"I dont know much about love," she said, "and I do not like to talk of things I do not understand; but i have heard two opinions. Some say the Devil carried the seed from hell, and planted it on the earth to plague men and make them sin; and some say, that when all the plants in he garden of Eden were pulled up by the roots, one bush that the angels had planted was left growing, and it spread its seed over the whole earth, and its name is love. I do not know which is right--perhaps both. There are different species that go under the same name. There is a love that begins in the head, and goes down to the heart, and grows slowly; but it lasts till death, and asks less than it gives. There is another love, that blots out wisdom, that is sweet with the sweetness of life and bitter with the bitterness of death, but it is worth having lived a whole life for that hour. I cannot tell: perhaps the old monks were right when they tried the root love out; perhaps the poets were right when they try to water it. It is a blood-red flower, with the color of sin; but there is always the scent of a god about it."
--olive schreiner
Monday, December 25, 2006
Monday, December 18, 2006
the good people of new york, by thisbe nissen
Eight million people in the city of New York, what could the numerical offs possibly be of running into the one person you've told you'll be out of town? But it was Sunday afternoon, on the Fifth Avenue bus, right by the Metropolitan, when someone brushed her on his way toward the back door and paused there, his breath just behind her ear.
"Westchester, huh?" he said, his voice cold as chrome, and she didn't even have a chance to turn around before she potted that telltale seersucker jacket mounting the steps of the Museum of Art.
Without thinking, she yanked on the signal cord, hollered "Getting off!" and plowed her way to the back door. She dashed up the museum steps and grabbed at the sleeve of Edwin's jacket. He turned, calm as only a nonnative New Yorker could be, and faced her on a landing halfway up the imposing bank of steps that served to weed out the faint of heart and bar the cardiovascularly unfit from access to the world's great art. She was at a loss for words. Any excuse would be paltry and disingenuous. She took silence of be a sign of nothing less than death, and couldn't bear it. "I just... I mean... I'm--"
Edwin interrupted. "That was rude of me, " he said. "Not to mention juvenile. I apologize."
"What?"
"I said I was sorry for--"
She cut him off this time. "You're apologizing to me? You can't apologize to me. You've been nothing but perfectly nice and I lie, and then get caught like a kid in the cookie jar..."
* * *
That evening they ate Indian food beneath billowing purple tapestries at a little place on Sixth Street where the curry was so hot she had gulped her own glass of water in one breath and then moved on to Edwin's, which he had pushed insistently toward her without a word. They went to Little Italy the next weekend, and for drinks one evening after work in a tiny brownstone yard turned garden bistro. They strolled the Bronx Botanical Garden, and prowled Greenwich Village, Edwin's architectural guide in hand, and when they stopped for hot dogs on a bench beside a playground, he read to her descriptions of Gothic facades and flying buttresses that sounded, through his Midwestern appreciation and awe, as much as poetry as any verse she'd ever heard.
It was her apartment they'd retire to at the end of an evening since his roommate, a law student at NYU, seemed never to venture out of doors, and though Edwin almost never stayed the night at hers (he worked early in the morning, and as the firm's underling lawyer, he liked to be fresh when he arrived at the office), he almost always stayed until she was just on the edge of sleep, when he would kiss her softly, gather his clothes, and dress in the dark before he let himself out, pulling the door silently shut behind him.
He was not, in any way, a man she would have imagined for herself. He was four years her junior, for god's sake, and he'd never even known a Jew before her, let alone kissed one. He still limped a bit from his injury, and though he wasn't short--five eight, the same height as she was--he certainly wasn't tall. He had fair and honest good looks but lacked even an ounce of the dark mystery, furtive heart, or swarthy sophistication that she had clambered after for most of her adult life. But there was a point at which one tired of clambering, and she wondered if maybe she was reaching hers. A point when you stopped looking for Eden and set down your bags right where you were just to have the weight off your back. And maybe you stopped and built yourself a little house then, not because you'd found paradise but because the land was fertile, the view pleasant, the water clear and cold. When Loralee asked her for details of the clean-cut and exceedingly polite young man she often encountered late at night in the lobby of their apartment building, he on his way out, she on her way in, panty hose tucked in her purse, all she could manage to say on Edwin's behalf was, "I don't know, Loralee. He's not a shit," disbelieving her own words as she spoke them, as though she'd always understood shittiness to be an intrinsic male characteristic, as essential to attraction as musk.
"Westchester, huh?" he said, his voice cold as chrome, and she didn't even have a chance to turn around before she potted that telltale seersucker jacket mounting the steps of the Museum of Art.
Without thinking, she yanked on the signal cord, hollered "Getting off!" and plowed her way to the back door. She dashed up the museum steps and grabbed at the sleeve of Edwin's jacket. He turned, calm as only a nonnative New Yorker could be, and faced her on a landing halfway up the imposing bank of steps that served to weed out the faint of heart and bar the cardiovascularly unfit from access to the world's great art. She was at a loss for words. Any excuse would be paltry and disingenuous. She took silence of be a sign of nothing less than death, and couldn't bear it. "I just... I mean... I'm--"
Edwin interrupted. "That was rude of me, " he said. "Not to mention juvenile. I apologize."
"What?"
"I said I was sorry for--"
She cut him off this time. "You're apologizing to me? You can't apologize to me. You've been nothing but perfectly nice and I lie, and then get caught like a kid in the cookie jar..."
* * *
That evening they ate Indian food beneath billowing purple tapestries at a little place on Sixth Street where the curry was so hot she had gulped her own glass of water in one breath and then moved on to Edwin's, which he had pushed insistently toward her without a word. They went to Little Italy the next weekend, and for drinks one evening after work in a tiny brownstone yard turned garden bistro. They strolled the Bronx Botanical Garden, and prowled Greenwich Village, Edwin's architectural guide in hand, and when they stopped for hot dogs on a bench beside a playground, he read to her descriptions of Gothic facades and flying buttresses that sounded, through his Midwestern appreciation and awe, as much as poetry as any verse she'd ever heard.
It was her apartment they'd retire to at the end of an evening since his roommate, a law student at NYU, seemed never to venture out of doors, and though Edwin almost never stayed the night at hers (he worked early in the morning, and as the firm's underling lawyer, he liked to be fresh when he arrived at the office), he almost always stayed until she was just on the edge of sleep, when he would kiss her softly, gather his clothes, and dress in the dark before he let himself out, pulling the door silently shut behind him.
He was not, in any way, a man she would have imagined for herself. He was four years her junior, for god's sake, and he'd never even known a Jew before her, let alone kissed one. He still limped a bit from his injury, and though he wasn't short--five eight, the same height as she was--he certainly wasn't tall. He had fair and honest good looks but lacked even an ounce of the dark mystery, furtive heart, or swarthy sophistication that she had clambered after for most of her adult life. But there was a point at which one tired of clambering, and she wondered if maybe she was reaching hers. A point when you stopped looking for Eden and set down your bags right where you were just to have the weight off your back. And maybe you stopped and built yourself a little house then, not because you'd found paradise but because the land was fertile, the view pleasant, the water clear and cold. When Loralee asked her for details of the clean-cut and exceedingly polite young man she often encountered late at night in the lobby of their apartment building, he on his way out, she on her way in, panty hose tucked in her purse, all she could manage to say on Edwin's behalf was, "I don't know, Loralee. He's not a shit," disbelieving her own words as she spoke them, as though she'd always understood shittiness to be an intrinsic male characteristic, as essential to attraction as musk.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
We All Have Secrets
Secrets are fun. So much so that I'm being unoriginal once again and copying out an excerpt from this silly little book by Sophie Kinsella called "Can You Keep a Secret?" because... oh why not:
"Of course I have secrets.
Of course I do. Everyone has a few secrets. It's completely normal.
I'm not talking about big, earth-shattering secrets. Not the-president-is-planning-to-bomb-Japan-and-only-Will-Smith-can-save-the-world-type secrets. Just normal, everyday little secrets.
Like, for example, here are a few random secrets of mine, off the top of my head:
1. My Kate Spade bag is fake.
2. I love sweet sherry, the least cool drink in the universe.
3. I have no idea what NATO stands for. Or even exactly what it is.
4. I weigh 128 pounds. Not 118, like my boyfriend, Connor, thinks. (Although in my defense, I was planning to go on a diet when I told him that. And to be fair, it is only one number different.)
5. I've always thought Connor looks a bit like Ken. As in Barbie and Ken.
6. Sometimes, when we're right in the middle of passionate sex, I suddenly want to laugh.
7. I lost my virginity in the spare bedroom with Danny Nussbaum while Mum and Dad were downstairs watching Ben Hur.
8. I've already drunk the wine that Dad told me to save for twenty years.
9. Sammy the goldfish at home isn't the same goldfish that Mum and Dad gave me to look after when they went to Egypt.
10. When my colleague Artemis really annoys me, I feed her plant orange juice. (Which is pretty much every day.)
11. I once had this weird lesbian dream about my flatmate Lissy.
12. My G-string is hurting me.
13. I've always had this deep-down conviction that I'm not like everybody else, and there's an amazingly exciting new life waiting for me just around the corner.
14. I have no idea what this guy in the gray suit is going on about.
15. Plus, I've already forgotten his name.
And I only met him ten minutes ago.
"Of course I have secrets.
Of course I do. Everyone has a few secrets. It's completely normal.
I'm not talking about big, earth-shattering secrets. Not the-president-is-planning-to-bomb-Japan-and-only-Will-Smith-can-save-the-world-type secrets. Just normal, everyday little secrets.
Like, for example, here are a few random secrets of mine, off the top of my head:
1. My Kate Spade bag is fake.
2. I love sweet sherry, the least cool drink in the universe.
3. I have no idea what NATO stands for. Or even exactly what it is.
4. I weigh 128 pounds. Not 118, like my boyfriend, Connor, thinks. (Although in my defense, I was planning to go on a diet when I told him that. And to be fair, it is only one number different.)
5. I've always thought Connor looks a bit like Ken. As in Barbie and Ken.
6. Sometimes, when we're right in the middle of passionate sex, I suddenly want to laugh.
7. I lost my virginity in the spare bedroom with Danny Nussbaum while Mum and Dad were downstairs watching Ben Hur.
8. I've already drunk the wine that Dad told me to save for twenty years.
9. Sammy the goldfish at home isn't the same goldfish that Mum and Dad gave me to look after when they went to Egypt.
10. When my colleague Artemis really annoys me, I feed her plant orange juice. (Which is pretty much every day.)
11. I once had this weird lesbian dream about my flatmate Lissy.
12. My G-string is hurting me.
13. I've always had this deep-down conviction that I'm not like everybody else, and there's an amazingly exciting new life waiting for me just around the corner.
14. I have no idea what this guy in the gray suit is going on about.
15. Plus, I've already forgotten his name.
And I only met him ten minutes ago.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
once upon a time
There was a time when I first started having sex, when I thought all men were uncircumsized Italians with Catholic hangups who were nevertheless amazing in bed. *Those* were the good old days.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
reflections from 'the philosophy of sex'
I'm not really having any original thoughts of my own tonight, but I did come across a few interesting tidbits in a book I found when someone directed me to the sex stacks in the library during a frenzied book-finding game. Enjoy. (And note the citations!)
"Are We Having Sex Now Or What?" by Greta Christina
Reprinted from
When I first started having sex with other people, I used to like to count them. I wanted to keep track of how many there had been. It was a source of some kind of pride, or identity . . . It got to the point where, when I'd start having sex with a new person for the first time, when he first entered my body . . . what would flash through my head wouldn't be "Oh, baby, baby you feel so good inside me," or "What the hell am I doing with this creep," or "This is so boring, I wonder what's on TV." What flashed through my head was "Seven!"
Doing this had some interesting results. I'd look for patterns in the numbers. I had a theory for a while that every fourth lover turned out to be really great in bed, and would ponder what the cosmic significance of the phenomenon might be. Sometimes I'd try to determine what kind of a person I was by how many people I'd had sex with. [Was I] normal, repressed, a total slut, a free-spirited bohemian, or what?
Then the numbers started getting a little larger, as number tend to do, and keeping track became more difficult. I'd remembered that the last one was seventeen and so this one must be eighteen, and then I'd start having doubts about whether I'd been keeping score accurately or not. I'd lie awake at night thinking to myself, well, there was Brad, and there was that guy on my birthday, and there was David and ... no wait, I forgot that guy I got drunk with at the social my first week at college ... so that's seven, eight, nine ... and by two in the morning I'd finally have it figured out. But there was always a nagging suspicion that maybe I'd missed someone, some dreadful tacky little scumball that I was trying to forget about having invited inside my body. And as much as I maybe wanted to forget about the sleazy little scumball, I wanted more to get that number right.
It kept getting harder, though. I began to question what counted as sex and what didn't. . . . It was important for me to know. You have to know what qualifies as sex because when you have sex with someone your relationship changes. Right? Right?It's not that sex itself has to change things all that much. But knowing that you've had sex, being conscious of a sexual connection, standing around making polite conversation with someone while thinking to yourself, "I've had sex with this person," that's what changes things. Or so I believed. And if having sex with a friend can confuse or change the friendship, think how bizarre things can get when you're not sure whether you've had sex with them or not.
The problem was, as I kept doing more kinds of sexual things, the line between sex and not sex kept getting more hazy and indiscreet. . . .
I have friends who say, if you thought of it as sex when you were doing it, then it was. That's an interesting idea. It's certainly helped me construct a coherent sexual history without being a revisionist swine: redefining my past according to current definitions. But it really just begs the question. It's fine to say that sex is whatever I think it is; but then what do I think it is? What if, when I was doing it, I was wondering whether it counted?
Perhaps having sex with someone is the conscious, consenting, mutually acqknowledged pursuit of shared sexual pleasure. Not a bad definition. But what about the situation where one person consents to sex without really enjoying it? Lots of people have had sexual interactions that we didn't find satisfying of didn't really want and, unless they were actually forced on us against our will, I think most of us would still classify them as sex.
Maybe if both of you (or all of you) think of it as sex, then it's sex whether you're having fun or not. That clears up the [above] problem [but] begs the question again, only worse: now you have to mesh different people's vague and inarticulate notions of what is and what isn't sex and find the place where they overlap. Too messy.
How about sex as the conscious, consenting, mutually acknowledged pursuit of sexual pleasure of at least one of the people involved. That's better. It has all they key components . . . But what if neither of you is enjoying it, if you're both doing it because you think the other one wants to? Ugh. . . .
The longer I think about the subject, the more questions I come up with. At what point in an encounter does it become sexual? If an interaction that begins nonsexually turns into sex, was it sex all along? What about sex wth someone who's asleep? Can you have a situation where one person is having sex and the other isn't? It seems no matter what definition I come up with, I can think of some real-life experience that calls it into question. . . .
I still don't have an answer.
"Are We Having Sex Now Or What?" by Greta Christina
- The Philosophy of Sex: Contemporary Readings
Reprinted from
- The Erotic Impulse: Honing the Sexual Self
When I first started having sex with other people, I used to like to count them. I wanted to keep track of how many there had been. It was a source of some kind of pride, or identity . . . It got to the point where, when I'd start having sex with a new person for the first time, when he first entered my body . . . what would flash through my head wouldn't be "Oh, baby, baby you feel so good inside me," or "What the hell am I doing with this creep," or "This is so boring, I wonder what's on TV." What flashed through my head was "Seven!"
Doing this had some interesting results. I'd look for patterns in the numbers. I had a theory for a while that every fourth lover turned out to be really great in bed, and would ponder what the cosmic significance of the phenomenon might be. Sometimes I'd try to determine what kind of a person I was by how many people I'd had sex with. [Was I] normal, repressed, a total slut, a free-spirited bohemian, or what?
Then the numbers started getting a little larger, as number tend to do, and keeping track became more difficult. I'd remembered that the last one was seventeen and so this one must be eighteen, and then I'd start having doubts about whether I'd been keeping score accurately or not. I'd lie awake at night thinking to myself, well, there was Brad, and there was that guy on my birthday, and there was David and ... no wait, I forgot that guy I got drunk with at the social my first week at college ... so that's seven, eight, nine ... and by two in the morning I'd finally have it figured out. But there was always a nagging suspicion that maybe I'd missed someone, some dreadful tacky little scumball that I was trying to forget about having invited inside my body. And as much as I maybe wanted to forget about the sleazy little scumball, I wanted more to get that number right.
It kept getting harder, though. I began to question what counted as sex and what didn't. . . . It was important for me to know. You have to know what qualifies as sex because when you have sex with someone your relationship changes. Right? Right?It's not that sex itself has to change things all that much. But knowing that you've had sex, being conscious of a sexual connection, standing around making polite conversation with someone while thinking to yourself, "I've had sex with this person," that's what changes things. Or so I believed. And if having sex with a friend can confuse or change the friendship, think how bizarre things can get when you're not sure whether you've had sex with them or not.
The problem was, as I kept doing more kinds of sexual things, the line between sex and not sex kept getting more hazy and indiscreet. . . .
I have friends who say, if you thought of it as sex when you were doing it, then it was. That's an interesting idea. It's certainly helped me construct a coherent sexual history without being a revisionist swine: redefining my past according to current definitions. But it really just begs the question. It's fine to say that sex is whatever I think it is; but then what do I think it is? What if, when I was doing it, I was wondering whether it counted?
Perhaps having sex with someone is the conscious, consenting, mutually acqknowledged pursuit of shared sexual pleasure. Not a bad definition. But what about the situation where one person consents to sex without really enjoying it? Lots of people have had sexual interactions that we didn't find satisfying of didn't really want and, unless they were actually forced on us against our will, I think most of us would still classify them as sex.
Maybe if both of you (or all of you) think of it as sex, then it's sex whether you're having fun or not. That clears up the [above] problem [but] begs the question again, only worse: now you have to mesh different people's vague and inarticulate notions of what is and what isn't sex and find the place where they overlap. Too messy.
How about sex as the conscious, consenting, mutually acknowledged pursuit of sexual pleasure of at least one of the people involved. That's better. It has all they key components . . . But what if neither of you is enjoying it, if you're both doing it because you think the other one wants to? Ugh. . . .
The longer I think about the subject, the more questions I come up with. At what point in an encounter does it become sexual? If an interaction that begins nonsexually turns into sex, was it sex all along? What about sex wth someone who's asleep? Can you have a situation where one person is having sex and the other isn't? It seems no matter what definition I come up with, I can think of some real-life experience that calls it into question. . . .
I still don't have an answer.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
another way to not woo the ladies
It's never a good idea for a man to reveal his true motives. Not even under the guise of "being truthful," because there is such a thing as Too Much Information. And what girl isn't up for a little subtle game playing as part of what they sign up for when they start the chase, the cat-and-mouse scenario? Anyway, no one wants to feel cheapened. If you're on a date, looking longingly into the girl's eyes, and say something like, "I don't really want a relationship, I just want to fuck you," she'd have to have a lobotomy to stick around (unless of course, she, too, is going through a slutty phase and planning on just using the guy for her pleasure, in which case, jackpot!). But even if that's what you untimately want, the guy for the night, to actually say it out loud is probably a little too taboo, especially for someone you barely know.
I was a little put off. The whole sleazeball thing just doesn't turn me on. I really didn't *need* to know that 90% of the total women (12) have been in the last year. I also don't have to be told, "Baby, I'm dynamite in bed." That's my line! See, there's a double standard. If the man says something "truthful," it's kinda shady, but if the woman does? She's condifent and sexy and the liklihood of her getting laid rises considerably. Men that know what they want are just overbearing, insensitive, and self-centered. Who wants that? Some women, I'm sure. And any man with enough money could probably get away with saying whatever he wants. But that's a very small portion of the population. Most people should just try manners.
So what have we learned? Sex is a dance. There's more to getting a girl into bed than saying, "Hey, let's go have some sex." Nothing is ever that easy... or is it? (All I know is, I wouldn't sleep with a guy who brags about being a slut. That's just asking for trouble.)
I was a little put off. The whole sleazeball thing just doesn't turn me on. I really didn't *need* to know that 90% of the total women (12) have been in the last year. I also don't have to be told, "Baby, I'm dynamite in bed." That's my line! See, there's a double standard. If the man says something "truthful," it's kinda shady, but if the woman does? She's condifent and sexy and the liklihood of her getting laid rises considerably. Men that know what they want are just overbearing, insensitive, and self-centered. Who wants that? Some women, I'm sure. And any man with enough money could probably get away with saying whatever he wants. But that's a very small portion of the population. Most people should just try manners.
So what have we learned? Sex is a dance. There's more to getting a girl into bed than saying, "Hey, let's go have some sex." Nothing is ever that easy... or is it? (All I know is, I wouldn't sleep with a guy who brags about being a slut. That's just asking for trouble.)
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
cheaters
Men who cheat. They are a dime a dozen. They walk down the street, they drink in bars, they sit next to you in abnormal psychology. They date you and try to convince you they're one of the "good guys." Hey, dude, I wasn't born yesterday. I know better.
Yet there's a certain allure. What is it about the "unavailable" man?! He has a certain, je ne sais quois, an untouchable quality. After my hours of study of human relationships, this is the one I haven't quite been able to figure out: Why we want the men we can't have. Why torture yourself? Why set yourself up for heartbreak?
Oh, right, "He's really hot," "He's the best sex I ever had," blah blah. Well, ladies, the truth is as old as the mountains. He's never going to LEAVE her. He's not going to divorce the wife, he's not going to give up custody of the children. He's not moving out of his townhouse. He's not even going to come to your 26th birthday bonaza if it's not convenient for him. You will always be The Other Woman. (Mind, that may be better than being the Idiot Girlfriend/Wife, if labels mean anything to you; personally, I'd always rather be the sizzling temptress who he cheats with than the sleeping lump he comes home to after having his brains f***ed out at 3am, but to each their own.)
Yet there's a certain allure. What is it about the "unavailable" man?! He has a certain, je ne sais quois, an untouchable quality. After my hours of study of human relationships, this is the one I haven't quite been able to figure out: Why we want the men we can't have. Why torture yourself? Why set yourself up for heartbreak?
Oh, right, "He's really hot," "He's the best sex I ever had," blah blah. Well, ladies, the truth is as old as the mountains. He's never going to LEAVE her. He's not going to divorce the wife, he's not going to give up custody of the children. He's not moving out of his townhouse. He's not even going to come to your 26th birthday bonaza if it's not convenient for him. You will always be The Other Woman. (Mind, that may be better than being the Idiot Girlfriend/Wife, if labels mean anything to you; personally, I'd always rather be the sizzling temptress who he cheats with than the sleeping lump he comes home to after having his brains f***ed out at 3am, but to each their own.)
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Insecure People Play Games
I was never a fan of being coy, beating around the bush, playing hard-to-get. What's the point? Does that really win you popularlity and admiration, or just leave tons of guys with blue balls? I pride myself on being straight with people. Not to the point of being cruel (I do seem to have a soft spot for losers) but in a manner that gets the point across. Because if you dig someone, why prolong the torture of the chase when you can be getting it on every night for a week? It really makes no sense to deny myself the satisfaction when it's so easy to attain. But maybe that's just me. You don't see men lining up to pine after me. Apparently I "scare" them. Well, if the guy's chickenshit, I don't think I'd want to put up with that. It's like they say about Scorpio women, "not for the faint of heart." It certainly takes a man who knows what he wants and how to get it. I'm waiting for my equal, here, folks.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
the meaning of loss
I'm beginning to realize that I can mark the passage of time in my life by the objects I have lost over the years. And why is it that every time some boy walks into my life, I lose a shirt, or a scarf, or some of my sanity? Just an observation. See, there was the time the guy I was dating had a party and in my cocktail/Smirnoff/beer haze, I lost my favorite Beatles shirt on the way home when I left in a huff over something said boyfriend had said to me. (No, I wasn't shirtless, thank-you-very-much, I was wearing one of *his* shirts, and no amount of drunkenly retracting my steps brought the missing shirt back to me... in any case, that night marked the end of our relationship, and RIP Beatles shirt as well.) I lost a pair of pleather pants (yes, pleather pants--they made my butt look cute) in Vegas over one particulary debacherous New Year's when I hooked up with a hot chef guy in a casino. I am forever at a loss over this one--those pants never failed to get me attention, and they worked really well in my Matrix Trinity-goes-to-Prom Halloween costume that year (which, ironically, landed me a guy dressed like a ninja-janitor, but that's another story I'd rather not relive). I lost a pair of leather gloves in a NYC taxi cab the spring I was getting over the love of my life, who turned out to be gay.
And this Saturday? A girl's night out to the male revue with some girlfriends (!!), where we promptly met strippers, had drinks, and brought them home with us. I lost a beautiful purple scarf. I'm weighing whether it was worth it, because the guy did call, in observance of the Three Day Rule. That part makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, no scarf necessary.
And this Saturday? A girl's night out to the male revue with some girlfriends (!!), where we promptly met strippers, had drinks, and brought them home with us. I lost a beautiful purple scarf. I'm weighing whether it was worth it, because the guy did call, in observance of the Three Day Rule. That part makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, no scarf necessary.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
no sex in the champagne room
A girlfriend of mine decided to throw herself a sort of "I'm turning 23 ohmigod Bachelorette Party" thang this weekend in the city. We saw strippers. Real, live, strippers. Women, mind you, for those of you who remember our little foray into the world of dancing men. Nothing too surprising, though. Once you've seen the men dance, nothing can shock you. I was, however, surprised to find that yes, fake breasts do congregate in places other than downtown Los Angeles. I'm also happy to report that my girlfriend had a nice night. She's not the type of woman whose self esteem goes down while in proximity to skinny, mostly-naked other women. Plus, in our little group of sexually ambiguous women, she was the one with the foreign boyfriend (foreign boyfriends being the topic of an upcoming discussion!).
Do couples roll over in the morning, say, "Hey baby, what should we do today? Wanna go to a strip club?" Does that happen in real life? Seriously? Tres roman-tic!
The scene in "Closer" with Natalie Portman and Clive Owen comes to mind. Did you know Natalie took pole dancing lessons to make her part more believable? (She had me convinced, you know why? Because she's that good of an actress. The fringe had nothing to do with it.) So. I had a pretty good picture of what a strip club was like, having lived in Vegas for a short time, seen what men can do on stage, and being raised in our sex-crazy society with these kinds of images in the movies, media, and walking down the street.
Anyway, one of my male friends mentioned the un-erotic atmosphere of a strip club, how it's like a cattle call with announcers over the PA system, bullhorn style, calling out women's stripper names. The women flocking to the pole, center stage. If I was a sleazy guy, I think it would be kind of weird to get turned on in public in that kind of atmosphere. People are -watching- but hey, some people are exhibitionists like that. Another guy I know chimed in with, "They know they've got you! They nibble at your pants a little bit, and once you're nice and happy, they know that they've GOT YOU!" And your wallet suffers for it. Boy does it.
I still can't believe people get up (in the late afternoon and so on) to go to work as a stripper. Like it's a regular job to them, like my non-existent 9-to-5 desk job. See, I don't feel comfortable having stripping to fall back on, cute as my friends are in saying "hell yeah I'd pay to see you take it off," (thanks, guys!). No, this non-stripper's doing fine on her own, I gather. She's got 2 dates this week! Uncanny, eh.
Do couples roll over in the morning, say, "Hey baby, what should we do today? Wanna go to a strip club?" Does that happen in real life? Seriously? Tres roman-tic!
The scene in "Closer" with Natalie Portman and Clive Owen comes to mind. Did you know Natalie took pole dancing lessons to make her part more believable? (She had me convinced, you know why? Because she's that good of an actress. The fringe had nothing to do with it.) So. I had a pretty good picture of what a strip club was like, having lived in Vegas for a short time, seen what men can do on stage, and being raised in our sex-crazy society with these kinds of images in the movies, media, and walking down the street.
Anyway, one of my male friends mentioned the un-erotic atmosphere of a strip club, how it's like a cattle call with announcers over the PA system, bullhorn style, calling out women's stripper names. The women flocking to the pole, center stage. If I was a sleazy guy, I think it would be kind of weird to get turned on in public in that kind of atmosphere. People are -watching- but hey, some people are exhibitionists like that. Another guy I know chimed in with, "They know they've got you! They nibble at your pants a little bit, and once you're nice and happy, they know that they've GOT YOU!" And your wallet suffers for it. Boy does it.
I still can't believe people get up (in the late afternoon and so on) to go to work as a stripper. Like it's a regular job to them, like my non-existent 9-to-5 desk job. See, I don't feel comfortable having stripping to fall back on, cute as my friends are in saying "hell yeah I'd pay to see you take it off," (thanks, guys!). No, this non-stripper's doing fine on her own, I gather. She's got 2 dates this week! Uncanny, eh.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
an unhappy ending
Real life is no fairy tale. There are no prince charmings on white horses; there are no happy endings. I think the reason I like the movie "Fall" so much is because it shows what it is to love and lust: an inevitable fall. We go into relationships knowing that one day, they will end. And yet we welcome the painful risks that come with it. If we were told that if we did some particular activity, we would have a chance of dying, we would avoid that activity like the plague (let's leave smokers and drug addicts out of this hypothetical equation, shall we?). But when it comes to love, we leap anyway. And we are crushed. In the end, destroyed. No wonder they're called 'crushes' and not 'uplifts.' There's nothing uplifting about being obsessed and lovesick, and appropriately 'crushed' when that affection is not returned.
Anyway, the moral of the story is that I survived SAD (Singles Awareness Day), unscathed. Here's to that. Another year free of the torture of knowing that I'm single. No more pink candy hearts staring at me from the checkout line at Walgreens, no more saccharine drenched love cards and dopey looking teddy bears that say things like "I love you berry much." Ah, free at last.
If only it were that simple, we'd all be moving on with our lives.
Anyway, the moral of the story is that I survived SAD (Singles Awareness Day), unscathed. Here's to that. Another year free of the torture of knowing that I'm single. No more pink candy hearts staring at me from the checkout line at Walgreens, no more saccharine drenched love cards and dopey looking teddy bears that say things like "I love you berry much." Ah, free at last.
If only it were that simple, we'd all be moving on with our lives.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
but all the kids are doing it!
I'm convinced that everyone else is having more sex than I am. In fact, there was even a video clip about it where a stick figure sings that "everyone is having more sex than me," but that is improper grammar and therefore unacceptable.
Back to the booze, now. More to come. (Come literally, not... metaphorically...)
Back to the booze, now. More to come. (Come literally, not... metaphorically...)
Ah but don’t we all long for the days when we were in love? And don’t we all do anyway that which will kill us in the end?
On Love, in honor of this bloody holiday. Cheers, everyone! Get drunk, be merry, reminisce!
***
If it’s my destiny to be run over by a car tomorrow like I almost was on my way home today, so be it. I’ve lived, and having known what it felt like to cling to life in the depths of sickness, I’ve tried to live well. Maybe I vowed to myself that it would never get that bad again. Maybe it’s to take vengeance on my father, to show him that I’m better than he is. Or maybe it’s for myself, to finally prove that I can turn something fucked up into a beautiful life. But somedays, I still feel like a dying rose.
I’ve loved twice. I wasn’t in love with the first man I had sex with--or even the second or the third. But when I fell in love a little down the line, along the men I have blacklisted on my “rap sheet” (all men are bastards anyway, why can’t I have sex like a man?), he was my number 5, our favorite number, the number embodying chaos and discord. And I was his first. It’s like a bad romance novel and I’m Hester Prynn. While admitting the former might make me a whore to a devout Roman Catholic, I preferred to feel comfortable with myself and place myself in the television character Felicity’s shoes, in an episode of, say, Sex in Santa Cruz.
When love is reciprocated, we as humans come alive . . . Only to die. But we all love the ride, and it’s inevitable that we fall because that which goes up, must come down, whether it’s aging penises or dads on antidepressants.
The night I felt deep love for him he was holding my head over his metallic trash can and I was sobbing, throwing up my intestines and pure alcohol. The truth came flying out of my mouth. “Ohh, J. I LOVE you!!” Sob, sob, and then I was sick again. “I love you, too” he said quietly, nervously, concerned about me, patting my back the way my mom would. It was wonderful and terrible, and nightmare and perfect bliss. Women long to hear those words first. But I was drunk off my ass for the first time in my life, and the horror and drama I had created in that private dorm room amidst all my tears and confusion was what both my heart and stomach felt for that instant, and for the next hour, the next year.
When he said it, I didn’t want to believe him. “How,” choking, eyes ablaze and face puffy, “how could you say you love me, like this?!” I commenced breaking down, tears flowing in tide pools, cesspools of salt water sea creatures would refuse to swim in, in utter devastation, still too drunk to be embarrassed, but overly suspicious.
“I’d been wanting to say it for awhile . . . I really have. You have to believe me, because I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t.” He didn’t always say the perfect things, and he didn’t always tell me the truth. Maybe I sensed that, even then, and held my reservations firm. Maybe he did love me. My moods change and when they do, so does my perspective on our relationship.
It might have been love, because nothing hurts as much as losing it.
And back then, I handled intense situations freshman year like a naïve drunk. I wanted to be free and imprisoned, possessed and the possessee, living death, alive and numb, one extreme to the next. Soaking up his love, but refusing to fully accept it. I had been hurt before, and his was that first unforgettable experience. I was in disbelief, I still am. And I am still in love with him. That kind of love doesn’t disappear, ever. It might fade, but it occupies a part of you that was whole and complete with that one person. The void they leave in you is filled by them and them alone . . .
***
If it’s my destiny to be run over by a car tomorrow like I almost was on my way home today, so be it. I’ve lived, and having known what it felt like to cling to life in the depths of sickness, I’ve tried to live well. Maybe I vowed to myself that it would never get that bad again. Maybe it’s to take vengeance on my father, to show him that I’m better than he is. Or maybe it’s for myself, to finally prove that I can turn something fucked up into a beautiful life. But somedays, I still feel like a dying rose.
I’ve loved twice. I wasn’t in love with the first man I had sex with--or even the second or the third. But when I fell in love a little down the line, along the men I have blacklisted on my “rap sheet” (all men are bastards anyway, why can’t I have sex like a man?), he was my number 5, our favorite number, the number embodying chaos and discord. And I was his first. It’s like a bad romance novel and I’m Hester Prynn. While admitting the former might make me a whore to a devout Roman Catholic, I preferred to feel comfortable with myself and place myself in the television character Felicity’s shoes, in an episode of, say, Sex in Santa Cruz.
When love is reciprocated, we as humans come alive . . . Only to die. But we all love the ride, and it’s inevitable that we fall because that which goes up, must come down, whether it’s aging penises or dads on antidepressants.
The night I felt deep love for him he was holding my head over his metallic trash can and I was sobbing, throwing up my intestines and pure alcohol. The truth came flying out of my mouth. “Ohh, J. I LOVE you!!” Sob, sob, and then I was sick again. “I love you, too” he said quietly, nervously, concerned about me, patting my back the way my mom would. It was wonderful and terrible, and nightmare and perfect bliss. Women long to hear those words first. But I was drunk off my ass for the first time in my life, and the horror and drama I had created in that private dorm room amidst all my tears and confusion was what both my heart and stomach felt for that instant, and for the next hour, the next year.
When he said it, I didn’t want to believe him. “How,” choking, eyes ablaze and face puffy, “how could you say you love me, like this?!” I commenced breaking down, tears flowing in tide pools, cesspools of salt water sea creatures would refuse to swim in, in utter devastation, still too drunk to be embarrassed, but overly suspicious.
“I’d been wanting to say it for awhile . . . I really have. You have to believe me, because I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t.” He didn’t always say the perfect things, and he didn’t always tell me the truth. Maybe I sensed that, even then, and held my reservations firm. Maybe he did love me. My moods change and when they do, so does my perspective on our relationship.
It might have been love, because nothing hurts as much as losing it.
And back then, I handled intense situations freshman year like a naïve drunk. I wanted to be free and imprisoned, possessed and the possessee, living death, alive and numb, one extreme to the next. Soaking up his love, but refusing to fully accept it. I had been hurt before, and his was that first unforgettable experience. I was in disbelief, I still am. And I am still in love with him. That kind of love doesn’t disappear, ever. It might fade, but it occupies a part of you that was whole and complete with that one person. The void they leave in you is filled by them and them alone . . .
Saturday, February 11, 2006
lesson learned
Note to self: no more number-giving at bars. Ever. Silly boys who want to get laid call you weeks after at random times like 2-freaking-am. How impolite! Probably my fault, but can you blame a girl for her honest mistake? After the whole, "I hate giving out my number to people who never call..." Is it really wrong to daydream about finding Mr. Right at a bar? In this day and age, maybe so. But people find love on the Internet all the time, and I think at least in a real life setting it's somehow more realistic to believe in "love at first sight" as opposed to "love at first type," when you are never really sure just *who* is typing to you on the other side of cyberspace. For all you know, it's an ax murderer.
Friday, February 10, 2006
there aren't any normal men out there
...but at this rate, I'd settle for an abnormal man.
So, they (who are "they" anyway? "They" are always telling me to floss everyday, too, what the hell?) say that we are always searching for one or all of these three things: 1. an apartment, 2. a job, or 3. a boyfriend. Having recently found said apartment, I have thus narrowed my search down to 2. and 3. And so, instead of revelling in unemployment (we all know trying to find a job is a full time job in and of itself), having all this free time only makes me wallow in the fact that I don't have #3.
What with the most evil of Hallmark holidays around the corner--Valentine's Day--(dun dun dun), I can attest to the pain of being single in February. Yes, the month with the fewest dates is ironically, the month with no dates. But I heard there's a sale on Hagen Daas at Andronico's, so I plan on stocking up on chocolate.
* * *
Later that day: Mission accomplished. Freezer is now fully stocked with convenient pint sized containers of rocky road, chocolate chocolate chip, and chocolate chocolare chocolate (yes, it exists!).
Once, I once had an ordinary, run-of-the-mill, unextraordinary, larged-nosed guy tell me that I wasn't hot. Straight up, "You may be cute, you may be pretty, but not hot. Nope. I'm not seeing it," and he actually squinted at me. I was about to have a meltdown on the spot. There was no solicited opinion, no annoying or persistent "Does this make me look fat?" queries--nothing had called for this kind of unneccessary behavior. At that moment, I lost the last ounce of faith I had in men.
Oh, wait. That wasn't the moment. The moment came a few weeks later when a guy I barely knew, who I'd met on the Internet, broke up with over IM when we weren't even going out in the first place. He didn't even have the decency to call to break our "date" for the next night, citing some BS excuse about getting back together with his ex and having zero interest in me. Like that information was really necessary. Like my self esteem could get any lower. Mr. "You're not hot" has dealt a sufficient blow to my ego from which I was still recovering.
This is not going to be a fun Valentine's Day....
Especially since two years ago I was celebrating my one year anniversary with the love of my life, kissing in the back row at the midnight showing of "Amelie" at the local movie theater in town. The good old days. (You know what happened to the poor chap? I ate him.)
No, this year will be the year of the anti-Valentines, which will probably entail sending myself flowers, watching Sundance channel movies about unrequired love, and drinking to excess while buried in comforting pints of Hagen Daas: something grand to look forward to.
So, they (who are "they" anyway? "They" are always telling me to floss everyday, too, what the hell?) say that we are always searching for one or all of these three things: 1. an apartment, 2. a job, or 3. a boyfriend. Having recently found said apartment, I have thus narrowed my search down to 2. and 3. And so, instead of revelling in unemployment (we all know trying to find a job is a full time job in and of itself), having all this free time only makes me wallow in the fact that I don't have #3.
What with the most evil of Hallmark holidays around the corner--Valentine's Day--(dun dun dun), I can attest to the pain of being single in February. Yes, the month with the fewest dates is ironically, the month with no dates. But I heard there's a sale on Hagen Daas at Andronico's, so I plan on stocking up on chocolate.
* * *
Later that day: Mission accomplished. Freezer is now fully stocked with convenient pint sized containers of rocky road, chocolate chocolate chip, and chocolate chocolare chocolate (yes, it exists!).
Once, I once had an ordinary, run-of-the-mill, unextraordinary, larged-nosed guy tell me that I wasn't hot. Straight up, "You may be cute, you may be pretty, but not hot. Nope. I'm not seeing it," and he actually squinted at me. I was about to have a meltdown on the spot. There was no solicited opinion, no annoying or persistent "Does this make me look fat?" queries--nothing had called for this kind of unneccessary behavior. At that moment, I lost the last ounce of faith I had in men.
Oh, wait. That wasn't the moment. The moment came a few weeks later when a guy I barely knew, who I'd met on the Internet, broke up with over IM when we weren't even going out in the first place. He didn't even have the decency to call to break our "date" for the next night, citing some BS excuse about getting back together with his ex and having zero interest in me. Like that information was really necessary. Like my self esteem could get any lower. Mr. "You're not hot" has dealt a sufficient blow to my ego from which I was still recovering.
This is not going to be a fun Valentine's Day....
Especially since two years ago I was celebrating my one year anniversary with the love of my life, kissing in the back row at the midnight showing of "Amelie" at the local movie theater in town. The good old days. (You know what happened to the poor chap? I ate him.)
No, this year will be the year of the anti-Valentines, which will probably entail sending myself flowers, watching Sundance channel movies about unrequired love, and drinking to excess while buried in comforting pints of Hagen Daas: something grand to look forward to.
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