Friday, January 4, 2013

Sex, Love and Brooklyn: Cum on My Face... Book

Posted By on Fri, Jan 4, 2013 at 7:37 AM

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Hi there, I'm Lacy, your new sex correspondent, and right now I writing this between dry heaves.

Yesterday I went to an upscale restaurant in Carroll Gardens where the very handsome Argentinean chef took notice of my bare midriff and sent over his specialty—tongue. The brave taster I am I dug in heartily.
Later that night as he was giving me his other specialty tongue at his swank Clinton Hill apartment, I started throwing up. I am still throwing up.

This story proves two things: 1) I will do anything for tongue—including eating vomit-inducing tongue, and 2) I will write about it even when I'm suffering from the worst physical ailments. People have told me I'm like Joan Didion if she learned to masturbate. Ok, no one has ever said that, but I would love to get that reputation started. Most importantly, I'm more than willing to subject myself to humiliating dating scenarios with sadists and losers, and also confess my most private and embarrassing sex fears and habits for the sake of the readers. Anything for the story. So without further ado, let me share one such shameful moment...

Last year I broke up with my first love. After a couple months of rebound sex forced me to deal with my neglected emotions, I went to a very dark place. It was during this bleak time I began experimenting with a little something I call cyber cutting. Like picking a scab, tonguing a sore inside my mouth, or hacking at my inner thighs with a dull safety pin, I constantly refresh the browser of my world wide web wound. I don’t have physical scars, but I have a browser history I compulsively clear in case anyone uses my computer and comments on my secret embarrassing habit. Webster take note, this is my working definition:

Cyber-Cutting: (cy-ber-cut-ting) V. 1.) To look at the Facebook wall/pictures/status updates of ex-boyfriends (or anyone to whom you’ve indicated you would like to fuck without getting the corresponding response) even though one knows it will make one feel like shit. 2.) To look at the profiles, walls, photo albums, status-updates, websites, or twitter feeds of almost anyone one thinks is better than themselves—especially when one is feeling sad and terrible about one’s life. Thus, convincing themselves that everyone else in the entire world is happier, more successful, thinner, and has many, many, more (omg, she has 2,500 subscribers!) friends.

After the break-up my ex and I remained Facebook friends, even though we had to take down our relationship status. Everyday I would log in and get some kind of condolence. The thread of 62 comments that followed that little broken heart symbol was both a reminder that I was now completely alone, and also a reminder that 62 people were talking about me on the internet. It was addictive. Yet, nowhere near as terrible as seeing him flirt with people online. Facebook is like that party you both end up at six weeks after the split and you glare at each other from across the room, throwing yourself at as many people as you can, trying to drive him crazy, but instead slowly going insane alone in the corner with half a bottle of cheap white wine. Except, Facebook never ends and I can log into the party at anytime. I knew him so well that I could tell when a simple “like” of someone else’s banal status update—“My cat is sooo cute!”—meant he was ass-fucking her without a condom.

I remember the first time I found out he was dating someone else. She looked just like me. We had the same long almost black hair. The same 50s-style curvaceous body type (meaning a slightly large ass), and we're both performers. She is my dopplebanger. I went through all her pictures, and created a detailed timeline about her life in my head. She lost a ton of weight about six months ago and is now a successful actor—she probably went to all the same auditions I did, and that was the reason I never got any parts, because I was competing with a person who looked exactly like me but everyone thought she was cooler and had bigger boobs, and—oh fuck—he actually went out and found a better version of me even though I broke up with him!

I worked up the courage to un-friend him. This didn't really solve any of my problems. We all know that you can wait to hear your roommate leave the house in the morning then sneak into her room pretending to be looking for chap-stick, but hoping her laptop is still open so you can log into her account and check his pictures with his new girlfriend. And, let's say that I even had the self-control not to do that, or that I simply couldn’t figure out my roommate’s password, you can always Google them and all the information you would never want to know is there. I used think it was great when my exes would leave town or move to a different state, but now it doesn't matter where they go because they're always just a few clicks away.

Deep breath in. It's ok. Think of a positive affirmation. I am enough. I don't need to validate myself through the internet. None of this is real. I'm backing away from my laptop very slowly now. I want to feel bad, and social networks are the drugs that can do it. In the 21st century I'm not using a knife to actualize my pain, I'm using the internet. Facebook, Twitter, and tumblr are my scissors, my scalding hot teakettle, and my razor blades. Admitting you have a problem is the first sign of recovery, right? Deep breath out. My name is Lacy and I'm a cyber cutter.

So with this admission out of the way, onward ho, 2013. This year is all about better orgasms, better relationships and fewer sexual apocalypses—that is, unless I know it's going to make a great story.

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Lacy Warner is a writer and perfomer living in Brooklyn. She likes puppies, pizza and wetsuits. She is single. Follow her at @laceoface.

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