Dating Down

Seeing beautiful girls with ugly boys fills me with rage. I shouldn't get so angry--other people are entitled to their stupid decisions. I can't help my frustration though. It seems such a waste to see people with someone so obviously far below them. Beyond that, it sets a bad precendent for other boys who may be watching. They see a pretty girl with a balding slob and then they too believe that they are entitled to score such booty despite being fat, stupid and having personal hygenie that is described as questionable.

Normally, I tend to think that my boys are pretty close to on par with me. Years ago, most of my boys were lucky to have graduated from high school and have a social life that extended beyond waxing their cars and hanging out by 7-11. Most were alright looking, but carried themselves with a certain, shall we say, proletariat charm. Their various career paths generally involved a lifetime of manual labor or were even less than ambitious. But they worked fine at the time, and as any small town girl can tell you, there is just something about a tool belt that makes your panties get a little wet.

Now my boys are better educated and more interesting, but they're more or less of the same physical calibur. At least, I think they are. Maybe my sense of self is a little depleted because I've recently been told that I am "dating down." The Roommate went so far as today that I "went ugly early" in reference to my most recent boy. Sure he's a little older than me, and not exactly the epitome of coolness, but who am I to judge? I don't know why I asked that--I judge everyone else freely and without shame. Why should the boys I sleep with be immune? At any rate, I'm wondering if my friends are right. Despite being an obvious egomaniac, I don't usually think that I'm too good for someone unless there is a glaring reason why (see my post on leprechauns).

If I discover that I'm dating down, what do I do? Do I just stop sleeping with him with no reason? Eh, wouldn't be the first time.

Fuck you

You know why.

Social Lubricants

I'm a huge fan of, and advocate for the use of, lube. Water basd, silicone, flavored--variety is the spice of your fucking life. My diverse collection includes two kinds ID Glide, three types of KY, a bottle of Astroglide, and a soon to arrive special order. Lube makes everything go a little bit smoother and easier. For the sexually inexperienced, I recommend lube; lots and lots of lube. Unlike most things in life, when it comes to lube, there is no such thing as too much. In fact, too much is almost enough.

While lube takes my sex life to slippery new places, booze is hardly helpful when it comes to sliding between the sheets. As one of the most socially awkward people on the planet, I see a lot of virtues in alcohol. I'm infinitely more personable and charming when my date has had a few drinks. Beyond the instant personality boost, I'm much more likely to say what's really on my mind (Fuck me, Fuck me, FUCK ME, yes, GOD, YES!!!) when I've been drinking than while I'm sober. Drinking is the most commonly accepted form of meeting potential sex partners, especially for those of us in our twenties. You don't see girls prancing across the bridge into Adams Morgan in 4 inches heels and barely there shirts because it's comfortable and warm or because they just want to have a good time with their friends. No, we get skanked out and go to bars because we're hoping to take someone home, or at the very least, attract some sexually charged attention.

Boozin' can lead to a lot of stupid decisions when it comes to sex. The first possible tragedy that comes to my mind is going to bed with someone who seemed cute, but in the morning has bad hair, fucked up teeth, and a nasty snoring problem. We'll all experienced this little slip up, but it's usually easily solved by faking a seizure or telling the person that "last night was really special." Next on the Oops List is having unprotected sex. Again, so many of us have been down this road. Unfortunately this accident isn't as easily remedied, but after you make an appointment at the free clinic and rediscover your dignity, it's nothing a little penicillin or a good push down the stairs can't cure. Usually.

Thankfully I've been host to very few alcohol related sexual fuck ups. This is largely due to the fact that I rarely fuck when I'm drinking. I don't like feeling out of control with people I don't know well, and since that's the case with most of the boys I see, I generally keep it to a two beer maximum. After a good night of drinking, I usually wake up with crazy hair, a headache, and regrets over what I may or may not have said. Frankly, I don't want the people who give my orgasms to see me like that. Feed the illusion. Also, I have no patience for beating myself up over stupid slip ups that could have easily been avoided if I had laid off the sauce.

Recently I've been drinking a lot more, and while I haven't fallen prey to either of these all too common woopsies, I've discovered another tragic downside to mixing two of life's most wonderful vices. For me, drinking has about the same affect on my desire to fuck as porn does. Initially, I want to fuck like crazy. Slowly, but surely, I never want to fuck again. Beers one through four make me abnormally horny. Beers five through eight make me likely to fuck you but unlikely to enjoy it. All beers beyond that point make me likely to either vomit or be so dizzy that if jostle me in any way, I will vomit. Of course, I have some assemblance of self control and can usually keep myself safely in the four zone. The tragedy lies in my inability to control how many beverages my date consumes. Because I have limited experience with the joys of drunken fucking, I considered whiskey dick and other such affirmities to be largely urban dating legend. Several times now, my most recent boy has arrived at my door tanked out of his mind. I don't mind because I like to have the company and he's a decent fuck when sober, but this drunken fucking thing is on my last nerve. First, I don't like to sleep with boys who can't come because it damages my self esteem and when I'm in bed, I want to feel like a rock star. If you say you want to fuck me, then you fucking well better have an orgasm. Second, I'm not usually a once and done kind of girl. I have insomnia and thus prefer to fuck at least twice as it wears me out and occupies my otherwise boring sleepless hours. Unfortunately, the dozen or so drinks this boy consumes on a weeknight leave him either capable of fucking me but not capable of coming or only capable of proper fucking me once. I'm not quite sure how to remedy this, but I'm considering a boycott on calling booze "social lubricant", as I feel it's dirtying up lube's otherwise good name. My only consolation is that he can, at the very least, always get hard. If that became a problem, one of us would end up facing uncoming traffic.

Newton's Third Law

“For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.” -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Where the hell have I been?!?

In October I journeyed to southern Virginia to visit an ex and see his new baby. Oh babies. So special. It's strange enough to see your ex with someone new. It's even stranger to see them with someone new and their two children. But, like the trooper I am, I complacently posed for pictures with the delightful tots and contributed to the delusion that this situation will end anywhere but misery, divorce and therapy. On the bus ride home, I started a conversation with the boy in the seat next to me. Everyone knows that once I start a conversation with a boy it's only a matter of time before I end up in bed with him. And honestly, what could go wrong when you meet someone on a Greyhound and take them home?

A lot.

Like a four month relationship.

Oh fuck.

From October to January, I was a bona fide girlfriend. Not someone you fuck two or three times a month and ignore otherwise, but someone you bring chocolates to and spend Christmas with. In all seriousness, I have no idea how that happened. One minute you're "just having fun" and the next minute you're being introduced as "my girlfriend." As a sidebar, I think the only three words that are worse to hear in the dating world than we're "just having fun" are "I love you." Despite my conditioned response to run like hell from anything resembling commitment, I played along. I did the double dating thing, which is double the awkwardness and misery of a regular date. I cooked dinner and washed dishes. I went to hockey games that I didn't give a shit about. I watched a Bond movie. At the theater. I spent Saturday nights "just relaxing at home." I took him home to meet my family at Christmas. I endured 40 minute pointless stories about how great it was to be in the Peace Corps and endless jokes that weren't particularly funny. I laughed at those jokes. I quit smoking because he hated it. I had sex with just one person.

Why would I do this? Because I could and I need to remember that I was capable of it. I wanted to know that something wasn't broken in me -- that the fucking I've been doing was because I wanted to, not because I felt compelled to. Pretty quickly though, I realized that I wasn't especially fond of the person I was dating. I didn't mind the relationship stuff, despite the obvious shock to my system. But I did mind him. It's funny to me that even when someone is so fucking annoying, I don't want to them to break up with me. One would think that it would be a relief because now I could be lazy and not have to say that the sound of his voice made me want to scratch his eyes out. But oh no, it was no relief at all.

Every step in my relationship with Disingenuousness (as he shall forever be known) felt like I was being blindsided. I'm just walking along, minding my own business, and then BAM! I'm in a relationship. Then I'm just riding the train, minding my own business, and BAM AGAIN! He's moving to the furthest place he could go and still be within the United States. Not only is he moving to Alaska completely out of the fucking blue, but he's leaving in less than 12 hours. "Come to the bar if you want to say goodbye," he says. Excuse me? I think not. If you fucking want to break up with me and run away to Alaska, then you'll have to come to my house and do it like a man. Boys, unlike men, lack the courage to accept the consequences of their actions. So he broke up with me over the phone and sheepishly stood at my door to impart his goodbye message: "Don't be a stranger."

For everything that I missed when I was in a relationship, I gained a very strong sense of what I do not want in my life. I don't want to laugh when your jokes suck. I don't want to eat okra because you like it. I don't want to look at African art on a gorgeous day. I don't want to take a multi vitamin. And I fucking want to sit on my porch and chain smoke Parliament lights while drinking beer out of the bottle. That's what I like. Before Disingenuousness, I couldn't only say what I did and did not like in bed. Now, with all certainty, I can say that what I do not want to put up with. I've gained a whole new sense of my identity. For everything that I gained while I was in and out of a relationship, I lost something of equal value. Half a dozen good lovers have gone missing or perhaps died from neglect. I choose to believe they've died as I don't want to imagine them having fun without me. Now, I'm attempting to reconnect and rebuild the roster and do exactly what I want exactly when I want to.