’t nailed down and can be paid for with cash. Don’t get me wrong here. I do not have sex as a means of receiving gifts or being treated to dinner. However, I do appreciate appropriate compensation for interruptions to my day (and night) to engage in phone sex and otherwise stroke the “ego" of someone who offers me so little physically and emotionally.

Moving along now that I feel like a dirty, filthy person. I have a rule about boys searching for extra-marital fucking—I don’t sleep with fathers. While most of my behaviors have me indelibly marked for the bus straight to hell, I still can’t stomach indirectly affecting the lives of innocent children. See, I’m not completely devoid of ethics.

As I recently learned, my lover’s wife is pregnant with their first child, and thus this is the end for us. On the surface, I’m actually pleased that it’s over. He was too demanding and time consuming. At the levels below the superficial, however, I can’t say that I won’t miss it. Perhaps he was able to offer me something after all—it’s possible that he filled a void in my life as much as I did in his.

The Razor on my Private Water Slide

“Only good girls keep diaries. Bad girls don't have time.” - Tallulah Bankhead

I’ve been a very naughty girl these past six weeks.

Aside from work and keeping tabs on the innumerable nuts I know getting engaged or procreating, the last six weeks have been a veritable whirling dervish of lasciviousness, fury, tenderness, perturbation, anxiety, longing, absolute surprise, and warmth.

The rocket scientist debacle freed me up to guiltlessly pursue a more serious interest, and I am proud to say I have finally slept with someone who actually attended my university. Only took several dozen and a year since graduation to get there. Holmes (as he shall henceforth be known) is sarcastic without being pretentious, friendly without being overwhelming, passionate without being careless, and a sailor-swearing, chain smoking, White Russian drinking, hell of a boy. Naturally, I liked him from the start. What initially began as affable banter quickly evolved into wicked debauchery. Fantastic. Everyone has their shadows, and it was only a matter of time before his came into view. Gradually phone calls took longer to return, plans were broken, and interest waned. Sadly, there is only so much phenomenal sex can compensate for. Holmes claims that he is doing me a disservice, and I’m inclined to agree. He suggested Platonism, and I reluctantly conceded what all girls dread conceding—he’s just not that into me.

Only slightly worse for the wear (sometimes yoga isn’t enough), I carried on my merry way. Then, only a week later, at 1:00 am on Friday night, I received this text message:

Holmes: “Are you working tonight?”

What the fuck? Booty calls are neither platonic, nor appreciated. Thank you for visiting Easytown. Y’all come back now.

As a sidebar, on the five year anniversary of losing my virginity I fucked Boy Blue an hour before heading over to fuck Holmes. It was by far the most licentious four hours of my life. Perhaps I can’t pass for a tourist in Easytown, but that doesn’t mean I’ve made it my permanent residence.

Throughout it all, there’s one constant. I think we all know what I’m talking about here. I know that I promised to end the commentary, but it has to get out somewhere. Trust that I’m even more disappointed in myself than you are. The S continues to be my trusted friend, and a big time bee in my bonnet. We haven’t seen each other in three months or so. We’ve tried to be friends, but I am fervent believer in the old adage—friends can become lovers, but lovers can never become friends. Our inner imps peek out, and usually sooner rather than later, we’re back to our old antics again. The trouble is, it feels as though no matter where I stand, I’m always on the wrong side. I can’t stop myself from thinking of the other girls who’ve couriered and lost his favor over the years. I can’t help but imagine the ones lustily looming on the horizon. I can’t keep from oscillating between the feeling that I’m somehow fading and the feeling that I was never really there to begin with. I couldn’t keep tears from welling up in my eyes as I read through conquests and tenderness that I never seem to illicit or provide. I couldn’t keep my heart from pounding as I thought of the pristine novelty, furtive pleasure, and superficial contentment that they would inevitably share, and yet I was somehow deservingly denied. I couldn’t stop the flow when I realized that I am the supreme and interminable fool.

Overwhelmed, and on the verge of tears, I only begrudgingly opened my office door when my boss knocked with a package. Unlike clandestine letters, there is no way to mistake a flower delivery. The long narrow boxes are far from ambiguous. Inside was the first floral gift I’ve received from someone who knew me well enough to give my favorite flowers.

I’ll likely spend the rest of the night sorting through 100 pink, purple, white, orange, and yellow Peruvian lilies, vainly trying to decide which one is my favorite. There never was, and always is, a unanswered question.