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.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
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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