Boys Say the Darndest Things

Sex on Fire

2010-07-21T21:06:00.000-05:00

Sex used to be it.

On a Friday night, a Tuesday morning, a Thursday lunch--it was always the perfect time. I usually never had a shortage of boys to fill my bed. It was a good life.

But these days, it just hasn't been the same. I'm not sure what the difference is; if it's the relationship or the birth control or the stress. Maybe it's too much beer and cheese. Maybe it's the weather. Maybe I'm all sexed out.

Whatever the cause, this crisis has shaken me to my core. Being oversexed was part of my identity, thread in the fabric of my very being! I pulled out every tool in my arsenal: initiating sex more, wearing thongs (or no panties at all!) everyday, introducing phone sex and new toys. I got a wax and spent about $300 on new lingerie. I even bought some of that KY Intense (sidebar: not as good as miracle orgasm gel. Nothing seemed to make much difference. I was at the end of my rope until an idea popped into my head at the most inopportune moment. Let's do it in the bathroom.

No, not the bathroom at my apartment. The bathroom at this bar. Not just any bar. The bar we're at with our friends, family, and, yikes, your parents! The thought came into my mind so quickly that I didn't have time to think of consequences or talk myself out of it. Before I knew it, there I was in the handicap stall of the women's bathroom with my skirt bunched up around my hips. Passion, spontaneity, heavy breathing--it was all back. Every time I've fallen asleep since then, I've woken up soaked in sweat with my heart racing. It's still a good life.

2010-06-12T22:55:00.002-05:00

I just spent an hour on a post about how my relationship is failing. I deleted it because I'm sick and fucking tired of thinking about it. While many good things have come from living here, the worst possible thing is that I feel as though I've lost myself. Most everything I ever connected with my identity is no longer part of my life. Honestly, I miss the sex. Relationships do not yield good sex and I don't fucking get it because every movie I've ever seen has led me to believe that they do just that. Then again, every porno I've ever seen indicates that the best fuck comes unexpectedly from someone there to service your plumbing or cable. Interesting.

The whole thing is about feeling independent. As it stands, it feels like my whole life is wrapped up in one person--a person who doesn't have the greatest track record with me. And it's not just the present. I've built a future in my mind that continuously seems futher away rather than closer. Should I stay or should I go?

2007

2009-11-05T18:54:00.003-05:00

Two months of leaving the same message over and over again: "Hey, it's me. Just calling to catch up. Call me back when you have some time. Miss you."

Radio silence.

Every logical cell in my body indicates that I shouldn't care. My relationship with The Friend of a Friend was terrible, emotionally damaging, and volatile at best. At worst, it produced the greatest regret of my life and plunged me into a four month depression in which I barely recognized myself. To this day, I have nightmares about the things we went through together.

Perhaps that's why it bothers me that he's fallen off the face of the earth. Over the years, I've lost touch with nearly every lover I ever had. Most went unnoticed, but the absence of some hurt, but not like this. It was a fading pain, quickly erased when someone new and shiny caught my eye. This is not about lust and maybe it's not even about missing someone. I've considered that it may be vanity. I occasionally wondered why he didn't remain as screwed up about me as he once was. But I can accept that love fades and you miss people less and less every day. Thinking about him inevitably leads my thoughts to memories that break my heart. Sometimes I felt like they broke his heart too. I miss the camaraderie of shared misery.

Mostly I worry that he has forgotten everything about us (plural as in "us three"; not as in "we"). I feel like I lost everything connected to that moment in my life and he was the only thing I had left of it. And now he seems to be long gone too. 2007 was our best year and I wonder why it doesn't keep him up at night, like it does me.

For Whom the Bell Tolls

2009-08-31T19:11:00.002-05:00

"For her everything was red, orange, gold-red from the sun on the closed eyes, and it all was that color, all of it, the filling, the possessing, the having, all of that color, all in a blindness of that color."

In every anxiety filled moment, I keep wondering when the other shoe is going to fall and where it will land. As summer ends, I am riddled with fear of the future, be it the next 24 hours or the next 24 years. I've tried to pinpoint the source of all this anxiety, because, for all intensive purposes, I have everything I once desired. Well, not everything, but close enough to be happy.

The thing I fear is that all things that I've come to love are going to abruptly come to an end. Most frequently, people advise me to live in the moment and just enjoy life for what it is. Then I worry that I will be blinded to reality, blinded by all the rich, beautiful color. Maybe one day he'll wake up next to me and realize that he doesn't love me, and I will no longer be beautiful. Maybe our relationship will grow more serious, and it will be all the more unsettling when I finally open my eyes. I am worried about what will happen when the moment ends.

About the only idea I've found comforting recently is this: "There isn't any need to deny everything there's been just because you are going to lose it." It may not be tomorrow, but eventually, I will lose everything I work for, everything I love. The end may be inevitable, but there is so much in the interim. Why not be happy and embrace the warm glow around me. Let love in and let today be filled with the beautiful sun. Who knows for whom the bell tolls? It may be for thee. Or for me.

2009-07-26T21:32:00.001-05:00

You know when you have an orgasm so intense your eyes well up with tears? Yeah, those are the ones that clue you in to the fact that you're in love.

Beautiful from Behind

2009-07-20T21:16:00.002-05:00

Last year, I noticed my first wrinkle while on the way to dinner with my then boyfriend's parents. Right between my eyebrows, clear as day, reminding everyone that I scrunch up my brows too much. Try as I might, I can't stop running my finger over it.

Then there's my ever growing collection of grey hairs. And cellulite. And hips that seem to widen every time I go to sleep. And a stomach that is not flat despite the optimistic claims of Nivea. I'll acknowledge that I'm pretty, but not beautiful by any means. In addition to that horrible wrinkle, I have a tiny birth mark on my upper lip that appears massive to me. This is overshadowed, of course, by the enormous nose I inherited from my father. Obsessing over these things is not unique to me. All the women I know have these same fixations, these same inconvenient little truths about our bodies.

Getting into my bath tub, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored doors of my closet, and for the first time in ages, became positively fixated on the beauty of my body. The perfect outer curve of my thigh leading up to wide hips which taper off into a small waist. This is all topped off with strong, broad shoulders and well defined blades. An hour glass dripping with inked raindrops and magnolia flowers. Say what you will, but I am beautiful from behind.

2009-07-09T17:59:00.002-05:00

I can easily recall a time when I was single. More than that, I can easily recall a time when I was twice the size I am now, smoked recklessly, and indulged in whatever struck my fancy. I remember these times and though often marred by anger and stress, these were never lonely, lacking confidence, anxiety riddled moments.

Fast forward to now: I am (relatively) thin, have a sensible, loving boyfriend, decent job, cute apartment, etc. and I am very unhappy. I only feel disgust when I look at myself in the mirror. Being around other people, even those I love, has become painful and agitating to me. If I could I would never leave my apartment. Everytime I do, I am convinced something will go terribly wrong and everyone will judge me.

What happened to the person that I used to be? All things considered, I used to be well adjusted, confident, personable, and even popular. I used to be, dare I say, content.

Maybe this malaise is a symptom of the toll taken on me through years of wild living and careless abuses of myself. Maybe self-doubt and scrutiny are merely a function of growing up. Maybe I've eaten too much sugar, or am just in a bad mood. Whatever it is, it's a feeling that I can't seem to shake. It's that feeling that you have when you know that something just isn't right.

He's Just Not That Into You

2009-06-24T18:52:00.002-05:00

Being completely behind on the times, I finally picked up a copy of "He's Just Not That Into You" a few weeks ago. And I don't even mean the movie version. I read the entire book during an 8 hour road trip with The Sweet Boy to attend one of my college friend's weddings. The Sweet Boy was somewhat unnerved by the book.

And why shouldn't he be? Sure, it didn't help that I verbally "scored" him based on each chapter, but truthfully, he did a lot of things mentioned in that book to me. Basically what the book's philosophy boils down to is that actions speak louder than words. If he isn't calling you, isn't dating you, isn't having sex with you or is having sex with other people, he's not into you but is too afraid to say it. Did he do those things, yes. Does he do any of those things now, no.

A sane person would either say, "Everyone makes mistakes," and move forward with their new relationship. Or perhaps they wouldn't have given him a second, third, or forth chance. Clearly I am not a sane person (as though there were any doubt). Something won't let me put all my trust back into a relationship with him. Little things still conjure up painful memories of our past. Despite all the good things now, I keep thinking that his past actions still mean he's just not that into me.

Stupid insecurity. I need wine and ice cream.

Back to Basics

2009-06-09T21:00:00.002-05:00

Four years ago, I was more experienced than anyone I dated or slept with. I thought of myself as something of a sexual wild child, and was up for anything, with anyone at least once. By and large, my self-image was confirmed in conversations with friends and lovers. By comparison to my peers, I was by far the least innocent. Especially compared to the Sweet Boy.

I called him the Sweet Boy because that's just what he was. He made me dinner, brought me flowers, called when he said he would, and had been with only a tenth of the sex partners I'd had. In the years that have passed, the Sweet Boy turned out to be the one who hurt me the most. But that wasn't all that changed.

Now that we're together again, he still brings me flowers and makes me dinner. He's still sweet and genuine. Still, during the time we were apart, he managed to have all sorts of sex-capades. All with one girl, too. Despite still having a number roughly a tenth of mine, he's done much kinkier things than I ever even considered.

Sure, the past is the past. He isn't bothered by all the things I did while we weren't together, so why does it bother me that he had all these experiences with someone else? But I can't stand the thought of it! He fucked her every possible way. In a swing even!!! To make matters worse, when I got upset about it, he tried to reassure me by saying, "It's just not like that with you. Our sex life is more basic."

AHH! BASIC! Oh no! Basic means boring! Am I boring in bed?

Sometimes I think all my casual flings and dysfunctional relationships have really fucked me up. After depriving myself of cuddly, sweet, vanilla sex for all these years, I've come to crave it. I get the feeling that I've wasted all my wild oats on boys who didn't matter. And now, when I love someone and should be having swinging-from-the-ceiling, crazy loud, window shattering sex, all I want is to look into his eyes and feel close to him. Yick! I disgust myself!

Light Pollution

2009-05-28T22:23:00.002-05:00

There are no stars in DC skies. They're still there of course, but I couldn't see them but for all the other lights around me. Offices, apartments, street lights--the artifical overshadowing of that which is pure and enduring.

In the darkness here, I see stars I've long forgotten. Here they appear crisp and in multitudes. Instead, other things are blurred by distractions. Like the way the distance between you and I laying in bed tonight feels vast and insurmountable. I could turn off the light and curl into that nook where your arm meets your body. I could turn off the light and close the gap between you and I. With a whisper of honesty that would fall on sleeping ears, I could block out the pollution and bring the stars back into view.

But the distance is far too great for me to ever cross.

Stay

2009-05-07T22:35:00.002-05:00

For as long as I can remember, boys have said the darndest things to me. Some used crazy pick up lines that made me laugh. Some argued with such passion that it made my knees weak. Some told me epic tales that cemented their status as tools. Some told me the dark secrets they often think about, but rarely share. Some recounted their past failed loves. Some espoused their hopes for the future. Some lied and said they loved me. Some lied and said they didn't love me.

Through these experiences, I've developed a pretty solid radar for bullshit. What amazes me though, is my ability to ignore the bullshit to get what I want. Knowing that they were lying, or perceiving that they had egos the size of army bases, I slept with men, loved men to avoid being alone.

Most of the time, fate ran its course. Relationships that never should have started ended. Those who easily found the bed in the dark had no trouble finding the door in the morning. I always eventually remember my first impressions, and thought better of continuing. The ones whose lies thinly concealed feelings for me still write or call. Looking into their eyes, I can see my own wonder reflected back at me: what if I had said, "Stay"?

In this new city, I am convinced that the mistakes of my old life will repeat themselves. Surely I will screw up this relationship by avoiding what I know to be true. I worry that after all these years of friendship, the desire I felt to be here, in this relationship, will prove to be misled. I fret that, for both of us, this is just a way to escape loneliness and the uncertainty of our futures. And then I will have lost so much time, effort, a great love, and a close friend. I keep telling myself to prepare for the day when I can't wait to hear the word "stay" anymore, or worse, for when I can hear the ring of insincerity in it.

Very Merry Unbirthday

2009-04-13T21:48:00.003-05:00

I often wonder what you'd look like. Would you have dark curls and eyes like me, or be blond and fair like my family and your dad? You'd be tall, I'm sure. Would you be sweet and calm or would you be difficult, like I was at your age? You would be an Aries, just like my mom and brother. Would you be happy, even though your life wasn't planned for? How different would my life be if you were here now? I'm much ashamed to admit that I wonder if I would regret you, or feel robbed of the life of which I dreamed.

Even though I never met you, you changed my life more than anyone ever will. I'm ashamed to admit that I don't think of you every day anymore. I wish I could tell you that I was a better person; a stronger person. I wish I could tell you I were a less selfish person. I wish I could tell you that I did what was best for you, and believe that it wasn't because it was what was best for me too. But none of that would be true. All I can tell you is that I have to have faith that someday it'll be worth it.

A very merry unbirthday, to you. To you.

Memorable Middles

2009-04-09T19:27:00.002-05:00

When it's time to party, we will party hard. After packing. And before a 15 hour drive in a moving truck. Uhhh...maybe not such a good plan.

After a loading all my belonging on the truck, napping, and various other bed related activites, my date and I arrived at my going away party. I love parties, especially those held in my honor. You never have to look for someone to talk to or wait for a drink at a party that is held especially for you.

Walking in, I see a veritable "who's who" of the past few years in DC. I immediately spot The Roommate, sprinting towards the bar at a pace that indicates he wants to see me, quite the opposite from when we were sleeping together. Then I catch a glimpse of The Friend of A Friend sitting at the bar. He should have known the way well enough--we spent two or three nights a week at this very bar for over a year. Catching me completely by surprise, The S pops up on my left. I half expected him to be a no show, as that would have been a completely reasonable end to our relationship, but there he was. Looking all svelte to boot. A short while later, Mr. Smith comes strolling in. No one knows who he is and my friends ask me if I've slept with him. Which I have, I think? And of course I can't forget my date for the evening. Back by unpopular demand: The Sweet Boy. Assembled in one room, five men I have slept with and don't hate. At least not at the moment.

Other friends came and went but the five of them stayed with me through the end of the evening, aside from the Friend of a Friend, who bizarrely disappeared in between bars. I guess that's how it's always been, and in many ways, these men have been closest to me over the years. My best friends, who've all seen me naked.

Low lights from the evening included making out with The Roommate at the second bar. He's been kind enough not to bring it up. The Sweet Boy inexplicably walked home while The S, always the sober one, drove me. I depantsed as soon as I walked in the door at home, as is my custom when I've had more than 3 margaritas. The S compliment the emerald green lace thong I'd chosen just for this occassion. Shortly there after, The Sweet Boy stumbled in and we proceeded to go to bed. The S said his goodbyes, and in a style I've always loved, casually asked if we wanted to have a threesome. The Sweet Boy laughingly declined, clearly thinking he was joking. I gave him a knowing smile before my head hit the pillow on my last night in the District.

There's no need for me to search for meaning in the night, or any other night that preceeded it. Neither beginnings or ends, all those life defining moments are merely middles.

Loose Ends

2009-04-09T18:24:00.002-05:00

If you want to destroy my sweater, pull this thread as I walk away.

Clearly not a very sturdy sweater. Nor is it a very sturdy analogy, but it'll do in a pinch. It's amazing to me that a person as anal retentive and organized as myself could possibly have any loose ends in a move half way across the country. I meticulously planned every detail of this move, including making an IKEA home model of my new apartment and printing out all the DMV forms I will need someday in the future and directions to every possible place I could need to go in this foreign land. Somehow though, something managed to slip through the cracks. Or someone rather.

Whether he didn't believe I was actually moving or whether he just didn't care, I can't say. I can say that the Ex-Boyfriend (who, as it turns out, is even more disengenous than Disengenuous ever proved be) made no small effort towards moving out of our shared apartment. When I decided to move, I told him he could sign a new lease with the landlord if he wanted. Two months later, he was "still thinking about it." Yeah, and I'm still thinking about what I ever saw in you. Despite three days notice, when I sold the dresser, he hadn't even bothered to empty out his clothes. A clutter heap of clothes replaced the dresser with no discerment as to what was clean and what was dirty. Three weeks before the big move, I again reminded him to either sign a new lease or plan to move. Still, nothing happened. Clothes came and went from the heap on a daily basis, but other than that, everything reminded precisely has he had left it. Then the TV disappeared. Hooray--he's moving! Oh no, just kidding. He moved the TV upstairs when the roommate's crazy girlfriend smashed his. It's nice to know that he's found a platonic relationship worth putting effort into after he so bizarrely stopped putting effort into ours.

Four days before I planned to leave, he still had not moved a single item. Again, I calmly reminded him that he needed to have his stuff gone as MY lease was over and he did not have a lease for that residence. Radio silence. Fine, if you won't listen to reason, than you'll listen to me rant like a rapid Chihauhau. I sent him an email that essentially said, "Frankly, I think you possess a responsibility level close to that of a three toed sloth and I don't trust that you're going to move out once I leave so get the fuck out before I go. Otherwise I'll have to take your stuff to your mom's and tell on you."

The response I got confounded me. "So I don't get to stay for the rest of the days I paid for?" Seriously? No, you don't get shit. You get to pay me $53 (the per diem for those days) as an asshole tax. I respond that if I need to give him the per diem, then fine but he still has to be gone. This is non-negotiable.

The day before the move, as I scrambled to finish my enormous to do list, I ran into him in the apartment. He appeared to be packing (sort of). He said he couldn't make it to my going away party, hugged me and said, "For what it's worth, thank you." What the fuck does that mean?

Though perplexing, crisis seemingly was averted. Even Saturday morning, as I loaded last minute items in my moving truck, he appeared to be making steps towards moving out. Foolishly, I trusted that this would continue when I was no longer looking. That was about as wise as leaving a briefcase full of money on the sidewalk and expecting no one to steal it. Sure enough, I get a phone call from the upstairs tenants. He is still squatting in the basement. It's Tuesday.

MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!!!!!

Wisconsin cowers before the depravity of my cussing. I call him and say, "how'd the move go?" Radio silence again. This man should never be a DJ. "Oh, um, I'm still there." Pardon? My head nearly explodes. I basically just hang up on him and call the landlord. Between the two of us essentially threatening legal action, it still takes him three more full days to move some clothes, a couch and an entertainment center. All of which arrived at the apartment in his car. And this whole fucking fiasco cost me $150 in per diem for the extra days he squatted there. While infuriating, I would have paid a lot more to never, ever have to deal with his douche baggery a day longer.

The next time I live with someone, I better have a big fucking diamond on my finger that I can sell when he eventually turns out to be a childish jackass.

Quarter Life Crisis

2009-03-14T20:47:00.002-05:00

My job is god awful. Since I only have to work three or four hundred hours a week, I have no social life. I pay almost a grand a month for a shit-tastic 250 square foot basement apartment. One of my upstairs roommate has some kind of disability that prevents him from knocking before he walks down the basement stairs despite having walked in on me mid-coitus four times. Worse than that, my ex-boyfriend lingers around the house because he's formed a bromance with another roommate that rivals any amount of affection he ever showed for me. About the only remotely pleasant part of my day is my adorable bunny, who at this moment is chewing on my keyboard and occassionally stepping on the keys so it looks like I'm swearing in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

In times such as these, the plan is clear. I've taken solace in the three men who have yet to disappoint me: Jose Cuervo, Ben & Jerry. That probably has nothing to do with the ten pounds I've gained. Well, that the 30 odd hours I spend watching bridal shows on WE every week.

I'm a spinster. A crazy cat lady so crazy that she doesn't realize her cat is actually a rabbit.

I refuse to feel sorry for myself. In the wake of the boyfriend debacle, I did what I always do: I went straight out to find someone else. I proceeded to have more sex in a three hour period with a hot stranger than I'd had in the past three months with my live-in boyfriend. I nursed my hangover and hickeys the next day, and I planned my escape. Time spent wishing is time wasted.

In the months since then I've planned and executed a full scale life overhaul. I cut, dyed and straightened my hair. I bought all new clothes. I turned down two incredible job offers in DC in favor of a quiet desk job. In Wisconsin.

Yes, Wisconsin.

Two weeks from today I'll be heading the way of Horatio Alger, and exploring the frontiers of beer, cheese and farm boys. My new downtown Madison apartment is a shock fifty percent less than my digs here and has a view of the lake. As I sell all my stuff and pack the few things I'm keeping, I've reminiscing more than could possibly be healthy. I"d like to promise that I'll share the stories that keep bubbling up but it seems unlikely that I'll have much time to do so in the next fourteen days. But soon. Until then,leave some comments and some suggestions for new posts. And don't let John Mayer songs convince you to make major life changes.

Boy Meets Girl

2009-01-14T17:40:00.002-05:00

Boy meets girl. Boy tells girl he's falling in love with her. Boy introduces girl to his family. Boy takes girl on a family vacation for 4th of July weekend. Boy tells girl that he loves her. She loves him back. Boy and girl move in together. They adopt a bunny. Boy and girl talk of weddings and children and a future together. Boy asks girl to marry him. A week later, boy says he's not sure. Boy says he may never be ready to grow up and be responsible. Girl cries and runs away. Girl comes back, and eventually, boy tells girl that he's sorry and that they can make it work. Boy insists on spending Christmas with girl and her family. After the New Year, boy is suddenly distant and unavailable. Girl falls asleep alone 80% of the time. Girl demands more. Boy stands by his unwillingness to grow up, to be a partner to girl. Girl cries. Boy says that he's sorry and that she deserves better. For the first time in her life, girl believes it and moves on, hardly giving boy a second thought.

Funky Spunk

2008-11-30T20:23:00.002-05:00

Which came first: the chicken or the egg? If a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Does semen from a vegetarian taste better than semen from a meat eater? Ah, the age old philosophical questions.

In short, yes. Semen from a vegetarian does taste better than semen from a meat eater. I'm not sure what the chemical explanation is, but I've found it to be true. Plenty of foods other than meat also affect how funky one's spunk is. Asparagus is often labeled a particularly stinky food, but I've never experienced a noticeable effect. Cauliflower and broccoli do, if eaten in large quantities. Other common culprits are garlic, onions, coffee and alcohol. These generate a somewhat bitter taste. Meat and dairy can cause an increase in the salty taste of semen. So the long answer is that vegans who don't drink or smoke generally taste the best. However, each person tastes different regardless of their diet habits, and foods affect people's taste differently.

That being said, I've heard (though have no data to prove this) that some foods like cinnamon, pineapple, parsley, celery, and wheat beers improve the taste of semen. If you fear your spunk is funky, try to get an objective opinion and then revert to a high fruit and vegetable diet for a few days and see if there is an improvement. If there isn't, or if you don't have the willpower to change your diet for the sake of a blow job, buy some flavored lube. I recommend strawberry, as it's still about a million times tastier than the best cum I ever had.

Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic

2008-11-05T19:55:00.003-05:00

The Police certainly did not live with whichever girl they wrote this song about.

Until now, I've never lived with anyone I've slept with. Sure, I slept with The Roommate while we lived together but it wasn't exactly the same as living together. We always had the option to be separated by bricks and mortar and wood. When I wanted to, I could always hide--hide the comfortable granny panties that I can't bear to part with, the green refining mask that allegedly reduces the size of my pores, the random bouts of crying that I occasionally enjoy.

Live-in boyfriends see everything. He chuckles at the dots of blemish cream I wear before bed and at the ridiculousness of my speech with whitening strips in my mouth. He watched me without comment as I squirmed and struggled into my Spanx before the DNC Election Party last night. Before I fretted about letting these parts of myself show to the boys in my life. What would they think of me? How could anyone possibly find me attractive after watching me put on Spanx?! Honestly, it repulses even me.

Then again, his knowledge of all those little idiosyncrasies is part of the appeal. Each small personality tick exists in a bubble of just him and I. In a few instances, they've become private jokes that no one else is privy to. I guess that's what intimacy is. After fearing it more than the Booger Man for so long, I have to admit that I kind of like it.

You've Got Questions...

2008-11-02T23:40:00.000-05:00

I've Got Answers. Sometimes. On a very short list of topics.

Discussion on Boobs: Value, Purpose and Stimulation

Ah breasts. Does any other part of the human form draw so much attention or discussion? My obsessive compulsive side really wants to break into an outline right now and draft a short essay on tits, but it turns out that my relationship is slowing me down. I'm either becoming an old married woman, or I'd rather have a sex life than write about one.

Value of Boobs

In my limited understanding of evolution, breasts have developed for two reasons: (1) nourishment for infants (yick) and (2) as a frontal mock of the ass which most male mammals are drawn to in female partners. In terms of sexual value, breasts are just an ass that we carry around on our fronts. The more cleavage, the more they look like ass cheeks. So women spend hundreds of dollars each year on bras meant to enhance our breasts ability to look like our asses. Since they've become an integral component of sexual attraction, breasts have significant value in modern American culture. In other cultures, the ass continues to rule, but it seems to me that breasts rule the majority of straight men's minds. Maybe that's more a representation of my knowledge of the Victoria's Secret catalog than evolution.

Purpose of Boobs

Breasts are technically meant for infants. In fact, in my cultures, they're not a sexual organ at all. But, as the above paragraph states, for our purposes they are. The purpose of breasts in sex depends on the woman, and unless she is able to get whatever she wants sexually, the men she sleeps with. Some women experience a great deal of sensation, others do not. Personally, I don't experience nearly as much pleasure from someone touching my breasts as I do from touch in other areas. However, many of the men I've slept with were self-professed "breast men" and consequently, they enjoyed lavishing my breasts with attention and affection. When it was earnest, I appreciated the effort but more because it represented their desire for me. One key purpose of boobs that I've found rather enjoyable is their use, for lack of a better term, as grips. On that pleasant note, let's move on to stimulation.

Stimulation of Boobs

As previously mentioned, some women experience high sensation in their breasts. I do not and therefore never bothered much with asking for any particular stimulation. In the hopes of heightening sensation, I had one of my nipples pierced several years ago. It didn't change much, but the boys seemed to like and it made my breasts memorable, so I kept it. Foreplay, often neglected or performed improperly, generally focuses a lot on the breasts. Generally, I'm not a fan of this practice and can sometimes get annoyed after several minutes of having my nipples rolled between a finger and thumb or kissed, etc. I have always enjoyed having my breasts held while fucking from behind. Other than that, they don't do me much good once I get into bed. That being said, they're awfully useful on the way to the bed. If you're wondering if the woman/women you're sleeping with feel the same way I do, or whether they're silently wishing you just leave their breasts alone, the only real way to know is to ask them. If they're worth anything as a sex partner, they'll tell you without batting an eye.

I should write about sperm and the always popular question of whether size really matters while I'm actually bothering to update, but I think I'll save those topics for another day. Thanks for the comments--they always brighten my day.

A Four Letter Word?

2008-08-21T20:44:00.001-05:00

"A woman can become a man's friend only in the following stages - first an acquaintance, next a mistress, and only then a friend."
- Anton Chekhov

Never before have I considered the possibility that I may not have the opportunity to sleep with my former lovers again. One or two disappeared at a time, but I never felt distance between myself and all of them at once. With my relationship still going well, that possibility is very real to me now.

Perhaps as a sidebar, I should note that I believe in monogamous "love" for my relationships. It's not that I don't enjoy sex with multiple partners--quite obviously I do (did?). It's polyamory that I've never been able to handle. For me, sex is one thing and love is another. Sometimes the two go together, and very often they do not. From my experience, I have not liked it much when love and sex were part of the same relationship. I liked it even less when love and sex were not exclusively mine in that relationship. Maybe I'm traditionalist at heart? Another topic for another time.

Being in a functional, committed and monogamous relationship means adjusting my interactions with former lovers. When The S visited in May, he attempted to kiss me goodbye and I had to politely decline, even though it broke my heart to do so. The first part of that doesn't seem strange to me. Old habits die hard. The fact that it pained me to refuse him does seem strange to me. I could shrug it off if this experience were just with The S--after all, I did spend the better part of 3 years pining away for him. The Friend of a Friend most understandably should have difficultly adjusting to my newly expanded personal space bubble. He was my most recent, and one of my most frequent lovers, and we did share in some profoundly life-altering moments. Again I find myself regretting having to push him away.

Inexperienced as I am at functional relationships, this causes me to feel guilty and worry that these are signs of the impending doom of my relationship. Still, it seems to me (and to my amazingly unfazed better half) that the feelings you had for someone don't necessarily go away just because you're no longer with them. If The S, The Friend of a Friend, Boy Blue or any of my other lovers had been traditional relationships, there would have been a definitive end and socially defined roles for us post break-up. Since that was never the case, it's hard to know when those relationships really ended, or if they did. It's harder still to know how to interact with men who have become rather integral parts of my life. I shouldn't feel guilty for continuing to care about these men, nor should I worry about the stability of my relationship. I am not interested in other men, nor do I wish that I were still sleeping with any of them. My concern really is how to appropriately act with them. How can I be friends with my exs?

If I take Chekhov's advice, I'm closer now to being friends with these men than I was had I not slept with them. Always one for pop culture inspiration, I also think of that Cake song: "Friend is a four letter word. End is the only part of the word that I heard."

I feel these men, whom at varying points I cared so deeply for, slipping out of my life. Suddenly it takes weeks to respond to an email, phone calls go unanswered, and friendly visits become less and less frequent. Many of my lovers were purely interested in me for sex. And that's just fine because I was purely interested in them for sex. There were a handful, however, who meant a great deal to me. I'd really like to be able to hold onto those few without sex, but I'm completely confused as to how to do it. If the answer is that you can't--let the past be the past, let go, other trite "move on" sayings, etc., then I believe I will be terribly sad. Is friendship the next stop after mistress, or is friend really a four letter word?

Obligatory Resolution Update

2008-08-18T21:39:00.003-05:00

1. Hang 2008 calendar. It has pictures of kittens wearing hats, and I have no idea why I bought it.
DONE!

2. Finish the 10-day detox fast I have embarked upon. Currently, I am on day 5 and have lost 8 pounds. It should be noted though, while I am now the thinnest I have been in my adult life, this fast is not about being skinny. This is more about proving to myself that I can accomplish this. Losing 20 pounds is just a super bonus.
DONE!

3. Obviously will lose 20 pounds. Duh.
DONE!

4. Swim more
DONE!

5. Learn to belly dance.
Haven't gotten to it yet, but I will!

6. Go to the movies by myself.
Ibid.

7. Quit smoking.
Did it, but then started again. New quit date is September 18.

8. Run a 5k, even if it's only against myself.
Haven't gotten to it yet, but I've been running and am getting a treadmill in September!

9. Move either to a new city or, at least, into my very own apartment where no one leaves the toilet paper off the roll, puts an empty box of aluminum foil back in the cabinet, or leaves water on the bathroom floor.
Success! I've moved into my very own basement apartment and it's adorable. I'm broke, but it's adorable. And I'm the only one to blame when the toilet paper roll is empty.

10. Pay off my credit card.
This is the only goal that still seems so terribly far away. Car issues and moving expenses have literally bankrupted me. You can't win 'em all, I guess.

11. Have breakfast brought to me in bed.
The one I thought was the most elusive proved to be one of the easiest to achieve. Perhaps achieve is the wrong word since all I did to precipitate this event was fall in love with a man who isn't emotionally stunted, devious, or evil. Speaking of which, happy four months, muffin!

My Dream Man

2008-07-28T21:13:00.002-05:00

Mary: I want a guy who can play 36 holes and still have enough energy to take me and Warren, to a ball game and eat hot dogs. I'm talking sausage hot dogs beer not light beer, but beer. That's my add print it up.
Mary's friend: Umm fatty who likes beer and golf. Jeez Mary, where you gonna find a gem like that?

--There's Something About Mary

Forget Brad Pitt, George Clooney, even Christian Slater. My dream man bears more of a resemblance to Ice Cube, the hussy proclaimed sexiest man alive.

Even though he's fat, and bald, and lazy, and stupid, and he did poorly in school, and his personal hygiene has been described as... Homer Simpson may be as close to perfection as one cartoon man can come. He'll never remember your birthday or your anniversary, and he'll spend more on temporary tattoos than on gifts for you, but when it comes to slutty country singers coming on to him, all he'll be able to think of is you saying, "I'll love you for the rest of my life."

I often wonder why Marge stays with Homer. He's seemingly always fucking up their life, from a first kiss based on lies to knocking her up with Bart. Marge is obviously the brains of the marriage, and she's significantly better looking than Homer. Like so many times in real life, I find myself wondering, "What does she see in him?" My guess is she knows no one else sees what she does. Mismatched though they may be, Homer never cheated on Marge, never left her, and always made time to snuggle. More importantly, she knows they are sustained through the good and the bad by love alone. What else could a woman want in a totally unrealistic relationship?

Homer Simpson will always be my dream man, and Ice Cube will always be the sexiest man alive to me. Call me crazy, but I guess I see something other people miss. But just in case I'm wrong, I'd better put my Teen Beat picture of Christian Slater from 1989 back up on the wall.

Discussion on Boobs: Value, Purpose and Stimulation

2008-07-22T22:07:00.003-05:00

I hate girls who get into relationships and then neglect all their friends and social outlets outside of their boyfriend. It's almost as though in the B.B. (Before-Boyfriend) era, they had no life and spent all of their time searching for someone to date. Lame.

Yeah, I'm lame. I think I spent more time looking for people to sleep with and updating this piece of junk than looking for someone to date, but I somehow still found someone.

In the A.B. (After-Boyfriend) era, I'm not any busier than I was B.B. Sadly, functional relationships aren't all about laying on a couch all day, getting oral sex and chocolate from a shirtless man like I thought. Still, I'm enjoying it (notice I said not all about that). It's surprisingly pleasant to have breakfast brought to you in bed, particularly when you never thought it would happen to you. And, in a sense, that sums up how I've felt these last few months.

I promise to write more soon, including an eventual discussion on boobs, including their value, purpose and stimulation. And I'm sorry if I tricked you into thinking that it would be included in this installment. I further promise to stop tricking you into thinking about boobs, and perhaps as penance for my transgression, will post an avatar that is actually me for once.

Songs to Break Your Lover's Heart

2008-05-20T20:21:00.002-05:00

"Untouchable Face" - Ani DiFranco
So fuck you, and your untouchable face. And fuck you for existing in the first place.

"Benefits of Lying with Your Friend" - Apples in Stereo
Still there's something to be said for company in bed.

"Complicated" - Avril Lavigne
You become somebody else round everyone else.

"A Minor Incident" - Badly Drawn Boy
There's nothing I could say to make you try to feel okay. Nothing you could do to stop me feeling the way I do.

"Smoke" - Ben Folds Five
No one to forgive. We will not write another one.

"Irreplaceable" - Beyonce
You made your bed now lay in it.

"Most of the Time" - Bob Dylan
I don't even care if I ever see her again. Most of the time.

"Seventy Times 7" - Brand New
Have another drink and drive yourself home.

"That'll Be the Day" - Buddy Holly
You say you're gonna leave, you know it's a lie.

"Ever Fallen in Love?" - Buzzcocks
Ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn't have fallen in love with?

"Under the Milky Way" - The Church
Wish I knew what you were looking for; might have known what you would find.

"Dreaming of You" - The Coral
I still need you but I don't want you now.

"Awake and Dreaming" - Finger Eleven
I try but I can't say I'm yours for good.

"All We Have is Now" - The Flaming Lips
You and me were never meant to be part of the future.

"Out of Reach" - The Get Up Kids
Start over is no way to begin.

"Closer" - Joshua Radin
I wish it were over. We seem to never end, only get closer to the point I can take no more.

"Cry Me a River" - Justin Timberlake
Enough said.

"This is the Last Time" - Keane
And years make everything alright. You fall on me for anything you like, and I know I don't mind.

"So Nice, So Smart" - Kimya Dawson
Say shut up and quit your crying. Give it time and you'll be fine. You're so nice, and you're so smart. You're such a good friend I have to break your heart. I'll tell you that I love then I'll tear your world. Just pretend I didn't tear your world apart.

"Absolutely Nothing" - Lily Allen
Absolutely nothing you could say to change my mind.

"The Divorce" - Liz Phair
When you said that I wasn't worth talking to, I had to take your word on that.

"Blankest Year" - Nada Surf
Fuck it. I'm gonna have a party.

"Cato as a Pun" - Of Montreal
Please confuse my every decision.

"Valentine" - Old 97's
Of all the many ways a man will lose his home, there ain't none better than the girl who's moving on.

"Betterman" - Pearl Jam
She lies and says she's in love with him.

"Long Nights" - Piebald
Everything that makes you feel tired.

"Every You, Every Me" - Placebo
Like the naked leads the blind, I know I'm cruel, I'm unkind. Sucker love I always find.

"5 and a Half Minute Hallway" - Poe
As far as I can see, you are still miles from me in your doorway.

"Just" - Radiohead
You do it to yourself.

"85" - Rilo Kiley
I wonder why it doesn't keep him up at night like it does me.

"Breakin' Up" - Rilo Kiley
It's not as if New York City burnt down to the ground once you drove away.

"Gone for Good" - The Shins
You want to fight for this love? Honey, you cannot wrestle a dove.

"A Comet Appears" - The Shins
Take a drink just to give me some weight.

"Ball & Chain" - Social Distortion
Take away this ball and chain.

"Dry Your Eyes" - The Streets
There's plenty of fish in the sea.

"Apologize" - Timbaland
It's too late to apologize.

"Sober" - Tool
I just want to start this over.

"Left and Leaving" - The Weakerthans
Memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me: a blanket, some matches, this pain in my chest, the best parts of lonely.

"No Other One" - Weezer
She's all I've got and I don't want to be alone.

"Impossible Germany" - Wilco
This is important but I know you're not listening.

Soundtrack brought to you by the 2008 edition to the Fuck It Bucket.

Almost

2008-05-12T20:45:00.002-05:00

Rarely one for being overly sentimental, Mother's Day usually passes me by without much thought. Send a card to my grandma, call my mom. End of story.

I can't say that Mother's Day this year was the first time I thought about the impending motherhood I faced a few months ago. It would not be an overstatement to say that I've thought about it every single fucking day. Mother's Day reminds me of what motherhood really means--what my own mother and grandmother mean to me. It seems to me that motherhood is all about making choices and giving up a part of yourself for the betterment of someone else. Naturally, I thank the women who gave me life and raised me for every choice they made on my behalf, every decision they made that shaped my existence. But it wasn't until I found myself in a position to make those same choices that I began to have some understanding of what they already know. It wasn't until I was almost ready to make the same decisions that I felt a small amount of what they have always felt.

But sadly, there's no such thing as Almost Mother's Day. Instead of flowers or a necklace made out of elbow macaroni, I'm staring at the Plan B box wondering which choice to make this time.

Double Trouble

2008-05-03T14:24:00.003-05:00

Hangovers are best cured by Vitamin Water, several hours on the couch and deleting all the text messages I sent while intoxicated. Before I deleted the 52 messages I received and the 30 I sent, I pieced together the events of the evening.

3:45 pm
Arrive at happy hour

6:15 pm
Change in the bathroom of the bar from work clothes into going out clothes. Note to self: In the future, do not use deodorant that has been sitting in your car in the hot sun all day.

6:33 pm
Depart happy hour with a plan of action, but lacking a stable base of operations other than my car.

7:04 pm
Arrive at The Pirate Bar. Consume salad, promptly followed by 4 rum and diet cokes as to sufficiently kill any nutrients consumed in the salad.

9:42 pm
Leave Pirate Bar and walk to an "Irish" pub. Drink excessively. Ignore text messages from The Friend of a Friend, or respond vaguely to his questions regarding my whereabouts. Decide that getting booty should now be the focus of the evening. Avoid prolonged conversations with Walter Reed army guys who use detailed descriptions of their war injuries to hit on me with. Example: "I'm missing 25% of my brain." What possible response is there to that?!?!

1:11 am
Text Local A and invite him out. He declines because he is too far away, but insists that he wants to see me. Convince Local A to get in a cab and go to my house even though I have not yet left the bar and fully intend on stopping for breakfast before I go home. Hear my phone ring three times, see that it is The Friend of a Friend, and put the phone back in my bag.

2:24 am
Eat some kind of eggs and potato product while texting Local A to assure him that I am in fact coming home. Texting while eating is difficult enough, but I also must carefully ignore several messages from The Friend of a Friend.

2:37 am
Receive confirmation from Local A that he is 5 minutes away from my house. I am still eating breakfast, but am unconcerned.

2:38 am
Receive voice mail message from The Friend of a Friend. Begrudgingly listen to the message. It informs me that, since 11 pm, The Friend of a Friend has been parked outside my house waiting for me to come home. He is not a happy camper.

2:51 am
Finally hail a cab with my friend, who then gets out of the cab inexplicably one block later and leaves. Head towards home, fearing a clash of two boys on my front porch.

3:02 am
Circle my block in my cab and ascertain that The Friend of a Friend is no where to be found. Receive a berating text message even though I did not invite The Friend of a Friend over or tell him that I would be home at any point in the evening.

3:04 am
Kiss Local A with my (surely) nasty bar breath and spend 3 hours talking about books and music and not getting booty. Fall asleep nearly fully dressed and completely agitated. Earlier in the evening, I feared an abundance of cock overrunning my lawn and instead ended up falling asleep without any. Isn't that just my luck?

Don't Be Fat Another Day!

2008-04-08T19:28:00.002-05:00

Nutrisystem has the most ingenious marketing strategy. I know because I watched their commercials with staggering frequency during the week I spent on my couch after new years. On the tiny tv in my imagination, fat people all across the land are mawing down on real pizzas and éclairs, cursing the three months they spent eating tiny, cardboard flavored portions. "Screw this, and screw my resolution!" they proclaim. "I'm ready to be fat another day." Three months after ringing in the new year, I should document my progress on my own resolutions. It's time to decide: Am I going to be fat another day?

Resolutions Update 2008

1. Hang 2008 calendar. It has pictures of kittens wearing hats, and I have no idea why I bought it.
SUCCESS! If I didn't accomplish this one thing, I may as well scrap this entire list. And start wearing sweatpants when I leave my house. Just give up on life in general.

2. Finish the 10-day detox fast I have embarked upon. Currently, I am on day 5 and have lost 8 pounds. It should be noted though, while I am now the thinnest I have been in my adult life, this fast is not about being skinny. This is more about proving to myself that I can accomplish this. Losing 20 pounds is just a super bonus.
SUCCESS!

3. Obviously will lose 20 pounds. Duh.
SUCCESS! Have actually lost 30 pounds since Thanksgiving. I rule.

4. Swim more
SUCCESS though this is a continuous goal throughout the year.

5. Learn to belly dance.
FAIL. I have made no progress on this and still appear to be having some sort of episode requiring medication when I attempt to dance.

6. Go to the movies by myself.
FAIL. It's just too scary.

7. Quit smoking.
Half-FAIL. Technically I quit because I haven't bought cigarettes in a month or so. Yet here I am, smoking, even as I write this. How did that happen?!?

8. Run a 5k, even if it's only against myself.
FAIL. I only went on one jog and I was pretty certain that one of my lungs fell out.

9. Move either to a new city or, at least, into my very own apartment where no one leaves the toilet paper off the roll, puts an empty box of aluminum foil back in the cabinet, or leaves water on the bathroom floor.
FAIL. Big time.

10. Pay off my credit card.
Half-FAIL. I've paid off $500. I'm on the road to success, with a slight detour at the mall.

11. Have breakfast brought to me in bed.
FAIL. I'm no closer to this goal than I was on January 1. Something tells me that this will be the most elusive resolution.

Semantics Won't Get You Laid

2008-04-01T20:33:00.003-05:00

Linguistically, 'can't' and 'won't' aren't terribly dissimilar. Common vernacular allows them to be used almost interchangeably. Yet the meaning can (will?) be starkly different. As dictated by the laws of nature, god, society, physics, etc. there is little more than what you can and cannot do. I can put condoms on with my mouth. I cannot alter the past, grant wishes when rubbed, or use x-ray vision. Simple, finite rules that govern most elements of existence.

Ah, but wait! Silly hussy. You forgot about free will. Our (questionable at best) ability to engage free will fucks with the rules. Behavior is not definitively predictable because we have the ability to choose. Enter here the ever present 'won't.' Law, divine or otherwise, is unalterable, unbreakable. But we can bend it with one little word or it's contraction cousin.

You can drunk dial me, but you won't call me on my birthday. You cannot drive, but you will when you want to. I can let you into my house, into my bed whenever you call, but I won't fuck you. I cannot force myself to stop caring, but I will eventually move on. I can see the last 7 months repeating, but I won't let it.

Irish Drinking Song

2008-03-17T22:19:00.001-05:00

"And Mary MacGraegor, well she was a pretty whore
She'd always greet you with a smile and never locked her door
But on the day she died all the men in town did weep
For Mary MacGraegor finally got some sleep." --Dropkick Murphys

From one whore to another, happy St. Patrick's Day!

Bad Habits

2008-03-16T17:34:00.002-05:00

One month with no cigarettes (drunken ones don't count) and here I sit on my porch, enjoying the psuedo-spring weather, happily puffing away. What is it about bad habits that make them so addictive and endearing? Cigarettes are like old lovers in that way. Early on, the experience of being with them is so amazing that you can't walk away. Every second that you're not with them, that's the only thing on your mind. Five minutes of action dominates 23 hours and 55 minutes of compulsive thoughts. Over time, the intense need eases. But it's still there. In the back of your mind, with thoughts of cherry pie and other vices. A one-time thrill now becomes part of the everyday. Integrated into the routine of life so much that it becomes as consistently expected as air.

One day, seemingly out of nowhere, the pleasure level isn't as high. The thrill is gone, baby. Out of habit, you continue to engage in the same behavior. Eventually, the disappointment wears you down, wears you out. Sometimes ceremoniously, but more often without fanfare, you cast your vice aside and allow the memory to fade into obscurity.

No matter how long it's been since you last indulged, when presented with your former bad habits, nostalgia surrounds you. You can remember every feeling of joy associated with it. Every moment of misery eased by it flows back too. Suddenly, it's more desirable than ever. There is uncommon intimacy in our bad habits, as they've seen us at our best and through our worst.

Indulging isn't the same once you've quit. Your likely hasn't changed, and maybe you haven't either, but your relationship to it has. It's like trying to wear your shoes from 8th grade--they don't fit quite right anymore in style or size. Still, the memory of intimacy calls you back. It's almost as good as it once was, and in the same way, almost as bad as it once was. But it's never the same.

Just Say No

2008-03-15T23:55:00.002-05:00

I should not drink. Drinking means consuming empty calories that my body does not need. Effects can be minimized by choosing a less caloric beverages, like hard liquor mixed with diet soda. I do this. Additionally, drinking impairs ones motor functioning. I always metro or cab it if I'm drinking, so this is not issue. My motor functions while sober are, at best, questionable so this is even less of an issue. Drinking lessens cognitive functioning, and is, in essence, brain damage. Decision making capabilities are limited. As noted by The S and every one of my friends, I already make bad decisions all the time, particularly when it comes to men. Obviously, this is not the reason why I should not drink.

Although it is a depressant, alcohol overly stimulates and enhances the most chaotic functions of my mind. Rather than feeling euphoric or sleepy, I become overly anxious. Operating at an already elevated base level of anxiety, escalations produce thoughts that would appear to be totally insane to anyone else. Many people experience regret and guilt in the wake of drinking, but I experience it while drinking. Yet I continue to engage in this most self-destructive behavior.

Tonight, I am drunk. Focusing my brain's compulsions on writing is somewhat of a relief, here in the pitch black of my living room. Earlier, when no such outlet existed, my mind ran away with itself. Thoughts raced like so many intoxicated drivers on St. Patty's Day weekend. But not normal thoughts. Not "I wonder if I'll get to fuck tonight" or "I hope Joe Dirt isn't on Comedy Central again tonight." It is, by the way. Those kinds of thoughts, even those exact thoughts are there, to be certain, but the fun doesn't end there.

In the train station, I silently judge the girl who repeatedly says "fucking-a" as though replaced "ass" with it's beginning letter lessens the impact of the cuss. Or because it makes her appear cooler--"I'm so badass that I don't have to prove it by saying the entire swear word." Stupid cunt. I am superior because I say "ass" as freely as I see fit. I am inferior because she is thinner. I dub myself ultimately superior because she is with a short, fat-ish man in a blue striped button down shirt. Oh and the stupid couples I hang around with. UGH. I am superior because I am not so insecure that I require a relationship to validate my life. I do not need to express affection publicly to remind myself that I am attractive and that others should desire me. Clearly this is evident without any effort on my part. I am inferior because I will go home alone tonight, and spend this entire trek on public transportation wishing that I had someone to split designated driver duties with. Wishing that someone would wrap his arm around my waist and reassure me. Wishing that I would not return home to find an empty and dark living room, void of reassurance and comfort. Fuck that. I can self-soothe. I don't need anyone else. All I ever have for certain is myself, and that's more than ample. My pants keep falling down but every pair a try in a size smaller has a major design flaw and fails to fit. The hips are always too tight, or the calves. Why am I cursed with such big hips and calves? No man has ever commented favorably on these attributes. That girl at work has big hips, but when she walked in yesterday morning, the Friend of a Friend said that she looked like Jackie O in her sunglasses, whereas he told me that I resembled Harry Caray in mine. I wish I had some Cookie Crisp at home. I shouldn't have eaten so much at dinner, and even though I wrote every single thing down and know that each item was well within what I should have had, I regret every bite. Every bit of joy I felt swallowing that delicious ginger sauce is now morphing into self-berating. I'll walk home from the metro, rather than take a taxi. Burn off a few calories before I pass out. That's the ticket. But oh, one block off the metro, my new shoes begin cutting into my feet. Of course it's raining, and now my new shoes will be ruined. Don't spring for a taxi, just ruin the shoes I purchased only three hours ago. My feet are wet too, which pisses me off. In a way, it's always raining. Why would someone text me to say "I'm in Adams Morgan" and "Maybe we can meet up" and then not respond when I say I'm downtown? That makes no sense. Was the birthday message I wrote in that card for a coworker in December appropriate? Maybe I shouldn't have written "Enjoy those days off." That was stupid. I need to stop biting my cuticles because they look disgusting. No one will like me with fingers like this. If I had a cat, I'm sure that it would be staring at me as I write this. Wide-eyed, it would be judging me with its animal innocence. In a sense, every relationship and one-night stand I've ever had was intentionally committed on my part as fodder for a novel I will probably never write and a blog that I write poorly. These are a portion of the thoughts speeding through me now. I could go on all night, listing them as they appear and fade almost faster than I notice them. These thoughts will keep me awake tonight, and cause me to spend most of tomorrow lying face down on the couch staring at a Law & Order marathon without seeing it. And there are rocks in my shoes.

Did life Just Happen?

2008-03-12T20:29:00.002-05:00

If life is what happens while you're busy making other plans, I must have the greatest life ever! The past week, perhaps even few weeks, have been so absurdly busy. When it rains it pours, and while I spend no less than 49 lonely Saturday nights per year on my couch wishing I had a real life, all the social events I want to attend are clustered on three or four dates. How do my friends, without knowing each other, all plan events for the same nights? Nights that aren't even holidays?!? Irrelevant. Crazy incidents have ensued, and I shall briefly highlight them here. Now.

Like a Bandit

Making out does not count as hooking up! As a real hussy, I hated it when I intently listened to people's stories about their "hook up" at a bar/party/frat house/bus stop, only to find out that by "hook up" they meant kissing and I will not be getting any of the torrid details I anticipated. How dare you disappoint me with your non-sluttiness?!?!

Since I haven't had sex since Thanksgiving, and even nuns get more ass than me, I am now most disappointed in my own non-sluttiness. Time to unleash my inner make out slut. In the past month, I've made out with at least five people. Prior to the past thirty days, that never happened to me. I haven't made out with someone that I didn't end up fucking since the 11th grade. What the hell is going on?

Drinking is Bad; Jenny Eat Something

Nothing encourages me to make out with strangers like booze. An obvious pillar of self-control, I lose most of the characteristics people normally associate with me when I drink. Expletives spew from my mouth, followed mere hours later by vomit. Okay, the first part of that is the same when I'm sober. Or is it the second? Moving on. Normally reserved and quiet to everyone who does not know me intimately, I morph into a cliche drunk girl like a werewolf.

On Sunday night, I met up with friends at what is, in my humble opinion, the greatest bar in history. First, it has no sign. Telling someone you've been there is like bragging that you know how to find it. I dig this form of elitism. Second, their beer list is significantly larger than their menu. Third, most of these beers cannot be found at other bars. Forth, their menu, though small, features fried pickles! Fifth, they have Velvet Underground and Magnetic Fields on their jukebox. Wow. Just wow. Try as I might, I could not find a single flaw in this establishment. Even though I left before the chef gave my friends free fried pickles, I'm not bitter. That's how incredible this experience was. Now no one must ever find out about this bar so that it's not ruined by asshats in argyle sweaters and hipster jeans.

Monday night, I attended a pub quiz. I think I got every single answer wrong. I also yelled "whore" at some poor man walking by on the sidewalk. I hugged the bartender because I forgot to tip him last time I was there. Hugs are almost as good for currency as dollars. I also created the greatest nickname of all time. Special shout out to my good friend Jew Box. Go me. I also managed to get so drunk that I ate four Fig Newtons, which I despise. Then I went home, sent some drunken text messages, threw up Fig Newtons, and passed out on my bed. Kneeling in front of my toilet and staring into the abyss, I realized that the most significant relationships of my life have been with a man who just moved to another state, a man who never loved me even though he knocked me up, and a man who claims to love me yet lives with another woman. Wallowing, I'm grateful I managed to apply my Go Smile. At 4 am, I woke up racked with anxiety over my intoxicated behavior. I couldn't calm down, and consequently, did not go back to sleep. To round out 24-hours of poor decision making, I attempted to kill my pain with carbs. I consumed at least an egg McMuffin, three bagels with cream cheese, a piece of cake, a cupcake, a handful of M & M's, Cheese Its, Teddy Grahams, 4 cookies, half a Butterfinger, and a granola bar. That's on top of the food I had intended to eat for the day--salad, grilled chicken, yogurt, etc. My hang over went away. My crippling self-analysis and criticisms did not.

I wish any of those men were here right now so I could tell them to get the fuck out.

Love Bites

2008-03-09T14:57:00.002-05:00

An oval shaped purple ring at the bottom of my right ribs reminds me of my of weekend. At the center, dark purple spots seep into pink and fill up the circle. In a few days, the bruise will turn green. Then it will fade to yellow before finally disappearing, swallowed and reclaimed by my pale skin. After nearly four years, such marks are tradition. Like a ringed stain left on a coffee table by a sloppy red wine drinker, this marks me as his. Eventually erased by time and distance, the mark on my ribs and the one on his shoulder symbolize our relationship.

Oh The S. Will I ever have the capacity to sufficiently describe him? Our ephemeral interactions are framed by long periods of absence. Tender moments of intimacy and kindness are eclipsed and overshadowed by unconscionable cruelty. I've been loved and hurt more than I thought possible by this one man. This one man challenges and sustains me like no one else. In this one relationship, I understand everything and realize that I know nothing. Our time together satiates me yet leaves me craving more. Our similarly hedonistic natures allow us to inflict pleasure and suffering without remorse or regret. All that matters is the here and now, where ever we happen to be together. Against logic and the best efforts of our friends, our we continue to be fascinated by one another. Moths drawn to the flame that threatens to light them on fire. Over the course of our relationship, he's lived with two other women in PA while I have bed hopped in DC. Different though our paths maybe, my passion for him has never faded.

As much he belongs to me, I belong to him. All of me and none of me simultaneously.

Parliament Light

2008-02-25T20:24:00.002-05:00

It was many and many a year ago,
Under a neon sign in the night,
That an item there was sold whom you know
By the name of Parliament Light;
And this item, she lived with no other thought
Than to smoke and flame so bright.

I was a young and it was cheap,
Under the neon sign in the night;
But I inhaled with a breath that was more than smoke-
I and my Parliament Light;
With a love that the cashiers at 7-11
Coveted our bond so tight.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
Under the neon sign in the night,
A decree came from the state, raising
The price of my Parliament Light;
So my wallet grew thin
And twas beyond my budget so tight,
To shut them up in the glass case
Under the neon sign in the night.

The politicians, not half so happy in Congress,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
Under the neon sign in the night)
That the decree came out,
Overly taxing my Parliament Light.

But my love it was stronger by far than the fear
Of many far healthier than me-
Of those with political might-
And neither the cancer lobbyists who bend their ear,
Nor the clerks under the neon sign in the night,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of my delicious Parliament Light.

For commercials never air without making me care
For my delicious Parliament Light;
And I never finish a dish without making a wish
For my delicious Parliament Light;
And so, as my lungs mend, I think of the end
Of my darling- my darling- my reliable friend,
In the glass case flooded with light,
In her tomb under the neon sign in the night.

Day 1 as a non-smoker and I'm already a plagiarist. Special "shout out" to Edgar Allen Poe for this beautiful piece. And for sleeping with his 13 year old first cousin, who was also a beautiful piece.

Come and Knock on Our Door

2008-02-23T09:32:00.002-05:00

Two's company; three's a crowd.

Maybe not.

Long ago I banished the idea of having a threesome. Sexual exploration and experimentation is the fabric from which my life is made. Still, even I have my limits and standards. I've slept with married men, with men in long term, "committed" relationships, with men my friends hoped to date, with multiple partners in the same time frame. Loose as my morals may be, I occasionally, and seemingly arbitrarily, draw the line. I don't sleep with baby daddies. I don't have threesomes.

Correction. I didn't have threesomes.

For some, avoiding multiple partners in the same bed is a choice based on morality. Not surprisingly, I do not see this as a moral issue. Selfishness is the sole reason I have stayed away from a menage a trois. I don't like to share my toys, or my boys. Moreover, I don't like distractions that divert attention away from me. Several of my lovers have sought to bring another person into my bed. I've always politely declined. My assumption was always that in order to experience multiple partners in one sitting, I would have to give up something that I had already marked as mine. Mine, mine, mine!

Not everyone is as self-absorbed as I am. Rather feeling deprived, being pursued and persuaded to join another couple made me feel lavished upon. Instead of one person telling me that I have an amazing body, that I'm an exceptional kisser, I had two. Double your pleasure, double your fun. As the guest, I was the center of attention. Holla! Why didn't this situation ever occur to me as a possibility? Joining an existing couple is the holy grail of sex!

Leap

2008-02-19T20:37:00.002-05:00

2008 is, thankfully, a leap year. One more precious day in a month that already seems too damn long. Two full days shorter than a regular month, February still stutters and hiccups along, dragging it's sorry ass the entire way.

Weather leaps forward to spring, then jumps back into winter. Rapid changes in climate cause my head to grow foggy. I sniffle, once, twice, then a full sneeze. Stumbling out the door when I should be leaping, I forget that February moves faster than I do. One foot of the porch and down I go. Coffee spills, phone flies into the bushes, tush and arm severely bruised.

Matching February in style and grace, I stagger and struggle through my daily life. Back and forth I go against the bowling bumpers. Should I, shouldn't I? Do I, don't I? Same story, only now in a less forgiving season.

On Saturday, when I couldn't stand the chaotic motion anymore and my bruises started to ache, I leaped. Without stabilizing my footing, without knowing fully where I intended to land, I leaped onto my couch. In the first graceful movement my awkwardness has ever produced, my head rested on his lap. Soft curls that I'd fixated on creating for 20 minutes framed my face. Dark rims of eyeliner and low lights allowed my eyes to appear green, rather than the plain brown they actually are. Elongated eyelashes fluttered. Curled up in his lap, I appeared beautiful in a classically romantic and vulnerable way. Fingertips brushed against my arm, making me instantly glad I choose cashmere for the occasion. Protected, warmed and comforted by the beautiful girl reflected in the glassy, intoxicated haze of his eyes, I leap into terrifying intimacy.

Huge, fat tears gather on the edges of my perfect eyelashes. Joining together, one rolls out of the corner of my eye and over my cheek. It leaves a long trail across the high bones of my face and down to my chin. That first tear takes a lifetime to fall and slide across my face. Each additional tear moves incrementally faster until I'm sobbing. Guilt, anxiety, fear, loss...every negative emotion seeps out of me. Pulling in deep breaths, my diaphragm expands and contracts rapidly. Fingertips circle with the same steady motion across my arm and onto my stomach. These gentle motions dispel my loss of control and restore order. My breathing slows and my tears stop flowing. My stomach muscles rise and fall slower and slower until my body relaxes. Our breathing matches, and his fingers keep the pace my heartbeat should have. 72 beats per minute. Over and over again.

72 beats per minute puts me to sleep. Then it puts him to sleep too. Waking several hours later, in the early morning light, we are still in the same position on the couch. Despite the tears, my eye make up is undisturbed. My soft curls are softer still now. I am still warm and beautiful. Blood pulses through me at the perfectly reasonable rate of 72 beats per minute. Fingertips no longer match it. Everything is the same, but we leap back into ourselves and remove the vulnerability. Fickle just as February, and never saying what we really want for fear of the commitment in spoken words.

Out of the Woodwork

2008-01-27T14:54:00.000-05:00

In the event of a nuclear war, two living things would survive: cockroaches and my old lovers. Both would roam the abandoned streets, pillaging what little remains of civilization they encountered. Fortunately, I've never had cockroaches, but the plague of former flames I'm cursed with more than compensates for that. No amount of Raid incapacitates them. They refuse to die complacently in the roach motels in which they inevitably live. Just when I think I'm finally rid of them, one crawls out from underneath my Mr. Coffee or pops out of a drawer when I reach for a spoon. Oh foul and cursed thing! What demon from the depths of hell created thee?

Every now and then, an old lover will reappear in my life. Bump into someone who saw you naked at CVS? Oh I did that. Receive a desperate booty call at 4 am on a Tuesday? You betcha. Even made a few of those calls myself. Fortunately, most of these run-ins have occured when I've been in a good position. Skinnier, happier, and less awkward then I previously was. It usually goes something like this:

Former Lover: "Wow, you look great! How have you been?"

My Outer Monologue: "I'm doing well. you know. How are you?"

My Inner Monologue: "I'm so much hotter than I was when I fucked you. No need to answer my question about how you've been. I don't care, and only said that to be polite. Man, you've put on weight/are losing your hair/clearly have no life. Clearly I was a high point in your life, which has even more obviously gone downhill since my departure. How sad for you. I wonder what's on Comedy Central right now?"

Recently, it seems like some kind of mass email went out, informing all my old lovers that I'm skinny and happy and sadly, still not getting laid. Slowly leaking back into my thoughts like the faucet in my bathroom, and filling my brain with regrets, contempt, disdain, and of course, temptations. This is more than the occasional, accidental run-in. They are actually seeking me out with startling perseverance. Some I haven't spoken to in weeks, other in nearly years, yet there they are--on the phone, in my inbox, instant messaging me. Here are some conversation excerpts that may or may not have been altered:

The Friend of a Friend: Are you ready to be friends again? I'm just trying to salvage our relationship.
Me: Friends again? When were we ever friends?!?
Friend of a Friend: Well, you look really good. You've lost a lot of weight. Are you seeing anybody?
Me: Okay then.

Mr. Smith: The last time I saw you, I said I'd call you and we'd hang out and I'm sorry that I didn't.
Me: These things happen.
Mr. Smith: What are you doing on Friday?

The Roommate: It'd be a bad idea for us to be in a jail cell together. We'd probably have sex.
Me: We're probably going to have sex anyway.

The Coworker: *flashing a $100 Monopoly bill* How much can I get for this?
Me: Are you drunk?

The Dry Humper: I got the speeding ticket from that night we went out. How have you been? I'm sorry if I offended you.
Me: Offended? No. Chafed? Yes.

The Sweet Boy: I'm going to be in DC for Memorial Day weekend. We're going to a game at the new stadium.
Me: That's my birthday.
The Sweet Boy: I know! Isn't that great?
Me: Well, I was going to go to Vegas with my friends for the big 25 celebration, wear a blonde wig, tell everyone my name is Cherry, and have sex with someone whose first name I never bothered to find out. But you know, spending my birthday at a Nats game with shitty, warm light beer and a man I'm not going to get to sleep with is just as good.

The only time I was actually grateful for an old lover coming back was Boy Blue. It went like this:

Boy Blue: Sorry I haven't been in touch. I've been seeing this girl for awhile.
Me: Congrats.
Boy Blue: I think about you though. You're still very arousing.
Me: Why thank you.
Boy Blue: You always seemed like you had something long-term going on. Very secretive, you are. But it worked.
Me: I don't think I was so secretive.
Boy Blue: Not secretive, I guess. It's just that we never felt the need to tell each other every detail of our lives but were still able to have great sex.
Me: I always left happy.
Boy Blue: I wouldn't have it any other way.
Me: Maybe we could get a drink sometime. That is, if you don't think it'd get you into trouble.
Boy Blue: I don't see the harm in that.

The little smile he gave at the end of that sentence told me that he did see the harm. He knew what would happen as much as I did. That little smile, shared only between us. Suddenly, there we were, back in our old ways. Forgetting conversation, pleasantries, all that shit that doesn't matter. All that mattered was what we had always known: when we were together, it was certain that we both felt exactly the same thing at exactly the same moment. Words were superfluous. And this is why Boy Blue will always be the best lover I ever had. The only cockroach I don't mind finding on my kitchen counter.

MISTAKE!

2008-01-15T20:04:00.000-05:00

I often wish I had someone to follow me around all day and tell me when I'm about to make a huge, catastrophic mistake. Perhaps an opera singer, like on the episode of Scrubs I watched today. He could just belt out "MISTAKE!" and then I'd avoid doing or saying whatever dumbass thought it currently floating through my brain.

I screwed up at work. In fact, I've been screwing up almost the entire time I've been there. From forming inappropriate relationships with my coworkers--friends, friends with benefits, and otherwise--I've definitely fucked up my work life. And, while it took a little while to kick in, it all eventually caught up with me. Today, I should have kept my mouth shut. Today, I should have pretended that I didn't care and played nice. But I didn't. Thus my need for a MISTAKE! man.

I haven't had a day like this in awhile. Most days lately, I've felt pretty good about myself and successfully left what happened at work where it belonged, at work. One bad day rolls around, and bam, I immediately want to forgo all my hard work and head right back into my old ways. I really want to spend a few hours with my good friend Bacardi. Perhaps then, stumbling through my neighborhood, I'd pick up a loaf of sourdough bread, butter, and a whole pizza. After consuming all three items, I really want to crawl into bed with the sexiest men I can think of -- Ben and Jerry. Then I'd probably start to cry with the weight of my failure, both professionally and in terms of my diet. The next logical step is picking up the phone to half-heartedly drunk dial a boy who I should in no way have contact with. I'd wake up next to him, reeling with remorse over the entire event. From there, it's only a hop, skip and a jump to waking up in a pool of what I can only hope is my own vomit or doing things I wouldn't force on a mule, including things I forced on a mule. It would take me weeks to bounce back from such a backslide, if I could at all.

Even though I don't have a MISTAKE man, I choose a different path today. Granted, I may have taken three Xanax today and spent a good 20 minutes crying in the bathroom, but otherwise, I've kept it together. I may still feel like shit about everything that happened today, but tomorrow is a new day. Perhaps the first day that I'll hear that little voice in my head that says, "Stop and think."

Complimentary Gift

2008-01-07T20:46:00.000-05:00

Compliments mean less when the person giving them is ugly. It's just a fact. If someone who thought that stick figures with bows to differentiate gender made a comment about the work of Jackson Pollack, their opinion would promptly be placed in the circular file of your brain. Thus someone a little dodgey on the eyes should not comment on fine art. When the Dry Humper told me I was beautiful, it meant nothing. In fact, it almost made me feel less worthy of the compliment. When The English Major said it, my stomach jumped up into my throat.

Resolutions Update: I have successfully hung my kitten picture calendar in a place of honor in my bedroom. Slightly less impressive, I also finished my 10 day fast and am now in the process of reintroducing food to my body. My mouth says, "Oh it tastes so good!!!" and my body says, "Oh my god, what the hell is that?!?!" Hilarity ensues.

A Hussy's Diary

2008-01-01T18:52:00.000-05:00

Many dull, boring, and unimaginative people take great inspiration from movies. I am just such a dull, boring, and unimaginative person. Like every other dull, boring, and unimaginative girl in her 20's, I derive inspiration from Bridget Jones's Diary. Shut up.

New Year's Resolutions: "Resolution #1: uggg - will obviously lose 20 lbs. #2: always put last night's panties in the laundry basket. Equally important: will find nice sensible boyfriend and stop forming romantic attachments to any of the following: alcoholics, workoholics, sexaholics, commitment-phobics, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits, or perverts."

Not bad, though wholly unoriginal (except perhaps the part about the panties). Inspired as I am, here is my list of resolutions to be promptly forgotten no later than mid-January.

1. Hang 2008 calendar. It has pictures of kittens wearing hats, and I have no idea why I bought it.

2. Finish the 10-day detox fast I have embarked upon. Currently, I am on day 5 and have lost 8 pounds. It should be noted though, while I am now the thinnest I have been in my adult life, this fast is not about being skinny. This is more about proving to myself that I can accomplish this. Losing 20 pounds is just a super bonus.

3. Obviously will lose 20 pounds. Duh.

4. Swim more

5. Learn to belly dance.

6. Go to the movies by myself.

7. Quit smoking.

8. Run a 5k, even if it's only against myself.

9. Move either to a new city or, at least, into my very own apartment where no one leaves the toilet paper off the roll, puts an empty box of aluminum foil back in the cabinet, or leaves water on the bathroom floor.

10. Pay off my credit card.

11. Have breakfast brought to me in bed.

Some are ambitious, some are not. A new year, new accomplishments to face, a new chance to do it all over again. Here's to 2008. May it be a year of health, wealth, numerous lascivious acts, and happiness. Or at the very least, may it be a year better than the last.

New Year's Eve?

2007-12-31T19:54:00.000-05:00

Some days require introspection and self-examination more than others. Unreasonably we choose random dates on the calendar--birthdays, anniversaries of momentous occasions, and of course, the end of one year and the start of a new one.

Today is a day no different than any other. I find proof of this in the consistency of television schedules. December 31, 2007 still means Family Guy at 6:30, The Simpsons at 7:00, Scrubs at 7:30. TBS, Fox and Comedy Central will not let me spiral into absurd levels of self-scrutinizing. The same schedule as any other weekday prevails. Still, there is something ingrained in my brain about today.

The calendar tells me I must ring in the new year. I must reflect on the year past and the year to come. I must have something prolific to say about what I have done with the last 365 days and what I plan to do with the next. Today I am offered 24 hours to relive, reflect upon, and most importantly, account for the 8,760 hours of 2007. Well, here goes nothing.

2007

Best Date -- Dinner and a movie with the Sweet Boy in Cincinnati
Worst Date -- Holiday Party with the Dry Humper

Best Sex -- Mr. Bubble
Worst Sex -- The Friend of a Friend (my judgment may be clouded by my intense rage)

Best Moment -- April 3
Worst Moment -- August 6 and August 17 (tie)

And now, a year end recap in 60 seconds (approximately): got a new job, broke up with Disingenuous, restarted smoking, slept with The S, slept with coworker, fell in love with The Sweet Boy all over again, broke a tooth on a fortune cookie, slept with The Volunteer, had insomnia, slept with The Roommate, lost best friend, slept with a second coworker, briefly dated Mr. Bubble, had heart broken by The Sweet Boy all over again, reunited with best friend, got pregnant, convinced a girl at a bar to have a threesome with The Friend of a Friend and I, got a hang over, discovered pregnancy whilst drunk in a Chipotle bathroom, had an abortion, recovered, slept with The S, bought a car, fasted for 6 days, stopped sleeping with The Friend of a Friend, started sleeping with The Friend of a Friend again, got into an altercation with The Friend of a Friend and stopped seeing him altogether, quit drinking, had an anxiety attack over driving in the snow, took Ambien, went to therapy, took Xanex, had three glasses of red wine, got dry humped unwillingly for 4 hours after a holiday party, recommitted myself to not drinking, went home for Christmas, realized how important family really is to me, ate too many cookies, fixed my car, came back to DC, congratulated my mom on the second engagement of her life without feeling bitter about it, fasted for 4 days and spent New Year's Eve in my bathrobe watching tv and taking comfort in the fact that today is a regular day while simultaneously serving as the end of a hard year and a symbolic blank slate.

Happy New Year and remember to take car of yourselves, and one another.

The Rub

2007-12-18T20:21:00.000-05:00

I'm getting a lot done these days. Baking cookies, knitting hats, shopping for, and wrapping presents. I'm impressed with my ability to fill all the hours in the day. Truthfully though, I'm pretty lonely. More than I have been in a long time. Perhaps it's because my solitude is self-imposed. At the same time, the thought of being around anyone I already know makes me want to rip off my skin. The thought of being around someone new is so exhausting that I actually took a nap after thinking about it today. It's a stalemate. A stalemate of loneliness.

And of course, no one can know how lonely I really am. There's the rub.

A Warm December

2007-12-14T23:28:00.000-05:00

There's nothing like herbal tea, a four hour nap, knitting and VH1 to spice up an already wild Friday night. Currently, I'm booze free for three weeks now. Go me! I'm also sex free for four weeks, which is pretty incredible. I've heard that women don't miss sex after the first month, and so far, that seems to be true. That's probably more of a reflection of the quality of sex I was having than anything else. I'm like a whole new person, except, you know, mostly the same. I commenced my wild evening with the most fantastic piece of cheesecake. Cutting out liquor and replacing it with delicious desserts is probably the best idea I've had in years. What could be better?

Really the only feasible way to top the evening I've had is with a Saturday of baking low-carb cookies, Christmas shopping, looking at pictures of cats on the internet, and decimating the supply of cookies I just baked. Of course, there's a holiday party to attend and sweet, sweet rum to tempt me, but I'm confident that I'm going to make it.

At about 11:03 pm, I'm going to realize that I've become my mother and likely hit the bar like a metro bus careening through downtown, picking off pedestrians along the way. Wish me luck!

Put Your Slippers on Instead

2007-12-08T21:26:00.000-05:00

According to my physician, who met with me for all of 15 minutes, I have "severe anxiety disorder" characterized by extreme nervousness, depressive episodes, and insomnia. Sadly, she opted to not give me Paxil or some equally sedating chemical cocktail. She did, however, refer me to a psychiatrist for some good ol' fashioned head shrinking. She also gave me sleeping pills, though not before recommending that I drink warm milk in an attempt to fall asleep. Not only is that the most disgusting proposition I've ever heard in my life, but one could reason that a person who hasn't had a decent night's sleep since April would have already tried every legal (and some illegal), over-the-counter remedy possible.

She also recommended that I stop drinking so frequently, which really isn't such a bad idea. As I continuously become increasingly nervous, guilt-ridden and socially anxious, it's more and more difficult to enjoy most social interactions. Adding booze to an already neurotic drunk dialer with verbal diarrhea is merely squirting gasoline on an already blazing fire. Recognizing my flaws, and crescendoing instability, I'm attempting to heed her advice. Not only should this, in theory, decrease the number of interactions I have to feel anxious about, but it should *hopefully* salvage the few interpersonal relationships I have that aren't entirely in ruins.

Since I have neither pharmaceutical grade anti-depressants nor Jamaican grade rum, I choose ice cream to drown my sorrows in. Rather than go out to seedy bars, meet men that are inevitably harmful to me, and drunk until my liver falls out, I plan to eat ice cream until I can feel no more. For an encore, I take an Ambien and pass out for 12 hours. It's a lot like boozing, but lacks the nasty morning after (read: dry mouth, throbbing head, waking up next to old, bald men whom I hate still wearing a thong which was only comfortable for 20 minutes, then braving the metro ride home with my tits half hanging out of what was, but is no longer, a sexy shirt). So far, the plan seems fool-proof. But what about increasing levels of thigh jiggle, you ask? For one, I easily imbibe 2,000 calories each week on liquor alone. And that's considering the fact that I drink 70 calorie rum and diet cokes. On top of that, there's all the food I eat whilst inebriated that I would never normally consume. Pizza, IHop, falafel, Tastee Diner and fries with either gravy or dutch mayo. I think that pretty much covers a pint of ice cream. Maybe two.

The only real downside I've discovered thus far is all this fucking extra time I have on my hands. This is the first weekend I can recall in many years when I did not go out or fuck someone or at least go shopping. I literally did nothing that was not responsible and productive. Apparently that takes a lot less time than being whorey and drunk. Who knew?

The goal here is to emerge with the capacity to form and maintain at least one healthy, fully functional interpersonal relationship. I have no idea how long such a process could take, but I think it'll be worth it. If I reshape myself into a person that I actually like again, then perhaps others will like me again too. I know that it used to be that way, I just forgot what it looked like. Slippers help you remember. And sweatpants. And most importantly, mint chocolate chip.

The Blankest Year

2007-11-14T20:44:00.000-05:00

I often wonder what things would be like if I made a few different choices. What if I had never taken the job I have now? I never would have met (or slept with) The Coworker or The Friend of a Friend. If I never met The Friend of a Friend, I wouldn't have gotten pregnant. Of course, if I had stayed at my other job, I would probably have kept the kid because I would have been able to support it. Then again, the pregnancy never would have happened because I never would have met the father.

What if I never got into an argument with Mr. Bubble in the first month of our relationship? Maybe I'd still be dating him. Maybe I'd be happy and well fed.

What if I didn't leave my best friend in a bar on my birthday? Maybe we wouldn't have spent most of our last three months together hating one another. Maybe instead of sleeping with The Friend of a Friend when I was sad, I would have called her and had alcoholic milkshakes.

What if The Sweet Boy loved me? If he had told me that he did while he was here, then maybe three days later I wouldn't have slept with The Friend of Friend and gotten knocked up. Maybe I'd be with one of the few people I've actually loved, having what I can only imagine is a relatively normal life.

What if I had gone home after college? What if I had never come here to begin with? What if I kept my pants on and actually took the terrifying risk of getting to know people? What if I never took the internship where I met my best friend? What if I had never taken the major requirement class where I heard about that internship? What if I never added that second major? What if I didn't come to college with most of my major credits? What if I never took all those AP History classes?

Suddenly, my warped mind has created a direct linear path between history, pregnancy, abortion and my current state of unhappiness. Suddenly, history is to blame. Simple as that. Obviously, take AP History did not force me to sleep with two of my coworkers. Nor did it force me to forgo condoms and get pregnant. It doesn't force me to send regrettable text messages to said coworkers when I'm incredibly intoxicated. Although, in a way, history is responsible.

"You digest and absorb your life by turning it into stories...other events, the ones you can't digest, they poison you. Those worst parts of your life, those moments you can't talk about, they rot you from the inside out." -- Chuck Palahniuk

What is history but the collected stories of random people, arranged in a disjointed nonlinear format and retold over and over. History, in the form of the stories I've told and digested and in the others that rot me from the inside, is to blame for all of this. Some stories make you feel alive, and others use you up. Either way, you're haunted by them.

There's no escaping it, really. The past doesn't have an effect on you and it isn't part of you; it is you. You can do what I did and delete the phone number and email address of every boy I ever fucked. Burn the black book. Erase all their messages, incinerate notes, cards, flowers, everything. But the past is still on your right shoulder, looking over everything you do, casting your wet shadow on the sidewalk. You're always haunted. The only thing to do in moments like this, is erase the blankest year, no matter how long it lasted. "If we can forgive what's been done to us...If we can forgive what we've done to others...If we can leave all our stories behind. Our being villains or victims. Only then can we maybe rescue the world. But we still sit here, waiting to be saved. While we're still victims, hoping to be discovered while we suffer."

Stop waiting to be saved. Accept that I am neither a villain or a victim. Forgive.

Longest Month Eva

2007-08-30T17:54:00.000-05:00

Seemingly August 2007 has been the longest month in history. Every time I look at the calendar, I expect it to be September, yet it remains August. I imagine that DC in August is a lot like purgatory--uncomfortably hot, sticky and void of the normal passage of time. I know that I haven't written in awhile, and the following will hopefully explain why.

First of all, I was out of work for three weeks for summer vacation. I choose to spend the time consulting at my old job. It was fine, but ungodly boring. I really have nothing to say about that portion of my summer, and thus am not sure why I'm mentioning it at all.

Moving along. Second, because it was summer vacation, the Friend of a Friend was out of town for awhile on business. His absence cost me most of my usual blogging fodder. He did, however, manage to leave most of his wardrobe on my bedroom floor. One night while he was away, I came to distressing conclusion in a Chipotle bathroom: I was pregnant.

As evident by my drinking half a bottle of rum and smoking half a pack of cigarettes tonight, I did not choose to continue with the incubation. No one should ever hear that their conception was discovered in the bathroom of a fast food restaurant. Whether I did the right thing or not, I'll never be completely certain, but it was it is. No matter how slowly time appears to be moving, it will indeed move and this too shall pass.

I know that I usually write about funny things here, or at the very least, less serious topics. I'm sorry to put such a downer on my blog, but I needed to explain why I wasn't updating. Moreover, this situation was directly caused by my sexual escapades, which is what this blog has always been about. If you've stuck with me this long, as least enjoy this exchange with the Friend of a Friend:

FoaF: So how long is the recovery for this?
Me: I should be physically fine in two weeks.
FoaF: So...ummm...
Me: Yes?
FoaF: When can we have sex again?
Me: ...

Some things never change. Eva.

Bitch, Bitch, Bitch Edition

2007-07-22T16:20:00.000-05:00

Jell-o does not make mango flavored gelatin, and I'm pissed off about it. A smart person probably would have looked on the Jell-o official website before visiting every Giant in the surrounding area in search of a product that does not, in fact, exist. But no, I waited to check the website until I had already ascertained that no stores carry such a food. That's three hours I'll never get back.

Starbucks pissed me off this morning, too. I normally don't go there because I live in the only neighborhood of a major U.S. city without a Starbucks on every corner. Well, that and because I have no idea how to speak their stupid retail language and thus can never get my order correct. Going to Starbucks and attempting to purchase anything gives me a great deal of empathy for people who are Autistic. I look totally normal and I'm speaking the same language as the barista, but through some processing fluke on my part, am completely unable to procure a cup of coffee without assistance. Fortunately, The Friend of Friend was able to recognize the inexplicable difficulty I was having and got my coffee for me. I'm thankful that the coffee was right since my egg sandwich somehow ended up with spinach on it. I may be coffee shop retarded, but I know there's no way I ordered that.

Boxers bunch up too much to be comfortable. How do boys wear them? Sure it's endearing that someone offered me their boxers and a t-shirt to lounge and sleep in, but I probably would have been more comfortable in my thong and push-up bra. At then my tits would have looked great and no one would have noticed my chubby thighs because they would have been staring at my breasts and ass.

On a happier note, I discovered last week that Giant carries vibrating cock rings. I had heard that large stores like Target and, unbelievably, Wal-Mart sold them, but I mostly took it as some kind of urban mythology. Apparently it's true. And here I've been buying my cock rings from Babes in Toyland like a sucker. While wandering around the grocery store in search of non-existent gelatin flavors, I *happened* upon the "family planning" aisle. I didn't find the condoms I was looking for (are they mythological too?) but I spotted the cock rings. How could I not, honestly? They were right there at eye level, not even hidden on the back of the bottom shelf where no one would see them. I already have a perfectly lovely cock ring that vibrates and even has a little turtle on it, but I felt compelled to buy one based solely on the shock of seeing it in that environment. I felt a little guilty walking through the store with my basket of fruits, veggies, conditioner, toothpaste, yogurt and cock rings, but the voyeur in me couldn't help but spurn the self-checkout line for the one manned by the awkward clerk. Frankly, I was a little disappointed that he didn't seem as shocked by my purchase as I clearly was. Perhaps people buy them there all the time. In conclusion, I went into the store to buy a $1 necessity item that I believed existed only to leave with a $6 unnecessary item that I largely thought to be a legend. In an odd way, this makes perfect sense to me.

Marking Your Territory

2007-07-19T19:25:00.000-05:00

Certain things make me wonder exactly how much evolutionary ground we've really gained. Ever seen men swarm around a beautiful girl at a bar like lions around a gazelle carcass? Noticed men pushing each other like slightly less hairless apes? Been a witness or a party to the classic "no, my trunk is bigger!" argument amongst elephants? It's frighting to think of all the disturbing similarities between boys I date and animals. And of course, it's not smart animals like dolphins. It's animals whose brain to body size ratio is distressing small, like opossums.

The animalistic behavior I hate most is definitely the leave behind. Sometimes I happily chalk up items left around my room to general laziness or stupidity. Like the time that I forgot my panties at that kid's apartment on the Forth of July three years ago because I was in such a rush to get out of there without having to talk to him again. These things happen, and are the occasional casualty of having a sex life. I'm willing to put up with a pair of boxers or a sock left casually on my floor. I'd rather it not be there, but I accept it as an unfortunate side effect. If unchecked, this type of laundry aggression only escalates. Before I know it, there's boxers and a t-shirt on the floor. Then somehow, while I'm not looking, it's as though the dirty clothes mate and produce a pair of shorts. At first, I call it an accident and return the clothes to their original owner. Then, after several "accidents", I'm starting to wonder how much laziness explains. Frustrated, I try to return the clothes, but later that day, I notice them still laying on the edge of my bed. Perplexing because I gave them to the person they belong to. In my monthly attempt to clean my room, I angrily throw the two pair of shorts, three t-shirts, two pairs of boxers and a pair of socks into my own laundry basket. After being washed and folded, still the clothes don't make it back to their home. Are they too good for their home? Every few days, clothes disappear from the pile a little at a time. Then one day, they're all gone. I do a victory dance and celebrate my defeat over invading laundry forces!

A mere week passes, and again clothes accumulate. Oh, dirty laundry. You think you're so sneaky but I see you. I refuse to wash you! You may have won the battle, but not the war. Then this morning, dirty clothes in plain sight, your owner asks me if he has any clean boxers there. ! Funny thing about that. I'm not actually your maid.

I'm not actually that annoyed that he thinks he can get his laundry done for free, or that even that he thinks he can leave his shit all over my place. Honestly, I respect that kind of bravado because I would probably try to do the same thing. What pisses me off about the clothing war is that I suspect what this is really about is marking his territory. Beware other boys who enter! I have already been in here!
Just pee on me and get it over with, fucking monkey.

Backlog

2007-06-25T17:13:00.000-05:00

Bursting My Bubble

Mr. Bubble quickly became my weekend go-to boy. Probably because he had a great bed and great food and was always smiling. These three things made him a lot of fun to be around, but like all good things, eventually doomed to go totally insane. A few Saturday nights ago, after 24 more hours of dating behind us, Mr. Bubble and I sat down to a quiet Italian dinner at his house. Now, the details are rather hazy to me because I was two glasses into a bottle of red wine, but I somehow offended Mr. Bubble. His response to whatever offensive thing I said was slightly exaggerated. We got into an intense argument that nearly rivaled our intense fucking and didn't speak for the next 12 hours. Finally, I made it home, only slightly worse for the wear. Once there, I quickly put Mr. Burst Bubble into the Fuck It Bucket.

Maybe I liked Mr. Bubble a little too much for my own comfort. Things were going too well for me to believe that it could continue. There had to be something wrong with Mr. Bubble, and honestly, it only took me about a day to figure out what that thing was. In the date immediately preceding our demise, I actually started to think that I might want to date Mr. Bubble. Like as his girlfriend. Fortunately, an hour of screaming and 12 hours of the silent treatment cured me of that affliction.

Adult Swim

Surprisingly, I sometimes do things other than have sex. One of the things I generally enjoy is swimming. I hate exercising, but swimming appeals to me because it's easy on my joints and I get to wear a really tight outfit. Mostly , I swim in an effort to not become Orca fat, but also because it's my quiet and relaxing time. No one bothers me, there is almost no noise and very few other people go to the pool near my house. Scratch that. very few people used to go to the pool near my house. Since it's now 900 degrees in DC, EVERYONE goes to the pool by my house. For the entire hour I was at the pool, I was surrounded by screaming children, pool peeing babies, and itsy bitsy bathing suits. For me, going to the pool is about exercising. Accordingly, I swear a racer back Speedo. Apparently, everyone else comes to the pool to squeeze their fat asses into band aid sized spandex, sit on the bleachers and stuff their faces with chips. Due to massive overcrowding, I spent a total of 10 minutes swimming laps. Mind you I was there for over an hour. Not only did I not get my workout in, but I also get so agitated that I went straight to the bar with my bathing suit still on under my clothes. I demand that, in the future, two pools be available. One for people like me who wish to exercise in peace and one for people with Turrets syndrome, limited fashion sense, and no sense of their own expanding ass who wish to float around in a giant bath tub.

Don't Shit Where You Eat

Dear Diary:

I fucked my coworker. Don't tell anyone even though I already blurted it out at the office happy hour when he wasn't there. Numbers 412 and 413 on the list of excellent decisions I've made.

Luv always,
L

P.S. Omfg! He's so fine I can't stand it. Definitely in the top 3 hottest boys I've ever been with.

De facto Dating?

The Roommate says that in the "regular" dating world (ie. not in my hussy world) that if you have sex with someone on three separate occasions with no one else in between, then you're dating that person by default. I don't know about these crazy "regular" dating world rules, but I'm sort of glad that I pretend they don't apply to me. To me, one's relationship status should be taken seriously. Five successful dates does not a couple make. I'm single until otherwise firmly established through conversation, not sex, and I don't enter into anything that I'm not 100 percent committed to.

Part of me is selfish and doesn't want to waste time and emotions on someone I don't see anything long term with. Another part of me is cautious to become too involved with anyone because I know that it would take a lot for me to give up a lifestyle I've become so fond of. My intention is never to hurt anyone. Recognizing that many people become emotionally involved when it comes to sex, I'm honest with my partners about the limitations of our relationship. So far, the policy has served me well. Most of my lovers have been short term, but those who've stuck with me over the years have accepted and understood my stance on the issue regardless of the number of times we had sex.

The Friend of a Friend is dangerously near to entering the list of long term boys I've had. In fact, at 5 months, he has been around longer than Disingenuous, who I actually dated. Not that I should be taking advice from him, but The Roommate says, "Call a spade a spade. There's a name for people who hang out all the time and have sex: couples." My retort was that no one knows we hang out or that we have sex. His response was not surprising--"There's a name for that too: shady couples."

Are relationships nothing more than who you take to bed on a regular basis? Not to sound naive but isn't anything sacred? I refuse to be defined or judged on the basis of who I let into my bed, but I do feel a sense of responsibility when it comes to emotion. Though I won't ask The Friend of a Friend if he does have feelings for me that extend beyond the carnal, I suspect The Roommate may be right. Two people rarely feel the same thing at the same time, and if you know that other person feels more than you, are you obligated to end it? As with so many other questions, I'm left without an answer. I do know, however, that it's scary to hear that someone doesn't need to fuck you to want to be around you.

Nomadic Living for the Modern Girl

2007-06-10T19:26:00.000-05:00

I'm going to invent some wacky creation that allows me to carry everything I need for two days of regular life without looking like a crazy bag lady. After my forth date with Mr. Bubble in 12 days, My shoulder is about to give out from carrying a messenger bag brimming with clothing, lube, condoms, toys, toiletries, and other assorted necessities. Probably the only downside to being a hussy versus being a girlfriend is that you have no place to leave your shit.

Due to what is clearly all-consuming ADD, Mr. Bubble never lets me know that he wants to see me in advance. I don't mind, of course, as I rather hate planned outings, and almost always bail at the last second anyway. The unfortunate part of it all is that I have to haul all the things I need to function way down into the depths of Virginia every three or four days. Then, of course, all those things have to make back home with me. Or worse, back to work with me as they did on Friday morning. Nothing like a walk of shame that lasts 13 hours.

That being said, I really like this one. Thanks to the miracle of human chemistry, I never know why I enjoy the company of those I like so much. They're all so different, with such a spectrum of styles and tastes.

I like Mr. Bubble because this boy knows about more delicious food than anyone I have ever met. Every time I see him, we eat no less than four meals. This last 24-hour date included trips to four different grocery stores and two restaurants. And he made me breakfast this morning. Also, even though he's 30, he frequently looks just like a little boy because there is so much excitement in his facial expressions and his eyes are so damn big. He smiles all the time, and laughs and sings and calls me Sweetpea. Normally all this cuteness would make me want to wretch, but with him, it's not so. We've discussed our mutual ethical sluttiness, and we also have dirty, dirty sex. Honestly, I can't ask for much more in a boy than good fucking and good food.

Since I've been spending 50% of my time working, 30% with Mr. Bubble and the remaining 20% on the fucking Metro, I've successfully avoided The Roommate, The Friend of a Friend, and my best friend for more than a week. Oh, and I also slept with The Volunteer on Tuesday after a 2 month hiatus. That helped. Holy shit. I've been getting more ass than a bus seat lately.

Massive Attack

2007-06-04T19:09:00.000-05:00

It's best to start another year with a bang. Especially since the end frequently happens with a whimper. I began my first weekend at 24 barely on speaking terms with The Roommate, not speaking to my best friend, and having only been out with or slept with The Friend of a Friend in over a month.

Friday night, I intended to have a post-birthday celebration with the two cute boys from work. Both bailed, citing family issues, though we all know they couldn't get the green light from their respective baby girls. This is the primary reason why I tell people not to get into relationships. Because my coworkers and I are firmly committed to going out on Friday nights, we went out anyway. We frequented our usual hotspots, and discussed the two dates I had planned for the weekend. The Friend of a Friend was along, and despite his claims to the contrary, was clearly jealous. After four bars, 11 rum and diet cokes, plotting over my weekend plans, and too much bar food, The Friend of a Friend decided I was too drunk/tired to get myself home safely. Isn't it funny that as soon as someone else is on the horizon, boys suddenly remember how much they like you?

The Friend of a Friend drove me home, and we fucked. Apparently I was too drunk/tired to object much. He left uncharacteristically early in the morning. I attempted to go back to sleep, but had to dodge calls from my mother so I decided to give up and get up. I showered and called Mr. Bubble. Thus began 30 consecutive hours of dating.

Date 1

Mr. Bubble picked me up around 12:30 and we headed downtown into throngs of anti-breast cancer walkers and tourists. Oh how I love DC in the summer. Our original plan was to go to the Modernism exhibit at the Corcoran, but felt that it might be crowded downtown. We agreed that if the fates wanted us to build sexual tension in an art museum, then a parking spot would magically appear. And so one did. We had lunch in the little cafe, which I actually recommend for dates because it's cute and the meals are small so you don't look like a fatty but will have the necessary energy to have sex later. Then we went to Dunkin Donuts, where I negated any previous attempt to not look like a fatty by rapidly consuming a Boston Cream donut. Next stop was Trader Joe's for some supplies. Before we could make it in the door, a carnival caught our eye and we wandered over to look at all the poor people. Tragically the carnival had no good rides, no funnel cake, and only one game. Even more distressing was that the game prizes were square pictures of band logos. I require neon colored teddy bear prizes at my carnivals! Finally, we retired to Mr. Bubble's house to make brownies. No, that's not a clever euphemism. We actually made brownies. And they were delicious. Then we fucked, which was almost as good as the brownies. He also made me the most fantastic fruit dip with strawberries. At some point Mr. Bubble also introduced me to 24-hour Korean bbq. My god can this one appreciate food.

After about our fifth meal of the date, we slept in Mr. Bubble's beautiful bed in his beautiful house. We laid in bed on our sleepy Sunday morning while the skies grayed and rain fell. It was the best first date* I've been on since The S almost three years ago.

Date 2

I barely came home long enough after my 24-hour date with Mr. Bubble to drop off my clothes from Saturday before I was out the door again. I met up with The Physicist at his brand new condo, which was also ridiculously gorgeous. We had a somewhat less active date than I had with Mr. Bubble, and watched a movie before getting pancakes for dinner. We did not have sex, as I consider it somewhat bad form to have sex with three people in one weekend. He dropped me off at home just late enough to miss The Sopranos, which I won't hold against him.

When I got home, I realized that I had essentially been on some form of a date since Friday evening. While The Friend of Friend didn't technically count, we fucked so I'm putting it in the win column. I also realized that it was still possible for me to have lovers who didn't make me feel like shit and that I could be content with myself. It doesn't take much for me to feel balanced and happy with my life. I need at least three of the following: (1) a full pack of cigarettes; (2) music I haven't played to death; (3) cute shirts that show off my cleavage; (4) two good fucks a week; (5) fruits and vegetables; (6) a comfortable place to sleep; (7) good sleeping pills; (8) clearly defined, uncomplicated interpersonal relationships; (9) limited interaction with judgy types like my BFF and The Roommate; and (10) coffee.

For the first time in a long while, I had all 10 of those things and felt right with the world. But wouldn't you know it, I had to look at my phone. One missed call and no message...

*Technically, it was our second date since he spent the night at my place on Thursday, but that's semantics.

Post-Birthday Post

2007-05-27T10:01:00.000-05:00

Recommendations for my future birthdays:

1. Don't devour two huge poppyseed muffins while laying on the couch. Also, don't lie and say it was two muffins, when you really know that it was three.

2. Wear comfortable shoes.

3. Forget the carbs and calories and stick to beer. It's your birthday and calories don't count on your birthday. Honestly, does it matter if you have 10 beers when you ate those huge muffins?!?

4. Remember where the bar you intend to go to is located.

5. Don't buy Tastykakes at 3:30 am.

6. Avoid getting into a taxi with a strange man named Ed. Boys who go out on a Saturday night in button down shirts are either Republicans or asshats. Sometimes both.

7. Stay away from flowerbeds with short fences around them. When drunk, they seem like great things to fall into.

8. Leave your phone at home. You'll only call/text people you shouldn't.

9. Do not, under any circumstances, decide to write a post on your silly blog when you can barely stand up.

All around, my birthday was fairly good. I ate to much, drank too much, and fell into a flowerbed. I did not find Boy Blue, or any boy that I wanted to take home, but I feel alright about that. I lost my best friend somewhere during the night, and I feel alright about that too. I had a good time and I did what I felt like, and after all, that's what birthdays are about. Here's to 24.

My [So Called] Best Friend

2007-05-27T02:34:00.000-05:00

My best friend is nothing like me. If opposites attract, then we're the proof. She believes in one true love for everyone and in sexual abstinence unless you find someone who could be that one true love. And I don't begrudge her that. She is, miraculously, the only person that I can accept even though she feels completely different than I do about relationships, sex and love. For me, she is that one person that I can confide everything in. She knows about [nearly] every lover I've ever had; every disturbing though that crosses my mind; every insecurity I keep buried inside.

In the past, she's taken my escapades with a grain of salt, given me good advice,
and moved on. Lately, though, it seems like she's judging the parts of my sexual life that differ from hers. She wants me to give up my entire life here and move to Milwaukee to be with the Sweet Boy because that's what someone did for her. She wants me to love and fuck one man because that's what she does. She wants my life to imitate hers because she isn't secure in the choices that she's made and she wants me to reaffirm to them with the flattery of imitation. But, of course, I won't do it. At least not to attempt to satisfy the void of her unending insecurity. I won't run my life based on someone else's standards, and as my best friend, she should know that.

Since she's my bestest friend ever, she knows me better than just about anyone. She knows every bizarre neuroses that I have and every strange sexual encounter I've come across. Unfortunately, like The S, she uses what she knows about me to hurt me. She calls me a whore in front of our friends and coworkers, she makes comments that indicate that I like the disturbing level of sexual attention I receive on the street, she jokes that I antagonize the men in my life to fuck me over. Sometimes, she's right on target. And other times, like tonight, she's way off base. On my birthday, with no available, single, straight men in sight, there was no call for it. And I had no patience for it. I am not a slut. I do not enjoy being harassed on the street. I do not fuck or fight every man I encounter. I'm so pissed that someone who has a boyfriend and wore see-through shirt and spent the whole night flirting with someone else's boyfriend would judge me for my sexuality. Maybe I've always had no patience for it, but tonight was the first time I was able to say it. Fuck her. And fuck everyone else who can't put aside their own shit to be kind to someone else.

Meditations on Turning 24

2007-05-21T18:51:00.000-05:00

This Saturday, I celebrate the passing of another year. Another year spent in the pursuit of a body I am comfortable with and appreciate. Another year seeking unique accessories that compliment my boring and basic wardrobe. Another year collecting ridiculous junk I don't need. Another year spent in search of at least one decent lover.

I don't think it's too sizable a birthday order to ask for one decent, regular fuck. At the moment, my lovers are either too sporadic in seeing me or too drunk to properly fuck me. Or both. That being said, I'm trying this new thing where I don't solely point out the negative in every aspect of my life. I appreciate each of the boys in my life for what they have to offer, but accept that unfortunately, they don't offer me enough.

People always tell me that you have to know what you want and be willing to ask for it if you have any chance of getting it. So what do I want for my birthday? I want Boy Blue to magically resurface as he's done so many times in the past. I want him most of all because of how simple our relationship was. He never got mad when I couldn't see him. He never gave or withheld affection as a means of punishing or rewarding me. He never made me feel bad about myself, or compared me to other women. He simply came here, gave it his all, and left. Each time was the same as the last: filled with the intimacy of a long term sexual relationship and the anonymity of our own choice. Is it strange to miss someone I hardly knew? Is it odd that in 24 years, the lover who gave me the most was the one who I shared the least with?

I don't know how to find Boy Blue, but I'd rather have him than a party, calorie free cupcakes with butter cream frosting, a weekend at the Friend of Friend's beach house. I'd rather have one great, guilt free, stress free mind-blowing fuck with my one and only zipless fuck.

Happy Fuckin' Mother's Day

2007-05-14T22:16:00.000-05:00

I never posted this little factoid, but I guess now is as good a time as any. Last summer, courtesy of Boy Blue, I got pregnant and subsequently had a miscarriage. I don't talk about it, because it upsets me and I don't like to be upset. At any rate, The Roommate had to pick a fight with me no less than 24 hours after I successfully avoided crying on the holiday of mothers despite a birage of "Why don't have a baby?" questions. His topic of choice? Motherhood, abortion, and all things rightfully female. I stormed out of the bar, and hit him whilst he drove me home to emphasize how much I do not ever fucking want to discuss this with him, or anyone else, again.

Tips on Hosting a Pity Party

2007-05-10T20:29:00.000-05:00

To have a really spectacular pity party, you only need a few key ingredients. Mix genuine self-loathing with crippling insecurities, add cake and booze. Simmer for 45 minutes. Ta-da!

I've been feeling pretty shitty about myself lately, I'm not completely sure why. I have a good idea, but no one thing explains how massively self-deprecating I've been in recent weeks. Literally everything about my existence is driving me nuts. My legs are too fat, my pores are too big, my breasts are too small, my arms are too jiggly, my stomach isn't flat, my voice is annoying, my hair is uncooperative, I never seem to shut up, etc. Though I normally have what, for women, would be considered normal to high self-esteem, lately I can't stop over-scrutinizing myself. Even the fact that I am being so stereotypically girly and whiny is making me want to punch myself in the head.

During times like these, I wonder if other people notice flaws as much as I do. Of course I can see every tiny detail of my person, analyze it twenty-four hours a day, and dwell on how screwed up it is while others only have a few brief moments to judge me before moving on down the road. Maybe other people are too busy engaging in self-hatred to bother noticing me. That seems logical, but part of me doubts that it's true of everyone. Take me for example. I freely judge people all the time and for almost any reason. Clothes are too tight or trashy, shoes don't match belt, hair is poorly dyed, boyfriend is ugly, nose is crooked, wearing a scrunchie, etc. I also secretly feel happy when people I hate get fat. I know that most of my hyper-vigilance and judgment of strangers is an effort to cope with my own insecurity. I also know that, in my mind, I'm comparing other women to myself and ranking us all accordingly. Perhaps there is a correlation between my recent spike in insecurity and what I perceive to be a drop in rank.

Fuck it. I'm going to get drunk. Nothing raises the spirits like a depressant.

Take My Good Fortune

2007-05-03T20:27:00.000-05:00

When I broke my tooth on that fortune cookie three weeks ago, the fortune should have said, "Kill yourself now." because this has been the most horrific month. First, let's address my broken tooth. It took three weeks to get an appointment for a root canal. You'd think missing half a tooth and being in agony would be considered a relative emergency, but apparently not. The root canal itself was mostly painless, though the sound of a drill annihilating your tooth is not the most comforting. As a by-product of the root canal and my aforementioned extravagant spending, I am now utterly and completely broke.

Despite the root canal yesterday, I still went to work today. See the second shitty thing about my current situation. I work with kids (frightening, I know) and one of them definitely choked me in a fit of rage over his Nintendo today. Fan-fucking-tastic. For any normal person, this would be traumatic. For me, it conjures up an incredibly frightening reminder of when The S put his hand around my throat while fucking me.

Speaking of The S and his never ending ability to crush my spirit (and wind pipe), he was kind enough to let me know this week that he has a girlfriend. When he told me, I was so shocked the only thing I could think of to say was, "What's 100 minus 65?" I shouldn't have been surprised, despite him telling me for three years that he doesn't want a girlfriend. In November he almost got married, and yet I continued to have hope for him.

Everyone says good riddance. Everyone says that I'm better off if I just cut him out. But I'm so obstinate that I've refused to do it largely because everyone told me to do it. Part of me is addicted to the non-conventional nature of our relations. We fuck, we hate each other, we fight and are cruel to one another. Yet there has always seemed to be a passion, understanding and genuine love between us that I never found with anyone else. Our lives constantly took us in different directions, and into bed with dozens of other people, but eventually we always ended up back together. Perhaps I took for granted that it would always be that way. Mostly I took him for granted, and in that, I was very wrong.

As one of the people who knows me best, The S knows that I don't sleep with boys who have girlfriends. Because he knows me best, however, he believes that he is exempt from this rule. Wrong. So of course he pulls out his very favorite line, "We can still be friends." With friends like you and luck like this, I'll stick with my enemies. There I go, being mean again to protect myself. Truthfully, I don't want to see him with a girlfriend because I don't want to be reminded of my enormous failure. I don't want to feel that sick pain in my chest that comes with losing someone you love. If you're leaving me, then be gone; don't come back to haunt me.

What can a hussy do? Nothing, really. I can't change people's hearts or minds, great though my powers of persuasion may be. Maybe I could if I didn't let my fucking ego and stupid insecurities rule my decisions, but I know that I won't be any different than I am. The terrible truth about me is that I am afraid all the time. Afraid of everything, but most of all, terrified of feeling loved. Naturally, because of all this built up fear, I am cruel to those who are foolish enough to love me. Best that he's with someone who can express how much she appreciates and adores him, even if what she can only feel a tenth of what I do for him. If you care about someone, shouldn't you let them go and be happy? As for me, it's time to retire him to The Fuck It Bucket and kick myself for being too prideful and scared to be loved.

After all that, who needs a drink?

Look What I Bought!

2007-05-01T20:34:00.000-05:00

Recent Frivolous Purchases My Pathetic Salary Cannot Support

Dolman Contrast Tunic
$68.00

Tight Jeans
$78.00

Braided Flap Handbag
$58.00

Linear Shower Necklace
$38.00

Alisa Patent Wedges
$88.00

Total: $330.00

Completely worth it to let a man know that I'm too good for him and won't be fucking him anymore. Shopping and manipulating men is a significantly better PMS cure than Midol.

Miracle Orgasm Gel
$39.50

Cremesicle Edible Massage Cream (Strawberry and Orange Flavors)
$9.50 x 2 = $19.00

Nipple Nibblers (Strawberry and Watermelon Flavors)
$9.50 x 2 = $19.00

Tasty Tease (Mint Flavor)
$8.50

Beaming Bullet with Buddy Sleeve
$16.50

Pearl Dolphin Vibrator
$48.50

Velvet Pleasure Waterproof Vibrator
$24.00

Turtle Shaped Cock Ring
$16.50

Feather Snapper
$15.00

Passion Feather Tickler
$2.50

Total: $209.00

Unnecessarily extravagant, especially considering I barely make enough to pay my bills, but again, so worth it. I'll be eating rice and black beans for the next two months, but at least I'll always have a smile on my face.

Relative Insanity

2007-05-01T20:22:00.000-05:00

“I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.” -- Groucho Marx

Apply this sentiment to dating. I don't want to date anyone who would date someone like me. If you think I'm fascinating and beautiful, I'm flattered, but I also suspect that you're mentally ill. Part of this is always wanting what you can't have and never being satisfied with what you've got. Part of this is also my very real fear that no one normal could ever, would ever like me in a genuine way. Someday, I shall beat this fear and dance on its shallow grave. But for today, if you like me, you must be crazy.

Hiliarious Pick Up Lines (Part 1)

2007-04-26T19:28:00.000-05:00

Second Place
"But I already did you."
Credit to: The Friend of a Friend

Apparently you didn't do a very good job.

Runner-Up
"I'm a high school graduate and I work at Sports Zone. I make $13 an hour."
Credit to: Guy Who Followed Me Home Today

No. Just no.

WINNER!
"Do it for science!"
Credit to: The Roommate

Sunday night, after 8 months of thinly veiled post-sex animosity and an eventual return to good hearted flirting, The Roommate and I finally fucked again. Here's how it happened: I recently purchased some sort of miracle orgasm gel. I can never remember what it's called, but the first time I put it on my clit, I walked into a refrigerator, hence "Miracle Orgasm Gel" is sufficient. I told The Roommate about this experience since I have no sense of appropriate boundaries. Since then, he's been dying to know how it works. The Roommate apparently felt that the best way to personally experience the immaculate orgasm was to suggest we sleep together as a scientific experiment. And wouldn't you know it, it worked. At $45 a bottle, I'm not about to let a scientific breakthrough go to waste.

Fruit of the Devil

2007-04-18T15:51:00.000-05:00

If a implies b, then not a implies not b. Follow me? If ignorance is bliss than knowledge is misery. Since I'm not terribly close with most of my lovers, I generally I have no idea what they do after we stop sleeping together. Are they married? Are they now gay? Are they man whores in other cities? Are they in jail? I have no idea and I like it that way. The minute the condom comes off for the last time, they disappear into the Bermuda Triangle of Former Flames. Because I don't know what they're up to, I either create post-me lives for them or stop thinking of them altogether. It's a comfort because, if I care enough to wonder about them, I can choose to believe that they are infinitely less happy than they were in my bed. I can also choose to believe that they are fucking women far less attractive and more boring than I am.

Unfortunately, this same formula doesn't work with ex-boyfriends. No matter how hard I try to keep them there, they just won't stay in the Fuck It Bucket. Either they purposely crawl out to send me engagement notices and photos of their spawn, or worse, I pull them out.

Thanks to the miracle of the interwebs, I no longer have to endure the awkwardness that comes with calling up old boyfriends to find out what they're doing and get misery fix. Social networking sites, though helpful for stock piling drunken pictures of yourself, are a nightmare for those who, like me, can't turn down the fruit of knowledge. I wish I didn't know that I had been replaced and yet I can't stop myself from clicking open the floodgates.

At about 6:15 this morning just after the day's very first cigarette, I decided to check up on Disingenuous. I didn't bother to read any of the drivel he's posted, but scroll right to the information I dread but am dying to know: relationship status. And there it is in all it's completely unavoidable splendor--In A Relationship.

As Satan's preferred networking site, Myspace allows me to see a boy who couldn't commit committed to someone else. Why stop the fun there? Scroll over to the right and I see how far down I am in the Top 8. Before you judge me for acting like a 15 year old for even caring about this nonsense, stop and ask yourself if you wouldn't do exactly the same thing. I'll wait.

Glad you're back with me. Not only can I see that I've been demoted, but since Myspace lacks anything resembling a soul, I can actually look at my replacement. Why, oh why did I do this to myself?!? I don't need to know who she is or what she looks like. Knowing will only cause me to spiral into self-deprecation and agonize over the ways in which she is superior to me. Tell me that I stopped there. Please.

Several hours of On Demand and half a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch later, I wish I had stopped. Why does she have to be so thin or so cute? Why does she have to have perfect, straight, blond hair? Why does she have to be 22? Wait just a tick. Back up there. 22, you say? And in college? At this point, I can't help but laugh. The thought of a grown man (over 30 makes you grown) dating, not fucking mind you, a college student is ludicrous. She may be better than me in every other way but he will still be fucking her on a twin size bed with a mortified roommate five feet away. That knowledge takes at least a little of the misery out of it.

You've Lost That New Car Smell

2007-04-16T08:27:00.000-05:00

Let me first say that I'm opposed to using definitions blatantly stolen from Wikipedia in my posts. To me, it feels all to much like wedding speeches containing the phrase "Webster's Dictionary defines love as". Makes me itchy all over just to think of it. But I also firmly believe that you should accept available assistance from experts when you have no idea what the hell you're talking about. Say a subject like accounting, for example. Anyway, here's what Wikipedia, a source far more reliable than myself, says:

"Appreciation is a term used in accounting relating to the increase in value of an asset. In this sense it is the reverse of depreciation, which measures the fall in value of assets over their normal life-time...

There are considerable difficulties in assessing the increase in value of any particular asset. This is principally because of the variety of interpretations that can be attached to the word value itself and due to the various instruments and methods used in the valuation process."

As lovers, are we depreciating in value the minute we sleep with someone? For the boys I know, it seems that the more unattainable the girl, the more they want her. Perhaps for myself too, as I've continued a three-year sexual relationship with someone who has said over and over that it will never be anything more. Are we like cars, dropping in value so severely the second you take us off the market that we're barely worth anything to each other at all?

Take Mr. Friday Night. After meeting up at a bachelorette party and enjoying a night of heavy drinking and fun with Sharpies, we headed back to my place. He bitched the entire way about how hungry he was. My patience was already thin. As a member of the bride-to-be's posse, I had already been subjected to all manner of groping, fondling, and obscene messages written on my t-shirt. Beyond that, before we left Tom Tom (sidebar: worst Friday night spot ever!) I had asked if he wanted any one of the many food items available in Adams Morgan. Maggie Moo's, falafel, three kinds of jumbo slice! But everyone loves a martyr, so he declined and whined. Finally we got to my house, and he asked if we could get pizza. Rage! You didn't want pizza when it was right next to you! Talk about a warning sign that this boy can't appreciate what he has. Of course, it's 2 am and I live in the hood so there is no pizza available. I offer my last box of mac n' cheese. For me, this is roughly the equivalent of offering you a kidney. He accepts, and I prepare the most domestic meal I'm capable of. He eats a few spoonfuls of the mac n' cheese and says, "This is awful!" I very nearly stabbed him with my deliciously cheesy spoon. Motherfucker even had the nerve to bring it up the next morning at breakfast.

Okay, so he doesn't appreciate my cooking. That's nothing to cry over. I barely appreciate my cooking, so I should be alright with that. What I'm not alright with is that this boys continues to talk at great length with me about the other girls we know and how much he wants to sleep with and/or date them. Often not terribly long before or after we've fucked. He's idealized these girls to the point that no one can out do them. They're perfect because they're fantasy. Stupid skinny, nice, pretty fantasy girls. Even more frustrating than his complete lack of tact is his complete lack of appreciation for me and what I do for him. At first, he seemed so grateful to be sleeping with anyone at all, let alone someone with my approach to sex. Now that a few weeks have passed, suddenly I'm not doing enough to keep him sexually satisfied or to keep his eye from being permanently fixed on my friends' breasts. I've never really experienced this before. Where did I go wrong? I think my mistake was making myself too available. Aloofness is tiring, but it's proven effective. I suppose I need to return to formerly unavailable self in order to keep this boy in line. That and continuously remind him that he hasn't fucked me in the ass...yet.

Days of Our Lives

2007-04-15T13:09:00.000-05:00

8:37 pm - I pick up my cell phone and look at it. No missed calls. No new messages. Fucker.

8:42 pm - I walk to the fridge for a beer. Return to the phone and check for new developments. No missed calls. No messages. Maybe he's waiting until after 9 for free minutes? That's considerate. Then I wonder if I'm thinking of the right person.

9:03 pm - I put my headphones on and pretend to ignore the phone. I glance at it, and it seems that the longer I look at it, the less likely it will be to actually ring.

9:21 pm - I can't stand it anymore and violently throw the phone on my bedroom floor and storm downstairs. Stupid cunt. I hate him.

9:58 pm - Remorseful, I return to the phone I so recently cast aside. One missed call! Hallelujah! I knew he would cave in before I would. I knew it! I win, I win, I win!

9:59 pm - Immediately following my victory dance, I flip open the phone and see that the missed call is from my mother. A stream of expletives is unleashed.

10:00 pm to 10:15 pm - I take two shots of tequila, smoke a cigarette and crawl into my bed. In my last thoughts before the tequila takes affect and I slip into a night of restless sleep, I tell myself that I don't care anymore. Fuck him. It's over and I don't care.

For the first 8 days that he didn't call, I didn't care. For the last 7, it's been this same routine every night. Why doesn't the goddamn phone just ring?!? Who goes 15 days without a word. No email, no phone call. Nothing. Not one single, ridiculous, stupid, little word. One could argue that I haven't called or written either. I start to dial the number, or begin to compose the email, and then I realize that I have nothing to say. More than that, I realize that I don't even want to talk to him. I realize this and it drives me absolutely fucking nuts that he obviously feels the same.

Karmic Retribution

2007-04-11T18:36:00.000-05:00

In years past, I made a concerted effort to avoid complicated sexual situations. I never slept with any of my friends or even friends of friends. I was so careful in the selection of my partners that I only slept with someone from my university two years after I graduated. My efforts were not in vain either. Despite dozens of lovers in the National Capital Region, I had only accidentally run into someone I fucked once. The interaction was so brief that I could barely feel the awkwardness. But barely is too much.

Part of the reason I chose boys from far outside my social and professional circles was to avoid all the awkward moments that follow the end of sex. Once I've slept with someone, I can only think one thing when I see them again: penis in vagina. Oh yeah.

Another great reason to avoid mixing professional, personal, or social relationships with sexual ones is because I don't want to risk existing relationships. Don't put your pen in the company ink, you know what I mean? Beyond the obvious risks (i.e. becoming known as the easy office lay, losing your cheap housing due to awkward roommate situation, etc.), there are more subtle complications to be aware of. Friends seem more apt to frown upon these mixed relationships. Moreover, they are even more than normal to offer unsolicited advice. I hate unsolicited advice. When others know your lover, they can become jealous or start to take sides. It's frustrating, and frankly, much more of a bother than I'm willing to put up with. The less complicated my sex life is, the happier I am. And for years, the system worked. All was right with the world. Oh but then...

Lately it seems I can't keep my hands out of the proverbial cookie jar. From The Roommate to The Friend of a Friend to The Volunteer, I can't seem to avoid temptation close to home. Even in the moment I recognize that eventually the situation will become, at best, uncomfortable and, at worst, personally detrimental. Well, finally the cookie bit back. Literally. A fortune cookie broke my tooth on Monday night. Maybe now I can sleep with my dentist...

Dating Down

2007-03-31T16:30:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-30T22:02:00.000-05:00

You know why.

Social Lubricants

2007-03-26T19:23:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-24T12:24:00.000-05:00

“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.

2007-01-12T14:36:00.000-05:00

I'll be back soon. Terribly sorry for the lapse in posts.

C'mon and dip your dipper

2006-10-10T21:35:00.000-05:00

It turns out that the easiest way to avoid having sex is to hang out with people who won't fuck you. This puts the Roommate out. The S is out too. In fact, almost everyone I know with a cock is out. New plan: Find new people. Brilliant!

Enter The Southern, stage right. The Southern won't fuck me; at least not yet. This is great news for me because it puts sex off my agenda, but leaves me with someone to physically spend time with. Cold turkey was not working. Hooray for me! Of course this is not the end of the story. While I was showering at his place on Sunday morning, he playfully looked in on me, which startled me and caused me to take a serious downer. Nailed my head on the sink, and everything. What could be better than falling down on your first date? Oh, I know. Falling down soaking wet and completely naked. I swear, sometimes I'm a fucking lunchbox.

Fall Back Down

2006-10-01T09:00:00.000-05:00

Well, that failed. Back to zero, and probably the drawing board.

6:42 pm Red Line to Glenmont

2006-09-20T19:46:00.000-05:00

From the little girl singing at the top of her lungs in my train car to the sunset casting a deceptively romantic glow on the rooftops of abandoned warehouses and broken windows that are more veracious symbols of D.C. than the monuments could ever be, this moment is perfect. I have an overwhelming desire to scoop it into a paper cup like a firefly and feel the life in it buzz against my hand until its light inevitably fades.

It's Wednesday, and I realize that this is the happiest I've been in months.

The Grand Finale

2006-09-19T20:36:00.000-05:00

No one seems to know where Forest Glen is, including me, but I did manage to make it back from there Saturday night. I crashed on the couch and woke up early for a shopping trip with one of my darling friends. We were slightly perturbed to discover that PG Plaza doesn't open until noon on Sundays, thus the significant effort we expended in order to arrive promptly at 10 am was totally unnecessary. We lounged about the mall for two hours, and I got a really great watch. The fact that I'm writing about this at all makes me suspect that Tattoo Boy was right about me. Nah.

After a dash and grab job once the stores finally opened, I hustled my way down to Chinatown for lunch with none other than The S. You know that feeling when you see someone that you really, really want? Butterflies? That doesn't happen with The S and I. I saw him Sunday afternoon, and thought "He looks like shit." Of course, I promptly said this out loud, and he graciously accepted my remark. Turns out he'd been up all night after bar hopping and deceiving women with his boys. My second reaction to seeing him after our long-ish hiatus was one of genuine contentment. It's the way I always feel when I first see him, but this time, it was even stronger.

As if there was any doubt, we slept together. It was part of the plan all along, much like eating 312 twice-baked potatoes before I went on my diet. So much of this part of my life has been about him; there was never any question that the last time belonged to him.

And now I can start again.

When you were young

2006-09-17T07:56:00.000-05:00

With all the spare time I've got now that I'm not fucking, I've decided to make a serious effort to spend more time with my friends. For better or for worse, a lot of my friends are starting to settle down--moving in with their significant others, getting engaged, and even popping out offspring. It scares the bejesus out of me because I feel less prepared for any of those things now then I did when I was 18, but at least it's an excuse for lots and lots of parties.

Case in point, my friend's bachelorette party last night. This particular friend is, without question, one of the funniest people I know. However, she is not known for lasciviousness, which is probably why she's getting married at 24. Like her wedding plans, her bachelorette party plans were simple and understated. The group met for dinner, then for a few drinks. She was adamant about not wearing a veil or any kind of bride-to-be button, though she was a sport and posed with a light-up penis pacifier. With this group of friends, I always have a great time. We laughed about the utterly ridiculous notion that one of us is about to get married, and constantly joked about rumbling with the three other bridal parties at the bar.

While the bride-to-be is not of the naughty variety, two girls in our group most certainly are (aside from me). Every time we go out, a swarm of men gathers around them. Probably because they're so darn tall. Early on, I spotted one of these friends chatting up this really cute guy. By the look of him, I could tell that he wasn't her type--sleeves of tattoos aren't really her thing. I wonder who might like such a thing? Perhaps someone who has "sleep with someone with tattoo sleeves" on their list of things to do before they die?!? Perhaps someone like me! I had to intervene. Oh my, was I sorry that I did.

Tattoo boy was pretty, but in a tragic way. Obviously he's been so pretty all his life that he has no need to develop even basic conversational skills. His second question to me was "Do you believe in werewolves?" Umm, no, but I believe I'll stop talking to you. So I turn to his friend, whom I'll call Blue Shirt. Decent guy actually, though clearly a poor judge of character. We chatted for a bit, but when I returned from getting a drink, I stumbled back into a conversation I could have missed. The beefier of the boys asked me what I thought of his friend (Blue Shirt), and I said something boring and non-committal like I always do. For whatever reason, Beefie then asked me if I thought his friend was an F-word. This was about the end of my desire to talk to any of them. I support swearing, a lot. But if you're a straight person, don't use that word. It's not for you.

Then the part that really pissed me off. Blue Shirt is wowing me with some cheesy magic trick that even drunk girls surely don't fall for. Being the snarky cunt that I am, I tell him that I'm so impressed, I'm definitely going to sleep with him now. He finds this cute enough to crack a smile, probably because he actually thinks he's got a shot. Tattoo Boy is having none of it though. "You're boring," he snaps at me. "We've got to bounce."

Tattoo Boy and his sidekick, Beefie, drag Blue Shirt from his stool and waltz him out of the bar. Shortly there after, our party "bounced" down the street before I made an ill-advised trip on the Metro and woke up in Forest Glen at 2 am. On my honor, I promise not to think of Blue Shirt as a missed opportunity for fucking and rather allow Tattoo Boy to serve as a reminder why I'm giving this all up.

How about a donut and a fuck?

2006-09-13T20:35:00.000-05:00

Amidst the second round of my Special K diet, I’m going fucking nuts. There is a Dunkin Donuts two blocks from my office, and I swear to you, it’s calling to me. Fellow dieters frequently tell me to squash my craving for an everything bagel smothered in delicious, fatty cream cheese by having just a bit of one once and awhile. But, moderation has never been my style. Come to think of it, abstinence hasn’t really been my style either.

Maybe it’s time to renew my faith in staying away from things that are bad for me. Like any good addict, I make excuses for my self-destructive behavior. Lying about your life becomes second nature, because in the beginning, the lies were true. Even you keep forcing yourself to believe the bullshit long after the excuse turns into a lie. Yes, I am happy with the way I look. No, I do not mind paying $5 per day on a habit that will eventually give me cancer. No, I do not want to have meaningful relationships, as they’re too boring and conformist. I’m happy with being on the fringe because it allows me to see what you’re all missing.

Last November, I decided that I wasn’t happy and that I could do something about it. Moderation failed me, so I took up abstinence. The last two weeks aside (birthdays don’t count), I haven’t had a donut or a bagel in something like 9 months. Pretty impressive, right? After the first few weeks, I stopped fantasizing about them altogether. And it paid off, as those who actually know me can attest. Up next on the hit list had been my filthy smoking habit, but I’m reconsidering. Perhaps I’m trying to find an excuse to keep smoking, or perhaps there’s another part of my life that, while cheaper, is more bothersome.

There’s a lot to consider in this decision. Dating and fucking at absurdly high levels has been my life for going on three years now. In that time, I’ve amassed a wonderful collection of stories and an incomparable amount of experience (for girls my age). But there’s nothing that I’m really proud of in all that time; nothing accomplished. By now, the possibility of learning something new or reaching into the unknown has long faded. To be honest, I’m not even interested in the sex anymore. The only moment that still holds any appeal to me is the moment when I first know that I’m going to get to have sex. All the moments before that are filled with awkwardness and often, panic. All the moments after that are filled with awkwardness and often, more panic.

From The Blondie tonight who oscillated between staying on the date, going home with me, or going home alone three times to The Roommate who used me like a fucking blow-up doll to The S who’s taken to using his dominant-submissive language and tone outside of the bedroom with me, I fucking hate dating. I should stop doing it.

Far Behind

2006-09-08T00:02:00.000-05:00

I can already picture tomorrow morning.

Every dresser drawer hanging open, the laundry basket dumped on the mat on the floor, shoes and feather boas flung carelessly about, the bed pulled desperately away from the wall. I wish I could say the chaos will be caused by a night of wild passion. The truth is, I'll just be searching for clean underwear. Or socks. Or something else completely mundane. I'll probably give up before 8 am and go commando in a skirt. Pray that it's not a blustery day.

It's not that I'm irresponsible, mind you. There's clean laundry in the basement. Say what you will about me, but I do have the forethought to wash a load of dirty clothes when I start to run out of panties. I do not, however, have the forethought to decide what I want and say it from the beginning. Instead, I wait until someone else says what they want, and then I agree with whatever it is that they said because it's easier than admitting that I'm disappointed. Then I bitch sans-guilt about how I never get what I want. I'm a fucking (and repative) e-tard for this.

The Wish List

I want there to be clean undies in the drawer (not two flights down!) tomorrow morning. I want to get up at 6 am and go running like I should have done all week. I want to stop fantasizing about bagels. I want to quit smoking. I want to finally locate my credit cards and update my budget. I want upcoming season premieres (of South Park, no less) to cease to be the most exciting fall event on my calender. I want to have a calendar. I want to make more single friends. I want to spend more time thinking about my family and friends than I do thinking about boys. I want to stop caring about a boy who left me a year ago, and all the ones that never cared at all. I want to stop filling out my application for the Peace Corps every time I realize I care about someone else. I want to tell The Roommate that the sex we were having three weeks ago today wasn't meaningless to me. I want to tell him that it did mean something, that I have feelings, and that I do care about his. I want to tell him that I'm sorry that I orchestrated this scenario, and that I'm sorry I paraded boys through the house since it happened like the insecure cunt I am most of the time. I want to make myself vulnerable in a way that I never am and see what comes out of it. I want to know rather than wonder.

Tomorrow will be different. But today, I just can't.

All the cool kids are doing it

2006-08-16T21:49:00.000-05:00

I'm back from the mid-west and fully intact. Pictures are available if you email me and ask really nicely. I know you're all overjoyed.

My mother called me today to inform me that my childhood best friend is pregnant. About five minutes after I got off the phone with her, I realized that I put my underwear on inside out this morning. At that moment, I realized how desperately unprepared I am for adult life.

Gone, Daddy, Gone

2006-08-02T06:03:00.000-05:00

I'm headed to Chicago and other parts mid-western for a few days. I promise to return with a story or two. I loathe flying, so at least there will be entertaining stories of uncontrollable rage and obscenities.

Take care of yourself, and each other.

Trying to come clean

2006-07-10T21:59:00.000-05:00

Last night, a former lover of my very good friend asked me if she was doing okay; if she was happy. I told him that she was, and he appeared full of simultaneous regret and respectful acceptance. It was one of those never-happens-in-real-life, fabricated-by-Hollywood moments. But I realized that this kid really loved her, even though he had never, and would never, be able to show her that. Everyday for more than year, he wondered how she was, hoped the best for her and wished that he could make her happy, but never bothered to call and say it. And now that he's verbalized it (though obviously not to her), she can feel vindicated. I know that I would feel the same way, and that just as much as she did, I hope for such a moment in my own life.

That kind of hope is foolish, and every angry girl can tell you that.

Addendum: Hardly Missed Connections

2006-07-01T20:49:00.000-05:00

Apparently it doesn't matter what I wear, or where I go. I do, in fact, get noticed. Twice in the past three days I've been presented with this lovely request: "Show us your tits!" Maybe some connections are better off missed.

MC: OCD Medication & Socializing

2006-06-27T20:24:00.000-05:00

As proof that I'm officially old and boring, I've taken to obsessively reading Missed Connections at least twice a day. It's fascinating stuff--people hate each other, people love each other, people are lonely and shy, and people are lonely and brazen. It's like a giant soap opera with thousands of characters. Or, really, the three guys who post on there everyday.

After admitting that I require my daily fix of MC (regardless of whether it disrupts my working, sleeping, and even fucking time), I would also like to note the systemic problems with MC that are driving me bat shit crazy. Here's a short list:

1. Descriptions are never specific enough. "Cute girl on the metro" does not tell me who you are referring to. Even mentioning "Cute guy with a blue shirt on the metro" is not helpful. Three million people work in DC everyday, and it's a well known fact that the average male DC worker wears a blue shirt 84 percent* of the time. Besides, there are several metro lines, running lots of trains all day long, on which I'm assuming every asshat is wearing some shade of blue.

2. People try to cleverly use Missed Connections as a forum for the agony and the ecstasy of their already occurring interpersonal relationships. Further, it ceased to be original to post a "MC with deodorant" or "MC with courtesy" the day after Craig's List was invented. Stop doing it, or I will poke you in the eye.

You may be saying to yourself, "But isn't that what you just did in the title of this post?" To you I say, "Shut up. Oh, and by the way, you're adopted."

3. Posts always seem to describe the same kind of boy/girl. You know, the beautiful kind that dresses extremely well, went to an Ivy League college, has a great job, a loving family and a hypo-allergenic cat, and reads to blind orphaned widows on the weekends. First, it's not fair that those people are more valuable to society that those of us who are smart enough to be sarcastic and downright mean. Second, people such as those are always missed by everyone they know because they're so perfect. Those who "miss" perfect people from a distance and post perpetually unanswered MC's about them are called stalkers. Creepy.

4. I swear most of the posts happen outside of DC, which infuriates me. If you're young and you live in the suburbs, you are definitely cheap, boring, and prematurely old. Don't ever post another MC, or procreate. Please. Also, this makes me feel as though I'm missing out on something by living in DC and not commuting via Orange Crush on daily basis. Then I get angry because I live in DC to avoid having to commute, and there is no rational basis for me to be jealous of god damn commuters.

5. The most glaring oversight, so far as I can see, with the MC system is that none of the posts are directed at me. Wait, let me rephrase. I think none of the posts are directed at me. I honestly find myself racking my brain (and wasting a good hour of otherwise productive time every day), trying to think of where I was at various points in recent history, and what I was wearing, and whether I "shared a moment" with anyone. That's so shameful, but it'd be worse to say that I don't do it. Feed the ego.

Occasionally, I'll get a little sad that no one posts about me. Of course, never this sad. Then I remember what I look like when I leave the house, and where I go. I wear jeans almost every day. This is generally paired with a fetching t-shirt and my hair freaking out thanks to the humidity. Beyond that, I'm clearly not frequenting the parts of the city populated by people who use Craig's List. I work in the ghetto, and spend most of my time there. In fact, I don't even take the metro to work. Therefore, I absolve myself from any sadness over not being noticed. And now I'm going to stuff my face and watch a Beavis and Butthead marathon.

*This statistic may or may not be entirely fabricated, and could not be confirmed by a reputible source at the time of publication.

Welcome to Summer

2006-06-20T23:27:00.000-05:00

Summer is officially upon us.

On this, the longest day of the year, I urge you to throw caution to the wind. Break out the hot pants, sunless tanner, beer, road trip plans, illegal fireworks, debilitating body issues, unused “sick” days, frizz control hair product, city-sized grill, disturbingly low cut tank tops, and a rainbow assortment of flip flops. Prepare for the much anticipated onset of Hottie Hill Interns, wedding invitations, massive droves of tourists and annoying travel talk with co-workers. Bring all the boys to the yard, grab a phallic (yet delicious) popsicle, and relish in all that summer may hold in its sweaty, little palm.

I'll follow you into the dark

2006-06-18T20:38:00.000-05:00

Where to begin.

Catch Up, Hussy Style

Holmes: Officially released from active duty due to enormous penis and unending stamina. Even silicone lube could not salvage this relationship.

Boy Blue: In one of his inexplicable disappearing phases. We drunkenly fucked about three weeks ago, so based on his previous record, he'll likely booty call me sometime this week.

The Roommate: Up until about 20 minutes ago, I was genuinely concerned about him. We haven't seen each other since last Tuesday, which isn't odd for someone that I'm trying to lure into bed, but keep in mind, we live together. All around, it's a bad scene, and I really need to exercise a little self-restraint on this one.

The S: After a $150 trip to Victoria's Secret, I spent Saturday night in a hotel room with him. There's nothing to say about this, really. Conventional understandings of relationships and love fail miserably at contributing to the situation, so I should stop trying to hang on to them. It is what it is, and what it is is good.

New Boys of Note

I must be emitting some serious pheromones right now because my stock has gone through the roof lately. Here's a sampling of the current activities.

The Lawyer: I can't help but adore playboys--especially when they've never encountered girls who, like me, have a certain relaxed attitude towards sex. Generally when I meet one, I smile and nod throughout their requisite bragging stories. I giggle when they boast about their many conquests, even the stories of multiple girls in a single day. And I relish in the look of shock and disbelief they have when I pull my jeans on, give them a friendly goodbye, and walk away without reassurance. Yes, girls like this exist. The Lawyer hasn't lost his look of surprise just yet, and I love knowing that I caused it.

Intelligencer: Strange boy, this one. Smart as the dickens with a fetish for the kitchen floor. Let's just hope he doesn't go and get himself attached.

Smith: I don't like to fuck nice boys, especially not on the first date. A good, clean time was had by all. Although our date made two nights last week that I intended on coming home, but never made it. Woops.

You make me feel like a blow-up doll.*

2006-06-08T00:27:00.000-05:00

Some of this story has squeaked out in my comments to other bloggers, and conversations with friends, but has yet to be fully actualized or addressed. Might as well do it now.

About six weeks ago, I had a sex dream about my (male) roommate. Nothing that unusual. As he informs me, the way to get two animals to mate is to put them in the same space together. If that doesn't scream "do me now," then I don't know what does.

Time passed and platonic relations continued, as did the dreams. But something was definitely different. It was as though for the last seven months it had never occurred to him that I was a girl. And then, bam! All of the sudden there I was. With tits.

We flirt back and forth, and it's all seemingly innocent enough, but sooner or later, something will happen. There's a reason I have very few straight male friends. Actually, aside from my roommates and Rusty, I don't think I have any straight male friends.

The Ladder Theory doesn't quite apply to me. Unlike most girls, I see little purpose for guy friends in my life. If you can't sleep with them, what good are they to you? So, much like the men around me, I pretty generally just rank everyone in the order with which I would sleep with them, if given the opportunity. Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule. My other roommates (the Boy Scout and the Sailor) are out, as sleeping with them would mean destroying something innocent and good. Plus, they're kind of like my brothers. The other, more common exceptions are boys with serious faults such as being leprechauns or having bad teeth.

The Roommate, on the other hand, does not fall into either of those two categories. Girls are adept at making quick assessments on who they will and will not sleep with, and I should honestly say that my initial decision was that I would fuck The Roommate, if given a situation in which it wouldn't negatively impact my housing. Given that, months passed, and the thought never crossed my mind. Now, it's there way too frequently for my liking. What's the solution here?

Ah fuck it. I'm too tired for deep thought. I'll just buy him a pie tomorrow. And then probably flash him.

*Title courtesy of said roommate, and one of his many entertaining stories.

Peanut Butter Paradise

2006-05-25T23:26:00.000-05:00

“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

2006-05-23T21:45:00.000-05:00

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

2006-05-12T15:05:00.000-05:00

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?

2006-05-03T20:58:00.000-05:00

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

2006-05-01T20:46:00.000-05:00

“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.

Asshole Day at the Belmont House

2006-03-12T19:20:00.000-05:00

For my local readers, I'd like to strongly advise against dating at The Barking Dog. Granted the venue was not my choice, but the name should have tipped me off. Unlike just about every other bar/restaurant/image conscious business in the Metro region, The Barking Dog has no qualms about hiring ugly girls.

To be fair, and to get to the point, the bar had no real involvement in Tuesday night's ordeal. Against my better judgment, I braved the mean streets of Bethesda to grab a drink with the rocket scientist. Considering the way our previous date went, and the fact that I was wearing a much better outfit than last time, I assumed things would go well. Honestly, I had no reason to believe that they wouldn't.

Boy was I wrong. My first indication should have been this lovely comment from my date:

"Wow, [our waitress] has a big ass."

As much I appreciate that observation, it'd really help me out more if you stopped staring at it. Conversation continued, with occasional interruptions from the well-endowed staff. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, unless your date is overtly flirting with the waitress during her increasingly prolonged visits to your table. Finally, in my most sarcastic tone, I told him he really should get her number while he was here. And while he may be a bon a fide aeronautical engineer, he's still an asshat for completely missing the sarcasm in that statement.

Not only did he get her number, but he used me to do it. Apparently, "my friend said I should ask for your number" is a really good pick-up line. At this point, I dumped my Jack and Coke over his head, left barely enough cash to cover my two drinks, and stormed out of the bar in a fury. Here's a tip for you darlin': Don't flirt with someone else's date.

Okay, that's not really what happened. After he got her number, the waitress asked if we'd like anything else. Of course, I said that I wanted the check so I could get the hell out of there—especially since I had agreed to pay early in the evening. But oh no. He had to get another drink. And I paid for it. Like a complete idiot, I paid for a three rounds, and left the waitress a decent tip. Despite the circumstances, there was no reason for me to lash out at her. She didn't know any better, and he's the evil one. I imagine that statement will be somewhat of a theme for their future interactions.

I probably should be angrier than I am, but in reality, I didn't like him very much and this is a really convenient way to never have to talk to him again. The only thing that really bugs me is the total disregard for common courtesy. I certainly am not going to say that I never ogled other boys when I was with a date. I won't even say that I never had my eye on a cute bartender or waiter that I later went back to flirt with. But I do pride myself on possessing some tact and basic social skills. Maybe I'm wrong here, but I've always believed discretion is the better part of valor. This is, of course, why I post intimate details of the lives of those foolish enough to get close to me.

***

It would seem that status updates regarding the Letter S have become a requisite feature here. If you already know his site, feel free to read about it there. I'm too tired to say the same things anymore.

My other car is an Innuendo

2006-02-09T20:39:00.000-05:00

The special little stoner friend I made in Dupont Circle a few weeks ago called me at work today. At the time, giving him my business card seemed like an easy way to get him to leave me alone without giving him my phone number. Wrong. I also hoped that he was bombed out of his mind and would lose a tiny piece of paper before he realized that “phone” wasn’t that funny of a word after all. Wrong again. He invited me to a concert tomorrow at a bar that I actually like. Okay, that’s not so strange. He also mentioned that there would be a poetry reading before it. A little too metro for my tastes and marginally odd considering the audience this particular bar generally attracts (i.e. people like me), but not totally off the beaten path. Then his drug induced haze yielded this gem:

“We’re getting together to make candles before the show, if you want to come.”

Is there something about candles that I don’t know, or is this the next modern hippie kid craze like knitting was a few years ago?

Aside from this week’s “News of the Weird” special, I also had a date the other night. With a rocket scientist. And I’m not even being sarcastic. Drastically different than I expected, The Scientist is actually funny, smart, sarcastic, and a complete perv—all my favorite attributes. Not surprisingly, I got completed wasted while we were out, and proceeded to persuade him to take me home. Okay, there wasn’t a lot of persuasion. Overall, he made a good first impression on me, and I plan to work him into the rotation. However, there was this little moment while we were discussing why America should at least identify with Bill Clinton:

Me: “C’mon, everyone loves a hummer.”
The Scientist: “Oh, I drive a Prius.”
*awkward pause*

Maybe my humor is a little beyond him. Never fear though, he more than made up for it later in the evening.

When I think about you...

2006-02-04T04:36:00.000-05:00

As predicted, Boy Blue has triumphantly emerged and reclaimed his position in the pipeline. He came armed with a bottle of wine and a plethora of much appreciated compliments. More importantly, he came about half as much as I did. Boy Blue never ceases to impress me. Though he may be young and fundamentally innocent, he remains everything a good lover should be: skilled and eager, desperately attractive, distant enough to have the appeal of a stranger, close enough to seem like a friend. And he never, ever says the wrong thing.

I also slept with my fifth (and final?) Mike this past weekend. I wish I could say the sex was amazing; or even better that it was terrible. Unfortunately I can't say either way. Some boys are meant to keep. Some boys are meant to be used. Some are meant to use you. Some are meant to forget. Some are simply meant to be missed.

Baby Mama Drama, Part II

2006-01-27T21:45:00.000-05:00

A little over a year ago, you may recall that one of my old lovers thought he was going to be a daddy. Turns out since the baby was half-African American and, surprise, surprise, he's a pasty white boy, the baby was not his. Suffice to say this child did not learn his lesson from that experience. And this time, it's for real. Beyond that, he's not even dating this girl. And apparently she's a little nuts. Grand.

Top Ten Reasons Why This is Disturbing to Me
10. Children generally do not grow up to be well-adjusted when their parents hate each other.
9. Or when their parents hate them. He absolutely abhores kids.
8. He refuses to consider the completely reasonable option of abortion since he's Catholic. Apparently selling it on the black market is equally offensive.
7. He was adament about not having children ever when were together.
6. What the fuck is wrong with me?!?
5. He thinks Taco Bell is a decent dinner.
4. I repeat, what was wrong with me?!?
3. He's so meticulous and borderline obsessive-compulsive that his child will be unbelievably scarred. Also, he'll probably never change a diaper or wake up at 2 am for feedings.
2. Someone that I slept with is now procreating. That's supposedly a thing adults do. If he's an adult, then I must be too. And, oh god...I'm so not ready for that.
1. I think this little conversation demonstrates exactly how unprepared he is for fatherhood:
Me: "You know you're going to have to get rid of your Mini [Cooper], right?"
Him: "No, I'm not."
Me: "Yes, you are. No car seat is going to fit in that thing."
Him: "Whatever. It'll be fine."

Overall, I think my biggest fear is that he isn't going to be a good dad or somehow damage his child. And we all know how growing up, making commitments and life-altering decisions scare the bejesus out of me. Even if I'm not the one doing it.

Crazy Ricky from senior year also got married before New Year's Eve. He has severe emotional problems though. And now two stepsons.

Eleven, and she was gone

2006-01-22T21:52:00.000-05:00

With so much going on recently, I've completed neglected to relay boy stories lately. They've been piling up like copies of Express on my bedroom floor. Now is probably a good time to do something with them before they become a fire hazard.

Despite the short notice, I didn't have much trouble finding a suitable replacement for The S on New Year's Eve. After a few phone calls and several drinks, The Vegan decided to ring in the New Year with me. The entire situation is curious to me because it's so on again, off again. We'll see each other one weekend, make plans for another, then cancel and not talk for weeks. There's no animosity or drama (which is a delightful change of pace), but there's also no fire to it. At least I could always count on The S for a good fuck fueled by weeks of petty fighting and emotional turmoil. But alas, with The Vegan there is neither cumming nor crying. I've never been so disinterested in someone I have so much in common with, so that's probably a factor in our non-steamy sexual escapades. My devastation over his small-ish penis also might have something to do with it. C'est la via, I suppose.

For a few weeks in December, and up until last week, I was also seeing The Peruvian. I was really hoping for a torrid Latin affair to take the edge off of winter, but again, my hopes were thwarted. The Peruvian was neither passtionate, nor exciting. And also not packing much south of the border for such a big guy. Boo. Apparently I was spoiled this summer by The S, Sweet Boy, and Boy Blue. Even though he wasn't so snazzy, I would have happily kept The Peruvian around if it weren't for our last date. We had a quiet dinner at this cute place near my house. After dinner, we walked home and fooled around. All pretty standard so far. Halfway through the sex, I put my hand down on the bed in between my knees (doggy style for you visual learners), and I swear to god I felt the condom laying on the bed. Naturally, I freaked and jerked away from him. He assured me the condom was on the whole time, accused me of blowing the situation out of proportion, and then proceeded to finish. Obviously I was displeased with this, and rightful so, I think. Within a few minutes of the money shot, I was hurrying him out the door. Should have taken my time. His watch was still laying on my nightstand when I got back to my room. I fucking hate leave-behinds.

For reasons unknown to me, I'm attracting a lot of attention lately. Last weekend, a relatively attractive guy hit on me at the bus stop for about 10 minutes. A few days later, a Greyhound bus driver thanked me for riding Greyhound "with [my] fine ass." And just the other night a normal looking fellow entertained me with "a spirtual dance" while I waited for my friend in Dupont. The dance was neither spirtual nor entertaining, so he did not get my number. It never ceases to amaze me the completely random shit boys say to try to get women to sleep with them.

Somewhere in the midst of all this action, Boy Blue resurfaced and then disappeared again. I have no doubts that he'll pop up later, it's just a matter of when. Mr. Black, a long-time lover, was also here for a mid-week adventure, but my stupid ass fell asleep about 15 minutes after he got here. Then there's resolutions.

The funny thing about resolutions is that no one really intends on keeping them, right? Well, my resolution lasted about as long as The S and I did as friends. Since I failed so miserably, I'm not saying what my resolution was. The S is already convinced that it was to not see him anymore. And it wasn't. Really. That being said, I did venture up to Harrisburg last weekend to see him. Let the judgement commence.

In the language of last year

2006-01-01T11:23:00.000-05:00

Welcome to a new morning of a new year. I feel somewhat obliged to write a year in review, and at least pay homage to the words of days past. But with so much transpiring, and no conventional means to trap those moments, there will be no "Best and Worst of 2005" here. Instead, I shall focus on the recent past, the present, and at some juncture, decide on a resolution for 2006.

After turning down not one, but two offers to spend New Year's in New York, I found myself sitting in my living room waiting for someone who would neither show, nor come to his senses. Who would leave me waiting on New Year's Eve, you ask? I think we all know the answer to that. But we mustn't dwell. While strolling through the grocery store in search of 100% Cran Grape Juice, visions of teen queen movies played in my head--girls sitting, waiting in carefully planned ensembles for prom dates who would never arrive. Then I had a revelation: A new year provides us with more than an opportunity to get belligerently drunk sans guilt. There is no better time than a new year to leave the old behind.

As all good things must come to an end, whatever bizarre antagonism that existed between The letter S and The letter L is over. I won't labor over the details of my decision, or his complete apathy towards it. I will say, however, that there is a lot I will miss. I will miss having an equal. And as I rang in the New Year in true hussy form, I thought of him fondly. In the language of last year, his words were enough. But as the words of this year search for their voice, I no longer find comfort in empty promises.

Ghost of Christmas Present

2005-12-13T20:38:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting here holding an unopened letter which I am dreading opening. It's the same kind of dread you feel holding a sealed letter from your first choice university, your unopened LSAT scores, or a newly arrived letter from your STD clinic. It's the kind of dread that requires a shot of whiskey to handle. It's dread because nothing you do or say can change what's already been written. It's dread because it's a an unchangeable determination of your future. Most of all, it's dread because it could mean the end of a gleeful hope that you secretly still harbor.

But then again, it's nothing but a letter. A Christmas card, more specifically. Nothing but recycled paper, a stamp and dried ink. Smaller than a bread box, thinner than Lara Flynn Boyle, and nothing at all but dead wood.

Now I'm beginning to over analyze, as I stare at this little piece of nothing. I memorize the way my name and address is spelled out in all lower case letters, and smile as I think of the care put in to writing a neat address. But what if no care was put into it at all? What if this envelope were just another in a sea of other acquaintances who warranted holiday greetings? I wonder if he was nervous when he wrote this card, or when he thought of what to say, or if he thought about it at all. I've decided he wasn't; the return address label and stamp are too neat, too parallel with the corners.

But after all, it's still just paper. If it were from my first choice university, I would be dreading rejection. If it were my LSAT or GRE scores, I would be dreading failure and ultimate rejection. Instead it's from someone I loved, once and perhaps again. Obviously I made the cut as to acquaintances who were worthy of cards, but what if it's generic? What if he wrote the same thing in all the cards? What if I open this card and it says nothing but "Merry Christmas."?

I suppose there's only one way to find out. Take a gulp of whiskey, and slide my finger under the seal...

"Happy Holidays."

Easy as 1, 2, 3

2005-11-28T22:16:00.000-05:00

When all else fails, go back to the fundamentals.

Vocab of the Day

The Pipeline (noun): This sales term refers to lovers and potential lovers waiting in the wings, so to speak. A good salesman closes 100% of his deals. A great salesman always has 100 more leads than he needs. For best results, those in the pipeline should be kept in a carefully managed list, ranked in the order in which you'd most like to sleep with them. Pipelines require cultivation and care, but never too much, as this can foster attachment. Good lovers should lovers should always be recycled back into the Pipeline for future use.

Turn & Speak (verb): You enjoy sleeping with the person you're sleeping with, but you'd hate to give them the wrong impression (i.e. the impression that you enjoy them). This little move is tried and true. Here's how it works:
Step 1: Enjoy the sex. Orgasming is highly recommended, as it makes you feel and seem sleepier.
Step 2: For maximum affect, try to position yourself so that nothing stands between you and the wall.
Step 3: Relax in your post-coitus, sweaty glow.
Step 4: The minute your partner makes any attempt at contact, roll onto your side so that you're facing the wall.
Step 5:Simultaneously, clearly say, "Alright. See you later."
Step 6: Sleep like an evil baby.

Imitation is the highest form of flattery

2005-11-25T22:57:00.000-05:00

I know posting surveys on your blog is about the lamest thing one could possibly do, but every "100 Things About Me" post I've read has been quite moving. And I suppose there's a comfort in revealing parts of yourself to the world. Especially anonymously.

1. I was born on a Thursday during a terentual down pour in Pennsylvania. There were two peculiar things about my birth. First, I could not recognize the sound of my mother's voice when I was born (which most babies can due to hearing it for 9 months); and two, I didn't sleep for days afterward.
2. My first memory was seeing my brother for the first time in the nursery almost 3 years later. I remember that moment so vividly, and the emotion of it is so intense that I cannot imagine how new parents don't combust when they see their child for the first time.
3. My brother and I are both named after celebrities. My brother is named after Stevie Nicks (my mother's favorite singer), and I am named after my mother's favorite actress. Starts with L...
4. My parents were younger than I am now when I was born. They greatly enjoy reminding me of this.
5. My childhood was fairly unhappy for reasons that I almost never discuss.
6. I work too much because I'm generally quite lonely.
7. I was a phone sex operator for 4 weeks. I also lived on my friends' couches at the same time because I didn't have an apartment.
8. I was in a sorority in college. Beyond that, I was their leader for a brief, awful time.
9. I make the greatest fish face.
10. I've always secretly hoped that my fish face would be one of the things my old boyfriends missed most about me.
11. I brush my teeth in the shower because I believe this allows me to take a longer shower every morning.
12. I gave my first blow job at 11.
13. I've slept with a married man.
14. I have an intense and completely random hatred of Skittles.
15. I have a large amount of grey hair for a 22 year old.
16. My parents seperated when I was 14. Their divorce proceedings lasted over 4 and half years.
17. I went to my senior prom with a girl.
18. I own, not one, but both Titanic soundtracks. Oh the shame.
19. My brother broke my nose when I was 9. I've broken 2 of his fingers. On purpose.
20. I also hit my first boyfriend with a nine-iron.
21. I really am not a violent person.
22. I refuse to order drinks from Starbucks and other fancy coffee shops. I say this is because they're pretenious. Really, it's because I neither know what's in the drinks there, nor do I understand how to order them.
23. I graduated from college $36,000 in debt 6 months ago.
24. I lost my virginity on April 8, 2001 at 2:38 pm in Boston.
25. I spent the remainder of the day crying in the bathroom and drinking rum.
26. All but one of the boys I've been a relationship with were Catholic, while I am adamently not Catholic.
27. My mother threw a party when I got my first period. People brought gifts. It was very strange.
28. I've smoked since I was 17, and love it more than most anything in life.
29. I desperately want an English Bulldog puppy named Bennett. Every time I look at my savings account, I think, "I could afford it." But I know that I really can't.
30. My favorite movies are The English Patient and A Muppet Christmas Carol.
31. I never knew the last names of 10 of the people I've had sex with.
32. I once knew, but have since forgotten, the first name of 1 person I've had sex with.
33. I can't fall asleep without some kind of noise.
34. I lived on a farm for 8 months when I was teenager. One of my many tasks was actually collecting eggs every morning. Chicken coops are filthy places, and the chickens are bloddy pissed off that you're trying to steal their babies. It was the most disgusting thing I've ever done in my life.
35. My greatest fear in life is being left.
36. I'd choose being deaf over being blind because I think sign language is kind of sexy.
37. My mom kicked me out when I was still in college so I had to live with my grandparents.
38. I read Playboy as a child because my dad left them laying around.
39. I have no idea what the hell is going on in Donnie Darko, but Jake Gyllenhaal is so goregous I don't care.
40. I have two tattoos on my back. The most important one is a magnolia flower, which serves to remind me what true grace, strength, beauty, frailty, and forgiveness looks like.
41. I'm one of the most socially awkward people I know.
42. Kegels are the only exercises I do on a consistent basis.
43. I played the clarinet in the band in middle school. I quit, thankfully, before high school, fearing that band would have a negative impact on my social life. I also can play the piano, however poorly.
44. Every boy I've ever had feelings for is attached to a song. I have a playlist on my iTunes soley comprised of these songs. The playlist evolved from the '90s when I kept these songs on tapes.
45. I've been to Europe twice, but the farthest west I've ever been in the U.S. is Michigan.
46. Ever since I read On the Road, I've wanted to remedy that by driving cross-country. This makes me the most unoriginal person of all time.
47. I can't drink vodka since I had alcohol poisoning as a freshman.
48. Doggy style is my favorite position for two reasons. One, it's the easiest to orgasm from. Two, I very often am not comfortable looking at the person I'm having sex with. I have never told anyone the second reason.
49. I consider having sex, fucking and making love to be very different beasts.
50. I've only ever made love with one person.
51. I have never believed in the idea of one true love. Instead I hope to someday be enough that one person couldn't imagine their life without me in it.
52. When I was 9, my childhood best friend died tragically. His funeral was the first I ever went to. I remember seeing him in the casket and not fully understanding what had happened. My mom told me he had gone to heaven, but it was a concept that I couldn't, and perhaps still can't, comprehend.
53. I've always fantasized about being an old woman with an attic full of amazing novelties from my past. I want there to be proof that I had a life less ordinary than most.
54. I've had sex with 4 Mikes, 2 Steves, and 2 Chriss. There you have the most popular boys names of the 1980s.
55. I never kissed the first person I had sex with.
56. Roommates and boyfriends of my friends aside, I have no straight male friends that I haven't slept with.
57. I spout off about safe sex all the time, but I've only used a dental dam once in my life.
58. I am not religious in slightest, but I look forward to Christmas Eve services all year.
59. Sometimes I get horribly home sick and just want the comfort that only mothers and grandmothers can give.
60. I can knit.
61. I miss the boy I dated over the summer a lot. I don't usually get attached to people, but he didn't look at me the same way most boys do.
62. For about 3 months in high school, I was hooking up with my best friend's crush. I've apologized about a dozen times for it, though I'm often not sure if I really am sorry.
63. I know how to put condoms on with my mouth.
64. I have a difficult time forgiving people. I generally carry around whatever has upset me forever, which usually is detrimental to the relationship.
65. About the harshest thing anyone could ever say to me is that I'm not the best they've ever had in bed.
66. It creeps me out when people sit next to me on the train, bus or in the movie theater. Even if the seat next to me is the only one left.
67. I've never had a cavity, and I'm really proud of that.
68. I was voted Most Likely to Succeed by my senior class. If they only knew.
69. My right nipple is pierced, and has been for 3 years now.
70. Most of the time, I feel like I'm at sleep-away camp and any morning I'll walk out the door to find my parents waiting to pick me up and take me back to my real life.
71. If I've had sex with a person, it was either before our third meeting or within one week of meeting. Which ever came first.
72. I am the biggest pack rat of all time. I keep junk that has no possible use, like old newspapers and empty wine bottles.
73. I never take pictures. It requires too much effort, and sometimes the past is better in your memory than it really was.
74. I've been intentionally cruel to some of my lovers simply because I knew that they would let me.
75. I think Ice Cube is one of the hottest men alive.
76. I hate Pearl Jam. That being said, "Better Man" is one of my all time favorite songs.
77. I still get giddy when it snows.
78. I love the feeling of the city at night. It's sublime, in the truest sense of the word, to have silence with so many people around you.
79. I miss The S. More than the euphoria of sex or the illusion of power, I miss knowing that someone else understood.
80. I'm terrified of chickens and airports.
81. I consider cooking food for someone to be one of the most intimate activities one could engage in. I very rarely let boys cook for me.
82. I've only received flowers four times in my life--once from my dad (which doesn't count), twice from an ex-boyfriend, and once from the boy over the summer.
83. I still have all of them. Like I said, pack rat.
84. There is nothing better than waking up early on a Sunday morning and laying in bed with someone.
85. I'm lactose intolerant, but I love cheese. To quote Rufus, "everything it seems I like's a little bit stronger, a little bit thicker, a little bit harmful for me."
86. It's taking entirely too long to finish this list. Apparently, I don't know 100 things about myself.
87. When I was in high school, I was exposed to rabies. I had to get the shots and everything.
88. I was a vegetarian for three years.
89. I have a patch of skin about the size of a quarter directly under my left breast that has absolutely no pigment. There's another patch on my left hip that also has no pigment.
90. Those two spots are about my favorite on my whole body.
91. My hair is naturally very curly. For some reason, this makes strangers feel like they can touch it. I've hated this since I was a child.
92. I have half brothers and sisters whom I don't know.
93. I have a slight office fetish.
94. I truly do not know what I want my life to look like in 10 years.
95. Only one of the boys I've dated has met my family. Three have met my friends. I don't plan on changing that anytime soon.
96. Snow White was the first movie I remember seeing in theaters. I was petrified. Sadly, I was too young to remember E.T.
97. I almost had sex last night, but didn't because...you'll find out later. This offically makes 6 weeks of celibacy. Again. But really this time I might make it.
98. I can pick up things with my toes. Like pens.
99. Almost the last one; better make it count. Turns out I'm not very profound.
100. I tried entirely too hard to make this list not completely about my sex life.

And I feel fine

2005-11-05T00:34:00.000-05:00

My god I work too much. Leaving the office at 10:30 pm on a Friday is about the worst thing that could possibly happen to a 22 year old living in a city. No, scratch that. Leaving the office at 10:30 pm on a Friday to find a bunch of guys drinking 2Elevens out of paper bags from a liquor store named "Good Old Reliable" is the worst thing that could possibly happen to a 22 year old.

I'm pretty sure the world is going to end tomorrow. I actually made it into The blog of S. Will wonders never cease. Apparently people are interested to see what this sad, lonely boy is all about. For the record, he doesn't fuck half as much as he makes it seem on there. Ignore his rant about how I would introduce him at parties. He's bitter cause he knows I'd never introduce him to any of my friends. My continued benevolence astounds me, as I still to link to him and direct readers his way. Maybe it's because, despite all his bluffing, he really is as good in bed as he claims to be.

By the way, we're officially on hiatus. Of all the concepts in the dating world, "taking a break" has got to be the most absurd. People always use the term as though they'll be overcome with clarity and shocking new revelations that will eventually lead the relationship to staggering plateaus of love and harmony. As though time a part were the penicillin for everything that made your time together miserable. Really, taking a break is just like calling a truce during a war. You're not really going home to think about peace. You're going home to stock up on ammo, and plot a more efficient decimation of your enemy using all the weaknesses you just learned about. Some elements are always going to fight when they're put in the same place. Like water and oil, Jews and Arabs, the US and everyone else. And I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. Who's to say the best relationships are the conventional ones? Who's to say that love is always soft and gentle?

I don't know what the answer is there. But I do know that I hate this.

Missing In Action

2005-10-29T05:25:00.000-05:00

I feel a bit like a shadow lately in that I'm always around and people seem to see me around, but can never seem to nail me down. I don't feel much like myself lately. All my confidence feels disrupted. My office was robbed the other week, and that violation of my space is having an effect I suppose. Things have to yet to feel like "business as usual", both in my personal and professional life. I haven't had sex since my second necropheliac, nor have I particularly wanted to. I know I go through these phases every now and then, so I'm not surprised. HIV and STI's are a growing concern for me, both because of my work and because of the recently published Appleseed Report. DC now has the highest rate of HIV transmission in the country, and 5% of the adult population already infected. That's 1 in every 20 people. With my number of partners in mind, that means at least 1 of my partners is positive (though certainly not all were from DC).

A large part of my lack of desire lately is insecurities about myself and my abilities. The S offered me a comprehensive list of all the ways in which the "other" girl was better in bed than me. The one area I felt sure I had other women beat at went straight out the window. A few days ago, I found myself more or less begging him not to leave me. What can I say? I'm appalled. At him for breaking everyone he comes in contact with, and at myself for letting him break me. I'm supposed to visit him for Veteran's Day weekend, but I can't see the point. He says he wants something better for us, but it seems that something better means something less. I think he preferred our arrangement before, even though he was always telling me that I made him feel like the guy who tries to get too close to the prostitute. Maybe he expected there to be more on this side, as he seemed surprised that the prostitute was just a person like everyone else. So I'm either distant or a disappointment. I know I should probably cut my losses, but I'm as guilty as he is. I've made an image of him that doesn't exist. I couldn't think of a single realistic reason for him not to go, even as I pleaded with him to stay. How has this person become the answer? You know how people always say, "You find what you're looking for"? Maybe we just projected what we've been looking for onto each other. It was reassuring to believe that there was someone else who just understood, even if we both knew the other really didn't. It's like scouring your room for your favorite shirt, getting tired, and throwing on what's handy and clean and calling it your favorite shirt. And if you really believe it, then it's not a lie.

"Minutes turned to hours
And became our dates
When we shared raindrops
That turned into lakes
Bodies started merging
And the lines got grey
Now I'm looking at him thinking
Maybe He's okay
Hello this is M.I.A
It's okay you forgot me."