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. *

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)

I have Reached the Golden Age of Lameage

Oh my youth, where have those days gone? The ones where you were so fun and careless. All kittens, rainbows, and casual sex. Plenty of casual sex. Lots of beach days with the girls, shots of tequila, telling my boss to go fuck herself without a care in the world. I remember when calling out sick on a Monday meant I was on a 2 day bender of cocaine and free casino booze in Vegas. At around 5am Monday morning I would wake up (or rather wake up to reality) and do the math of a 5 hour drive – need to be at work in 3 hours = Im fucked.

Times they are a changing. I barely hold my liquor these days, and the last cocaine I did was an energy drink that doesnt even exist anymore. Every night out is a surprise, a mystery as to which one of me is going to show up. Is it the one who can have 3 Jameson and Gingers and still talk philosophy and quantum physics? Or is it that fucking idiot who is probably having a hormonal fluctuation and cant have one glass of red wine without an emotional meltdown and a 24 hour hangover? Sadly the pre menopausal one shows up more often, convincing me further that after about 30 years old, alcohol should be given up completely. Alcohol, and fun.

There was a time when I could play volleyball all day, snowboard for hours on end, run, jump, chase squirrels. No, that was my cat, but I could keep up with him! Then age sets in and strange things happen. Like one ordinary afternoon I was having some pretty ordinary sex (minus the fact that it was amazing sex, when the fuck was the last time I had that?!) and something happened. We “finished” and as he went to dismount, I realized I would not. Nay, could not. He had been railing me against the headboard and in the midst of good sex I did not realize my neck was bent unnaturally. Apparently my body is not capable of these things anymore and 3 days later I was still in excruciating pain, barely able to turn, with his Mom offering me pain killers for an “old neck injury” that was flaring up. Luckily I was so cockeyed I didnt have to look her directly in the face as I lied to her about my sex injury.

Now Im sure we can all relate to a cause and effect injury happening. I wont even bore you with the details of when I pulled a muscle in my arm masturbating. I know, right, who hasnt done that?! These injuries make sense though. Which is why I am still baffled that this week I woke up at 6 am with the worst back pain I have ever felt in my life. So bad that when I finally mustered the courage to move from bed, I could only get as far as a crawling and crouching position. My roomate was very helpful in laughing at me writhing in pain on the floor.  I slowly shimmied my way across our hardwood floors (which is exorbitantly more dirty looking when your mouth is about 6 inches away from it) and finally make it to the bathroom door, only to discover I really can not put any weight on my left hand side. Standing, sitting, or walking.

So how does one pee if you can not sit or stand? This was the question I pondered while toiling away on my equally dirty bathroom floor. I wish I could tell you I urinated myself, if only for your amusement, but I actually just sucked it up, sat down, and proceeded to pee…and cry. Upon the conclusion of my pee I thrust myself off the toilet into my more familiar position of crawling. It was at this point that my roomate was there to once again support me, by taking pictures of me on the bathroom floor with my pants down, now crying…and laughing. He finally assisted by gathering my broken ass up off the floor and putting me back to bed where I called my boss to tell her my “situation.”

Do you know what an asshole you sound like telling your boss that you threw your back out while you were “sleeping”? Or rather how pathetic and feeble you are admitting that this is actually your physical condition? So frail and gentle that the mere act of restless sleeping can knock you out of life for a week? Where I was once confident dropping down chutes off cornices on some of the biggest mountains in the country, am I to be relegated to sheer terror about going beddy bye?

Long lost are the days of Vegas coke binges and booze fests. Hanging on by a string are the nights of good neck breaking sex, or any sex for that matter. And waiting for me here is the official title of the lying asshole at work who needs a day off because she forgot how to sleep without injuring herself.

Did I just rub one out to Vintage Porn?

I dont know if this is where I feel ashamed that I am jerking off to stuff my Dad probably jerked off too, or if I feel proud that I’m such a sexual deviant that even 70’s porn with unkempt bushes is enough to do it for me.

I was on my favorite site http://www.pornhub.com, unequivocally the best site for free porn, and I saw a 97% thumbs up on this “Hot oil massage from Asian.” Let it be known that I have NEVER seen a rating on that site over 93%, so I knew this had to be a mistake. Three minutes in, of some super hot chick (in any decade for that matter) having her glorious rack lubricated by a headless man (Who wants to see your man face anyway?) and I am hooked. I cant believe that seeing some girl oiling her boobs up, and stroking a limpish dick is doing it for me. The soundtrack was absolutely priceless. I almost left the room to go drop some LSD and enjoy the tunes, but my glass pyrex sex toy was cooling down and there was no time to waste.

Side Note: Pyrex sex toys are amazing. Throw them in the microwave for a minute, and it feels like it is melting your lady bits like butter. Lube not necessary.

So the scene goes on until they are fucking, oil and all, and in typical old porn fashion, no dialogue or noises, just music. Normally this bothers me because I like to hear a chick getting off…it just…helps. Unless she spends the whole fucking time whining “What are you gonna do with that cock? Do you like my pussy? Come on Daddy.” and a bunch of senseless dribble distracting me from my goal at hand. No pun intended, bing!

So I realize the beauty of vintage porn is, they haven’t diluted it with what the porn scene is today…cocaine, silicone, strippers, and fake orgasms. Its just good old fashioned fucking…with more hair, and a moustache.