There’s No Crying in Cancer

There should be, but there hasnt been. A little over a month ago I had an abnormal pap smear. For you gentleman a pap smear is as gross as it sounds. It happens at the gynecologist, it involves long swabs and assurances from the doctor that you will “just feel a pinch.” As women we should be getting this done about twice a year, and no matter what your age, spread eagle in a cold room with metal instruments never feels routine. Nor is the part of the exam to check your ovaries. I’ll spare you details, but it involves equal amounts of fingers and awkward silences.

Having an abnormal pap is pretty common and Ive had my fair share over the years. Typically its followed with another lab test to confirm or deny suspicious activity. Except this time it was different. My doctor let me know that my cells were considered “high grade,” meaning a biopsy would be needed to determine whether cervical cancer was present. Another trip to the doctor for more pinching, followed by pressure and a new scraping sound previously unknown to me.

For someone who can get into a bar fight with a man, I’m actually quite a pussy, pun definitely not intended. I have passed out on airplanes multiple times from motion sickness, been woozy at the very thought of cutting my finger, and recently had to sit down because I was thinking too much about crime scenes (Thanks to watching too much “Breaking Bad“) and felt wobbly. So really when it comes to handling digging around in my lady parts in a calm manner, I am totally unqualified.

In the week following my biopsy strange things were happening, further escalating my stress levels. During a shower and my routine internal cleaning (Yes, we get up there), I felt something…foreign. Almost like wet paper, and what I pulled out looked vaguely like that, except transparent, and the color of iodine. If this is the part where you feel woozy, skip ahead. What followed in the next couple days was a mass exodus of cervical “skin,” apparently flaking off from my insides from where the doctor cut her sample. That scraping sound was no longer a mystery, and I handled my shedding with as much tact as I had handled that. Pathetic moaning, in unison with my standard swaying side to side bit. Though somehow the real me prevailed, and I was disgusting enough to take a picture of a particularly large piece. Sick in the head me always wins out over sensible me. If youre wondering why Im not posting the picture its hardly to spare your stomach. Its because I lost my phone.

I had to wait two weeks for biopsy results, and in typical me fashion, rescheduled once because I was getting laid that day by my gorgeous 22 year old, and wanted to stick it to myself one more time before the possible bad news. The doctors office I go to is, lets say, culturally diverse. Though I guess thats a bit of a stretch since Im usually the only white girl in there, hardly making it diverse. Its got the usual amount of crying babies, ignoring receptionists and cheap botox flyers you would expect at a discount clinic. This place freaks me out, but like some sort of mountain goat who follows the same path, I keep ending up at this shit hole.

I slept like shit for two weeks waiting on these results, with dreams of people from my past, and my own mortality. I’m not one to go to the Doctor, and I usually choose to ignore or self medicate any health issues. The potential of cancer was..isolating. I was shocked at my reluctance to share what I was going through with anyone. As a leo its my natural inclination to tell the whole world my thoughts, opinions and ideas, so to keep something so big a secret was quite honestly shocking to me. How many movies or tv episodes have you seen with families pulling together, rallying around their loved ones and their cancer struggle? Vowing to stick together, get through it, make the best of it! I cant imagine. I wanted to crawl in a hole, keep my dirty little secret to myself.

At work my friend and I went to the bathroom together, and upon her questioning how my week was, I blurted out “I might have cancer” before ducking into a bathroom stall. My behavior is absurd at times like these, with no concept of social protocol. But Ive never had to tell someone a thing like this, and I see now my instinct is to throw a pile of turd on the floor, and hit the ground running. I guess my bathroom stall was my open field. Of course she thought I was joking, and after realizing I wasn’t freaked out more than I did. Its strange how my fear has come out, and I wonder if people who are actually dieing do the same thing. Pull away from friends and loved ones. Maybe to spare them the worry? Maybe to avoid the pity party? Cancer always seemed like a great way to get attention, to be validated with everyones love and attention. Now I see its a burden, just the very thought of it.

My results came back as pre-cancerous, meaning I could have cancer tomorrow, or never. Its quite a large vague window, one that leaves little room for comfort. I’m now scheduled for a LEEP procedure, which is where they do more scraping, accompanied by some sort of electric current. Definitely not what I pictured for the comfort of my uterus. Even with that frankenstein like procedure, its the anesthesia that worries me the most, the disconnect of soul from body, much different than sleep. I’ve had about 6 surgeries in my life, and never once woken up in a timely and normal fashion. Its usually about 2 hours after Ive been “released” that I even remember what happened, and apparently during that time Ive either been violently puking, making crazy talk, or almost dieing. A particularly fun time was when I had my wisdom teeth pulled out and they over medicated me. My bf came into the room to gather me afterwards and tells me I was completely blue and throwing up on myself. The shit dentist was telling him he had to get me out of there and that I was fine. Meanwhile my whole arm turned black because they had missed my vein the first time with the anesthesia and pumped it directly into my muscle. Suffice to say, going under scares me. I’m scared of the sickness, and I fear for my poor friend that has to collect me under those circumstances.

My surgery is next week and though Im sleeping marginally better, Im not comfortable with any of it. I told the guy I was dating about it, and he promptly stopped seeing me the week I got my results. The irony is his father died of cancer, but perhaps there’s no irony at all. All that did was validate my reasons for not telling anyone. Most people dont want the burden, even if it is just an idea, a possibility, or something that happens to someone else.

Sexenemies

I’m not friends with a single man Ive had sex with in the last 2 years…come to think of it, its closer to the last 10 years. Holy shit. Of course most of us dont stay friends with people we have slept with, but are at least on friendly terms? Sometimes I wonder if Im hallucinating, or most people are in fact nicer than I am.

Today I became enemies with yet another man I was previously sleeping with, and it occurred to me that I no longer know how to play nice when a love affair ends, no matter who called it off. So what is it that makes me more comfortable with former lovers living as enemies and not friends? Did it just occur to me that I am fucking evil, or the most immature 32 year old? I imagine this is why folks in their 30’s go to therapy, the not so subtle realization that you are completely out of control, and hardly the capable adult the 20’s version of you thought you were.

The 20’s were kind of awesome, and not just the less wrinkles and insecurity thing. I mean that stupid fucking idea we all had that we knew how shit worked, how we worked. Before every PBS drama series we watched reminded us of our own life, even if it was set in turn of the century England. Before social anxiety, emotional unavailability, and cervical biopsies.

I digress though, the issue is why I hate men. I positively hate them. Sleeping with me is a friendship death sentence. Its accompanied with unrealistic expectations, moody displays of narcissism, and some of the most horrific and emotionally scarring emails and texts any man could hope to never receive. I am a social pariah, and if crying after sex wasn’t a good enough reason to not have it, perhaps making enemies is one. Now that I have discovered the hate gene I’m carrying, I resolve to exercise my disgust with men in a more proper way…getting drunk with my girlfriends and talking shit. Fuck, wait, that was my 20’s.

Its therapy, isnt it? I’m 32, which means therapy to discuss why mom doesn’t love me, and daddy isn’t around. Until then, I will try to inspire less men to despise me. No more snarky texts, nasty emails, cutting words about their shitty personality traits that I dont appreciate. At least for the guy I’m sleeping with now.

Stop Giving Up Everything for Men

April 2, 2012

Stop Giving up everything for men.

Thats what my lover said to me this morning as we lay in bed with our awkwardness that accompanies the decision of when to retreat from each other and carry on with life. It was the first time he’s stayed at my place, and he’s the first man Ive been with in this apartment. He’s also the first man I’ve ever carried on a sexually casual affair without any expectations of a relationship. That part isnt totally true. There have been men who have tried, and failed before, with one or another of us becoming inexplicably attached to the other, full well knowing there was no potential for anything more. I was never able to separate sex from love, and even now I struggle not to feel lingering sadness when our time together is over. Its not that he’s right for me, god no. Yet somehow we manage to balance this completely honest friendship and safety net, with the verbal agreement that we are both fucked up and in no way able to date each other. Perhaps even if we werent fucked up we wouldn’t want to anyway.

For a month we have had a string of what feels like really nice one night stands. We only see each other at night, like stray lovers keeping affairs from significant others. He uses his children as an excuse for our strictly nocturnal adventures, but I understand his reluctance. Day time makes things real, its the time when people fall in love. Its when you see exactly what shade of gold her eyes are, and the way they avert yours when you tell her she’s beautiful. Its the anxiety you feel in telling her she’s beautiful when she is at her least seductive, fully clothed, framed in wind swept hair and $5 sunglasses. You see her in the way that only lovers do. D is for daytime, D is for dangerous.

Our night usually begins in some typically detached fashion, a hug and a kiss on the cheek, followed by discussions on where to grab dinner. Hardly a date, nothing is planned, no activities are suggested. Its late into the night, when your only choices are loud bars or painfully romantic, dim lit cafes. With little choice it’s always where we can have the best conversation, as we have managed to connect in a complete and whole way regardless of our carnal agenda. Yet, We never betray our surroundings. There is no hand holding, no long wistful gazes, no salutations of wine and whiskey. Our conversations always take the shape of good friends, with great affection for each other, and genuine concern. Never about the weather, nor God, or politics but rather of family obligations, failing dreams,  and hopeful futures. We have skipped the bullshit of small talk and dove right into discovering each others intimacies. Its hardly made the acquaintance casual, and challenged my ability to stay disconnected. In my 30’s Ive discovered there is little more to happy relationships than open communication and mind blowing sex.

He’s been clear right from the start about our potential. There is none. He’s out of a long term relationship, a single father older than I am, with no career to speak of, and desperate attempts at a creative calling in music. Even if we’ve been seeing each other for a month, he’s not inclined to acknowledge the amount of time, or that in one week we had three nights together. He has purposefully kept physical distance from me in public and private. I didnt know what the palm of his hand felt like until our fifth time together, when he quietly rested it in mine after sex. It had never been there before, and the irony of our sex being less intimate than that gesture was not lost on me. My instincts fought against one another, half wanting to recoil from his warmth, the other wanting to squeeze tight and desperate like. I settled on nervous finger movements, and constant changing of hand position.

He is the first man I’ve ever had sex with that would not hug me in public, or kiss me without it leading to sex immediately after. The same man who kisses me with passion and vigor during love making, yet will not let so much as a cold foot drift to my side of the bed during sleep.

*Forgive me, but this post has not been finished. He stopped seeing me shortly after this and I never felt inspired to give him any more of my energy. *

Bridget Jones – But with More Cats

The conclusion I reached today…they have already written a book about me, but cleverly left out my feline companions so as not to alienate dog lovers. I have been re-reading the epic “Bridget Jones’ Diary” and realized that I am not too far off. Single, in my 30’s, obsessed with not becoming fat or riddled with cellulite, surrounded by men who enjoy the feminine company of anyone but me, substituting large quantities of my daily meals with dessert items, and becoming a parental figure to my mother as she backslides down into some horrid over-menopausal she devil, ranting about mahogany cupboards and the cat falling off the balcony. All feeling very Bridget like, except with cats and less cigarettes. But I do cry after sex, which must be similar to the sort of shame smokers feel for being ever addicted to sucking on phallic shaped death sticks. $14 a pack? I wont even spend that on a movie ticket, instead relying on visits to my moms house for an offer to take me to the theatre. Which is always an unfortunate way of watching too many Holocaust horror films, or knowing much more than anyone should ever know about Coco Chanel.

My business is slow right now as expected, tis the slow season, which I thought I would handle as a mini vacation- on my couch. I have stuck to the couch part, but deviated slightly from the “vacation” portion when I started with the random panic attacks, followed by standing bleary eyed and yoga-haired in my robe at the window, scaring passers by. I guess you could categorize my new found 11+ hour sleep schedule, and sport binge eating a 2 pound burrito in 3 minutes, a vacation like atmosphere. Where else does one consume ginormous lard packed burritos if not on some sunny beach in the Yucatan? Except instead of a lounge chair to take respite from the hot sand, I sit silently in a hard IKEA dining chair wistfully looking out the curtains and trying not to cry, again. At some point I migrate back to the couch, from whatever pathetic perch I was resting on, and with the best intentions flip through the History Channel and National Geographic, full well knowing I am ending up right where I was intending to be, Maury Povich. I watch to see who is or who is not the father, wondering how this many people were even able to find someone to have sex with AND get pregnant. The last guy I was fucking looked at me like I mistook his dick as edible between two hot dog buns, when I  unknowingly tried to put his penis inside me (in the dark!) without a condom. I couldn’t tell if he was utterly disgusted at the thought of accidentally impregnating me, or just at what a filthy whore I must be for even trying to have unprotected sex with him (unintentionally!)

A new hobby I’ve become fond of is spending egregious amounts of money at the Japanese food market in my neighborhood. I feel very chic and international going in to a place where nothing is in english, and looking very worldly as I end up buying things like rice seasoning with seaweed and dried shrimp, and pickled sour plums. What I’ve failed to acknowledge, admittedly, is the outrageous amount of sodium and MSG in everything Japanese. This is not exactly salmon sashimi every day for lunch, one Dr. Perricone would no doubt approve of. No, this is Paula Dean’s stomping grounds, eating the asian version of biscuits and gravy every day.

Alas, I don’t even look in the mirror anymore, and can count the amount of times Ive left the house in a week on one hand. Laundry is menacingly overflowing from the bag, threatening to smell up my cubicle that I refer to as a bedroom. Self help books strewn about the living room, inviting suspicions from my roomate about my mental state. Piles of bags of clothes from the self prescribed therapy session of “Clean the closet of things I haven’t worn in a year.” Which felt productive until said bags have remained in living room cluttering up already “cozy” space, adding new dimension of hoarder like behavior. Inevitably creating more suspicion amongst likely traumatized roomate. On the upside the cats are pleased with my new found social anxiety, finding me to be a most pleasing heat rock for mid afternoon suffocating,  aka cuddling sessions.

Forget Me Not

“One day the only ones who will know the words between us will be you and I. Time will forget us, just as we forget each other.” – ME

I don’t like the idea of forgetting “O”, and at the moment it would seem to be impossible. Why would the universe send someone to me so unattainable? Just a reflection of my own emotional inability to accept someone? “O” was the one who got “IN” when I had vowed to not let anyone enter. At the time I supposed it was just that he gained access to my body, but after a visit from him this week, it was my heart that overflowed instead.

He’s still 24. He still lives in another state. We are still in an unchangeable situation, divided by ages, circumstances, lives. Yet, I love him. He won’t know these things, likely ever, but to deny it is to deny its existence, and that I cant do. Four more days of bliss between lovers, passionate nights, joyful days, and a ‘just add water’ relationship. Easy, so easy to love him. And so, now that I have confessed my conscious to the universe, I can get on with attracting someone who will and can love me back. It’s so nice to know that I am still capable of giving someone the best parts of myself, that those parts exist, are easily detected. So as not to forget you my sweet O, let me keep record of those moments. To forget would be the deepest sin of my heart.

Watching out the window, sun shining, waiting to see you walk up my street. Running downstairs like xmas morning, jumping into your arms. So awkward to see you again, so real. Walking through Central Park, my hands in yours. I dont remember ever feeling so affectionate just standing next to someone on a subway platform. Your smile, so big, so everlasting, you make it impossible to hurt you, to disappoint you. Holding hands, exploring via giant cookie bakeries on the Upper West Side. You make me laugh, and everyone around follows our energy. We are magical. Making love the first day you were here. Amazing how no time seems to pass, comfort and passion blending seamlessly every time, even after 2 months apart. We came together, we always do. Trying on outfits for you, so honest, sweet and gentle too. You sent a picture of me dressed up to your dad. He said I was pretty, and I melted over all things possible. NYE at a loud crazy house party, and all we could do was get out of there half past midnight to get home and make love to each other. You tried for drunk, I was already intoxicated from you. We look beautiful together. Kissing you at midnight was a dream, the way you always have your arms around me, no concern for who is around. Our world, your hand on the back of my neck, in my hair, or the side of my face. Yes, I’m yours. Views of the Brooklyn bridge, and silly pictures with that little lens you carry. You took another picture of me. Please don’t forget me. Long walk through Downtown Brooklyn, its so cold, and you keep stopping to break off twigs from discarded Christmas pine trees. You love the smell of the earth. You always smell like campfires, and I make you spray your essential oils on my pillows before you leave me. But not yet. You give me a gift on the subway platform, something you made for me. I, I, I cant say what I feel, but at times this week I will try. In Chinatown we are like children in the streets, guessing whats in this basket or on this cart. I am alive. You are running through me. Vanessa’s Dumplings, and a table comes up right away, luck is always with us. Wired on sugar packed Green Boba Tea, shrimp dumplings, pork buns. Collaborating on a project, creative and supportive. Its real, we are real. Days expressed with joy, nights filled with intense conversation, enlightened ideas. We are getting closer. We trust. Walls become loose, transparent, tears apparent, support, empathy. I can see you now, inside the ‘O.’ We buy crazy hats together, and like superheroes we fly through the streets of Bushwick. You wear a broken digital clock around your neck. It beeps, we kiss. That’s the rule. A bar has arcade games that we play, I feel like I could spend every day making life beautiful with you. Something is building inside you. It explodes, my heart catches your shrapnel. I crumble. You sunk my battleship. I never believed we could have a disagreement. I shake inside, you can see me. You’re back, we can work together, its incredible. I, I, I can’t find the words. Please dont hurt me, I’m yours. Another night to connect over cereal and popcorn. You are finding you, through me. Under the covers, we are naked, warm, one. We wake every morning with smiles for each other. I brush your hair back. Its just, what I do. Donut, attached to another donut with frosting. Your song plays, and your vocal outburst is my new favorite way to be embarrassed. We pay your public drinking ticket, perfectly silly. Its time for you to go home, but not before loving my body again. Two people, lost boundaries in stillness and heat. I wont cry when you leave. Time is closing in, its never been a friend to us, unless its around your neck beeping. You care about me. My heart soars, and crash lands in front of a Megabus. A carton of cheap chicken fried rice, and a rushed kiss to the hoots of a bus operator. I stumble, over my fear, and run forward to get space between us. I, I, I can’t say what I mean to say. I am yours, for now. Because it cant be any other way.

I’m pretty sure I hate 2011

As I lay in bed tonight, weeping softly, with a cat next to my head, and a fresh tampon keeping the rest of me plugged up I realize, I’m pretty sure I hate 2011. Its not that good things didnt happen. Hell, I’ll name some. I moved back to NYC, my love. I traveled out of the country for a few months, made some new friends that Im quite fond of. Yea, that there sums it up.

But I still hate 2011. My ex bf who is/was one of my best friends and roomates decided to terminate our friendship/living situation. Not so formally as that though. No, he just slowly over a year stopped hanging out with me because he made some work and drinking buddies that were more entertaining. I can accept this boys will be boys nonsense. Even with his neglect I set him up with this beautiful NFL cheerleader whom is now his girlfriend. I’m sorry, were you trying to award me for “Best Ex Girlfriend EVER?” Because the accolade still hasnt arrived in the mail. So we spend our last weeks as roomates arguing and hating each other. I then spend some time with my ear on the floor listening to his phone conversation as he goes over with her what a terrible person I am, and how hes taking the “high road.” This man almost let two shelves full of glassware fall on my head yesterday. Yes, I was holding up two collapsing shelves with all of the bar glassware, and when I yelled for him to help me, he slowly lumbers in, takes about 4 glasses down (as Im holding up 40 pounds of glass and shelf weight) before telling me he doesnt have time to help me, he’s late to somewhere. Somewhere happened to be a football game. Miraculously I managed to pull all the glasses off the shelves, while holding them up, and screaming obscenities which should never be repeated. My vocabulary can be notorious during pms time if Im properly crossed. So this is the behavior of a man who supposedly takes the “high road”…right to hell as far as Im concerned.

A man I was dating less than a year ago is engaged. Need I say more? Well I will anyway. Hold on, so you were willing to move to NYC to be with me, transfer schools, give up your home…to pursue me? 9 fucking months ago? Congrats on your engagement. P.s. Her boob job is a wreck, and the only thing Im really jealous of is I cant detach your dick from your body and keep if for myself. Best wishes.

My dating life. What dating life? Yea exactly. NYC, lots of men, lots of eligible men!! Oh motherfuck, women outnumber men here 3:1. Those numbers have not worked in my favor. I hate that my standards have had to lower, hate it! I used to be annoyed if a man had chest hair. Now Ive dated a man who had so much ass hair it looked like his crack had a comb over.

“The Man who destroyed my faith in men” a blog I wrote about a beautiful man in my youth who changed my outlook on men forever. Well, he destroyed it. ( https://lessclassmoreass.wordpress.com/2011/05/31/the-man-who-de…-8-years-later/)Now somehow we have been talking on Facebook, and finding out all of the amazing things we have in common. I would probably marry him tomorrow if he asked me. He lives in Germany. Germany god damn it! He is single after 5 years, writing me long, really lovely emails, from Germany. Fuck it, just fuck it.

There is some sort of silver lining on this shit cloud, but I dont care to see it. I have every right not to for at least 5 days a month during my “special” time. There are also a lot more things I could whine about but Im feeling guilty for even venting this bullshit. Thanks 2011, you have been memorable. Assuming 2012 end of the world is coming, this should all be cleared up soon.

Someone got it IN

The Real Deal

My last post was about “No sex before Monogamy.” Why do I do it to myself? Why must I lie to myself, and to you my dear reader? After a string of useless men and sexual encounters over the past year, I was really ready to be done with casual sex. No longer capable of being an adult about these sort of things, I knew I was not cut out for hit it and quit it anymore.

After the last guy I “dated” (term used quite loosely) I went in to a tailspin over men. A legitimate depression, touching on all of my favorite emotions. Anxiety over my 30’s. Depression over being single. Insecurity over why no one loves me. Astonishment that men ever did love me. I didnt masturbate for two weeks. My state was dire. So like any desperate and depressed girl, I decided to go to my psychic. In the nicest of possible tones, she spent an hour reminding me what a loser I was becoming.

Psychic- “So whats your romantic life like right now?”

Me- “Well it’s-”

Psychic – “Wait a minute, theyre telling me you dont have one.”

At least I know you’re actually psychic now. Yea, I dont have one, glad everyone knows. We did some work together, and I had a reiki session (Healing with energy and crystals) Now Im not saying you have to believe in any of this stuff, but I left her home floating on a cloud. A truth cloud. Bitch laid it down for me. You stink at love right now, you pick the wrong people because your self esteem is low, and the only way to attract the right man is to fix yourself first. Damn it, no quick fixes here.

I took the train home and settled on a plan of action. No sex before monogamy was a good plan. See men for who they really are, dont give them too much, weed them out with your brain not your body. Simple!

‘Whoooooo is that?’ I purred as I stood at my front door stumbling for my key. This angel of a man, standing just 15 feet from me, laughing, glowing, shining like the sun. I couldnt take my eyes off him. I fell in love with this beautiful ball of energy if only for a moment. Our eyes connected, and time stopped for us. My key connected and my door swung open. I turned into my house and declared to myself,

‘If its meant to be its meant to be! Stop forcing things to happen, it never works out that way!’

I was riding my high from the psychic session and in no mood to force some awkward situation between me and some beautiful stranger. Even if he did look like a movie star, make eye contact with me, NO! No more thinking about him. I went about my business inside and after a little while decided on a grocery store errand. I left my house and after about 5 blocks, he appeared, in front of me, like a gift from heaven. I jumped in my skin but didnt know what to do. I crossed the street (subconsciously trying to test the universe and this whole fate business), took out my phone and proceeded to look “casual.” He bounced down the other side of the street and again we made eye contact. I knew I couldnt let him pass. He smiled. I smiled. He waved, I waved. I whipped my head to one side to signal him to come over. He coyly crossed the street, covered in the most seductive smile.

“Hi, who are you? Youre not from here” I was feeling bold.

“I’m Owen. How did you know?” He was even more gorgeous up close. I dared myself not to stare at his beautiful lips the whole conversation.

“You’re happy. Joyful. Beautiful. I knew you werent from here. Youre an “O” name. I love “O” names.”

“You do? Why?” Now he was intrigued, and flirting was successful.

“Theyre lovely people, and just like the “O” theyre round, magnanimous, and everyone loves them. Except no one can penetrate the surface, but once inside, its deep.” He looked at me like I solved the mystery of the universe. I fell in lust.

He was 24, a Pisces, and from North Carolina, working with some friends on a creative project and was only in town for a week. We connected a few days later, and suffice to say had 4 days of the most passionate, meaningful and real sexual connections I can remember ever having. He was a gift, a real live gift from heaven, sent to my doorstep. We spent 4 nights up till 5 am, talking the hours away, staring into each others eyes, and making amazing love together. Late night baths, impromptu home cooked dinners and bottles of champagne. And laughter. I dont remember laughing so much with a man. A 24 year old man. He treated me like a lady, and in return I gave him everything a woman can give a man in such a short time.

Not one moment did I feel guilty or regretful. He never made me wonder how he felt about our time together. Never a time was he flaky, unreliable, or coy. At the end of the 4 days I knew exactly what he had done for me.

He healed me. He cleaned up the mess that others before him made. He created a space in my heart that was cluttered with hurt, fear, and sadness. That man made me a new woman. He uncovered the good woman that a good man is going to be really lucky to find, and hes not going to have to dig as deep to get to her.

So someone got it in, big deal! He left 3 weeks ago, and I havent had a single inclination to be sexually involved with anyone. I realize the other thing he did was send me back into my life feeling worthy as a woman, and good about myself. Feeling fully able to make better decisions. He was the catalyst for the work the psychic said I needed to do, he was pure magic. Amazing what some good dick and an attentive man can do. I realize now this is why Im not married. The combination of the two is elusive.

I cried when he left. He tried to make me laugh, and he did. Which made me cry more, and embarrass myself in front of his friends. We are in touch almost every day, buts its no matter. Its not about being together, or having some sort of future (24 years old, please). It was the universes way of telling me to hang tight, that Im likeable (even loveable) and that men are good, they have the potential to be really good. Some just dont know it, buts its no fault of mine.

Casually a couple days after we first met, I told him I first saw him in front of my house. He didnt think twice about it. Our last night together I took him out for a drink at one of the most romantic bars in Brooklyn. We had spent so much time together that walking hand in hand, and stopping to kiss in the middle of the street were natural as anything could be. As we sat there sipping cocktails and holding hands, I reminded him again about the time I first saw him. How I fumbled at my door, how we locked eyes, and how I sent my message to the universe about fate. His face washed over with recognition,

“Oh my god. Yes. I remember the exact moment. I didnt know that was you! Yes, I looked right at you, you were beautiful. When I walked by a few minutes later I looked into the store because I thought thats where you went in. I wanted to talk to you.”

Fate. Magic. Love. Lust. Real. No more forced moments. Trust in the universe produces the very best results in life. Even when it comes in the form of a beautiful 24 year old sex god. (Pictured above, and yes, he still makes me swoon)

No Sex before Monogamy

Patti Stanger has it right. I’m not proud to admit taking advice from a reality television star.  On second thought, I would have to be practicing no sex before monogamy to be “taking it,” so technically I’m just “admiring” her advice. That woman knows what she’s talking about. No Sex before Monogamy. It’s the kind of statement that makes women believe in magic, and men cringe at the possibility of follow through. But its science. Sexual science.

Its a simple formula, one we ladies are very familiar with:

≤3‰?→Dick is connected to brain.→ Brain wants dick to be happy.→ Brain tricks woman into making dick happy. →Brain and dick move on.

There is a flaw in the formula though, and the lovely Ms. Stanger has figured it out. It looks something like this:

≥8‰?→Dick is connected to brain.→ Brain wants dick to be happy.→ Woman plays hard to get. →Dick subsides, brain is intrigued. →Brain falls in love. ♥

I’m embarrassed to admit I know the correct formula, but like a young Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting, I am still a janitor not living up to my full potential. I was on the right track though. Hadnt had sex for a couple of months, got back into self help books, and vowed that the next guy I slept with would have potential for being the “one.” I marveled at my phone that never rang, my lack of interested qualified men, and my new frequent masturbation schedule. All by my choice! The choice to build a better, albeit more socially pathetic existence. I caught up on episodes of Millionaire Matchmaker, and pretended like Patty was talking to me.

“No sex before monogamy! No IN, No IN, and no IN,” she would yell at me as she pointed to her mouth, crotch and ass.

“I can do that! No one is getting IN!” I’d concede, wondering if people really had anal sex on the first date. Its not really my thing, but isnt that something you have to prepare for? I wouldn’t really know, but anal in porn looks real clean, too clean. I’m rightfully suspect.

Then a man came along and challenged Patty and my new found life of “No In.” He was older than me, charming, boyish, and absolutely smitten with me. He called a mutual friend to ask about me, gushed to her, nervously pursued me. Sent pictures, romantic texts, and spent hours on the phone with me. Would sneak flowers to me at work, and made impromtu visits when I least expected it. He was almost perfect…until we fucked.

Let me back up. Before we had sex, this man was crazy about me. Foot rubs, kisses all over my body, sweet nothings in my ear. The man even said “I cant wait to have you sit on my face.” Now where I come from, these are not the words of a selfish man. These are the words of a man who is going to worship your body for months to come. That pun was too easy, as easy as it was going to be to actually come.

He was great, and I was going to finally get the attention and affection from a real man that I was so in need of. Even though it was a bit soon, I took the plunge, I let him IN. He got 2 out of 3 In’s, a pretty good ratio. We had sex twice, good solid dependable sex. The next morning he starts the awkward guy after sex routine. I give it little thought, and float the rest of my day on a sex cloud. We see eachother the next night, and even though I have proclaimed my sleepiness after my 15 hour work night, he continues to push me for sex.

You know what I hate about being a woman? Being a woman.

It comes with a lot of bullshit responsibilities, in and out of the bedroom. Womens rights my ass. We got the right to vote, and in this country, people cant legally own us as property anymore. Hate to break it to you, but thats about it. Of course men will come back with the whole independence argument.

“Women can work as CEO’s, run businesses, become rich.”

And still come home to our obligations of massaging your ego and sucking your dick. Sure I get paid less, cant get the good jobs you’re offered, can get on 3 different trains without one dude getting up to offer their seat to me. Yea, that right to vote worked out great for us. I wish we could give it back, and get gentleman back in exchange.

So he pushes me for sex and I give in. Why? Because if I dont, he will act like a damaged little boy who needs comfort. Five minutes of vagina usage is easier for both of us. I’m sure its doing emotional damage that I will need to work out in therapy one day. A conversation that will go somewhere along the lines of why I dont feel loved unless my value as a human being is linked directly to sex. But thats ok, as long as you can go to sleep without a boner.

The next morning he’s weird again, a pattern I am not becoming fond of.  Even with a homeade breakfast, and a fresh coffee from the bodega, he still cant get his head together enough to be a decent human being. Later I get a few bullshit sporadic texts throughout the day, and I am already foreseeing where this is going. We are heading straight into scared little boy territory.

The next day is Friday, and we are supposed to have plans that evening. With both of our crazy work schedules, it’s difficult for us to find the time. I get some strange text in the morning asking me how Im doing. I’m fine asshole, what happened to the cute texts? I dont hear from him the entire day. I resist the urge to text or call. I go out with my girlfriend, get day drunk and talk shit about him. He doesnt write until 11:30pm. He asks how my day was. Essentially he is also asking for an ass kicking. You made plans with me, flake, with not so much as an apology or explanation? Now my wheels are really spinning. You selfish little prick. Come to think of it, you never did ask me to sit on your face once we did start having sex. And I sure as hell never got that foot rub either!

I dont text him for 2 days. He makes no contact. I’m 32 years old, and forced to play high school games. I’m bummed I gave up two months of no sex for this selfish dick, who cant man up and just tell me what the deal is. Granted he doesnt need to say what it is, because I already know. He’s a boy. He thought he wanted one thing, a real woman, with something to offer. Then when I came along and put my cards on the table he realized a woman would never be interested in a boy. So he ran. He ran as soon as he realized that he could never live up to what I deserved. He knew I deserved better, and he was right. I just wish I had figured it out before he did.

Since moving to New York I have made an effort to not be physically shallow. In a city full of male models everywhere you turn, I challenged myself to look deeper. To start considering men I didnt think were my “type.” To open myself up to the possibility of love in an unexpected place. Do you know where its gotten me?

Nowhere. I am getting rejected by guys whos bodies are ravaged by years of chain smoking, and hard city life. Guys who I could beat in a push up contest. Men who dont even have the courtesy to trim their pubic hair. I almost choked on one of his. Men with wild pubic hair are rejecting me, and this does not sit well. Neither here, nor in my throat.

So back to you Patty, and your loophole formula. Until I actually do sit on a face, No IN, No IN, No IN!

Just Between Us

Image via Wikipedia

“The reality of the other person lies not in what he reveals to you, but what he cannot reveal to you. Therefore, if you would understand him, listen not to what he says, but rather to what he does not say.” Kahlil Gibran

For you:

Say no more, before you say too much,

Speak to me with your mouth closed.

Silence fallen on a heart wide open,

Both knowing the way it must be.

 

Promises of yours never meant to be seen,

Spoken with strangers and friends in between.

Secrets and words with muddled intentions,

Denying the logic of standard convention.

Another reason to hate Australian Men

Aussies have a lot going for them. Usually very handsome, always with that sexy accent, and inevitable appreciation for sunblock. The problem is they also typically suck. Many years of knowing and dating them has solidified this stereotype. They’re drunks. All of them. Every single one I have met drinks to get drunk. They treat women like shit. I’m assuming this is because Aussie women are drunks too, lacking a certain standard of care that sober women demand. Holding hair from the toilet seat doesnt demonstrate the best of your nurturing side, as appreciative as we may be at the time. Taco Bell never really did look good in my ponytail.

So when I met this Aussie guy last week, it was with great hesitation that I found interest. However he was different. In a sea of overtly passive hipsters, this one locked eyes with me, called me over to his table, and asked me to join him and his friend. He was blond, absolutely charming to look at, with blue cat eyes and a smile to orgasm for. It turns out he was in a meeting with the other guy, but couldnt resist talking to me. Holy balls, he’s got em! He coyly slipped me his business card, which was either a signal to call him, or a suggestion that I could use help with online branding and marketing. A text would settle the question.

That night I texted him my number, and he replied by asking me out on a proper date to dinner. Now I dont know what else is going on in other parts of the world, but an invitation to dinner around here is as exciting as seeing the Chupacabra. Part legend, part ancient world myth, its been a damn long time since a man invited me to a meal.

So I plan the whole next day around my date. What time I need to shower, a quick shopping trip for a new outfit, and what excuse I can use to keep him out of my apartment. It has been decided awhile ago that I am no longer capable of casual sex. If you have cried after sex more than once in a year, then clearly your hormones are indicating you are more suited for self love and masturbation. Apparently I am quite suited.

So we decide on 8:30 pm and I pick a nice trendy place close to home. Later I receive a text that it will be at 9:15 due to a work engagement. No problem buddy, I am still going to wear heels for you.

9pm: I start the 15 minute walk from my house to the restaurant. Oh boy, the anticipation has begun. I am eating a real dinner tonight!! With whats his name..

9:08: Receive a text from him. “Just leaving the city now, hopping on train, see you at 930.”

You’re late. Bad start, but forgivable.

9:30: After standing in front of the restaurant looking longingly out into the street, I decide to go in alone. I’m starving, and in 5 inch heels. I need to sit down and eat before I get mistaken for Brooklyns’ next anorexic hooker.

9:35: My waitress is hot, and nice enough to bring me bread and water. Prison rations.

9:45: I’ve spent 10 minutes being annoyed, and 5 being absolutely pissed. No text, no call, just my empty plate of bread, and a waitress who is giving me the “I’m sorry” eyes. I send him a text, secretly hoping he’s not standing me up, just dead somewhere.

“I will give you 5 more minutes, then Im leaving. I think thats fair.”

9:50: I tip the waitress, and steam roll out of there. I wonder if I should’ve just hit on her instead. At least she showed up for work that day. I storm home, trying desperately not to look at my phone. 10 blocks and 3 looks at it. My ratio is good, my pride in tact.

10:00: I get home and rant to my roomate at the top of my lungs. I proclaim my hate. I down a glass of wine.

10:08: Text from him. “Haha. Just got here. What a shit guy I am. Let me make it up to you with a nice dinner or sexual favors.”

Haha? Excuse me, is that where you meant to put “I’m terribly sorry” but were auto corrected to “haha?” You werent even decent enough to call me and apologize, make up an excuse, feign a near death experience? Haha? Sexual favors for a girl you just stood up? My, you are bold. Bold and stupid. Are Australian girls this easy? I delete his text and number. I rip up his business card, rant some more, drink some more. I feel better.

Three days go by, and no contact, which is expected and accepted. Then I get this bullshit text.

“Ok so sorry for the poor form the other night- take 2, want to come to the brooklyn flea market tomorrow and talk nonsense?”

I tell him Im working. He asks me why Im working on “Sunday Funday.”

Oh hell no. Sunday Funday? The worst phrase in the history of American Culture, reminiscent of Orange County tweens, fraternitys nation wide, and the Jersey Shore Cast?

There is no response to properly suggest my disgust for him, and so I give none. Instead I pontificate on finding true love, meeting a real man, and the thought of being a single senior citizen who has mastered “self love.”