I've been out of New York for the past three weeks. First, because of the holidays, I made the requisite trip home to Jacksonville. Needless to say, I was ready to leave when my week with my family was up. I was really looking forward to going to LA for New Year's Eve, which also turned out to be where shit would get a little crazy.
When I finally got back to Brooklyn, I immediately made plans to catch up with friends at a bar. As it turned out, all my ladies had their own holiday gossip to share. One friend told me about going back home and having a tryst with her neighbor. He was her “boy next door,” the guy she had grown up with all her life.
She said, “The thing is, we really connected and spent so much time together, that I felt sad coming back to New York. So, I sort of prepared myself for the usual cycle of lovesickness, you know, feeling sad, then hopeful, then anxious, and ultimately trying to get myself to move on from this dude. But then all of a sudden, I thought, why do I have to do this? I had an amazing time with this man. Can't I just leave it at that, and be happy?”
While she was telling me this, all I could think was “Yes, Yes, Yes.” I was experiencing the same thing.
A 27-year-old friend of mine just lost her virginity.
She told me that before she lost it, when people found out she had still been a virgin at her age they were shocked and wanted to know why. Then when she explained her reasons and they realized her answers weren't that provocative, their eyes glazed over and they lost interest pretty quickly. She was a late-in-life-virgin because she was a late bloomer to begin with, someone not ready or comfortable enough with herself to have sex until after college. Unfortunately by that time she felt so far left behind she couldn't catch up. Until a few weeks ago, that is.
It was 3am and I was sitting in the stall furthest from the door in a communal summer-camp bathroom. I was practicing a deep yogic breathing exercise and praying to God that this time I would be able to take a shit. I was twenty nine-years-old and it had been exactly twenty four-hours since I had last unloaded, and I had a deep knot of dread that I wouldn't be able to poop for the rest of this “vacation.” I made a promise to myself then and there that if I ever got married, I would demand that the first thing on my registry be a colon cleanse.
I like to do very bad things, and I like to do them with very bad boys.
Well, at least that's one way to romanticize my latest bout of hedonistic behavior. By blaming it all on my inner “wild woman,” I know that I'm essentially letting myself off the hook, when in reality what I've done is really, really bad.
You know what I love? I love a really awkward moviegoing experience. My first cringe-worthy occurrence was accidentally seeing The Piano Teacher with my father when I was sixteen. For those of you unfamiliar with it, I will say it is still the most graphic and disturbing movie I have ever seen—there is a scene with dirty Kleenexes and a porno booth—and that's all I'm going to say. Well, one more thing, you should also be warned, there is genital mutilation. Just as the movie started, my dad turned to me and said, “You didn't tell me this was gonna be in French.”
It was all downhill from there.
After seven years in New York, I finally had a romantic dalliance with a bartender. I know, I know...how could I have made it through almost all of my twenties without having mixed it up with the most ubiquitous of romantic animals in this urban jungle? The answer? I don't know! Most of the time I'm in bars I guess I'm there with a date, or wind up meeting one of my fellow patrons. No matter the reason, I've never done a bartender—that is until last Sunday night. Except, ok. You caught me. We didn't even have sex! So now you're wondering, well, then, what did we do? Well, hang on to your hats...
My best friend just flew into town for a week-long layover on her way home from her own version of an Eat Pray Love-trip around the world. We've been calling her international adventure the, “Oh-shit-I'm-almost-thirty-travelogue-for-late-bloomers-in-the-midst-of-an-identity-crisis.” I mean that with no judgements! I'm about to pack it all in to search for some much needed clarity in Marfa, Texas. That trip isn't for another couple of months though, and before I can get there and suround myself with turquoise, group meditations, and Marfa's mysterious “ghost lights,” I had a serious romantic problem to talk about—one that only a recently zenned-Out world traveler could help me with.
The other day I had a terrible audition. Though in no way would I still call myself an actress, sometimes a role will come along and I just can't say no to standing in line with 200 other girls who thought they could also be the next Audrey Tatou. Auditioning like this is a terrible habit, like biting your nails or smoking. In fact, auditioning has become its own form of cutting—something I do when I feel terrible about myself to make myself feel even worse.
We need to talk about Don Jon. Well, at least I need to talk about this movie. Let me be clear, I don't want to review the movie. I just want to talk about the two leading ladies in the film, who are supposed to be on opposite ends of some kind of fictional female binary.
The two biggest relationships of my life both lasted for around 3 years, and also had in common the fact that they were mainly conducted long distance. Now, I'm not an idiot—I know that "coincidence" is worthy of some analysis. I'm self-aware enough to know that it probably has something to do with moving a lot as a child, and going to boarding school. I was raised long distance by my folks, so duh, of course, I would default to a long distance romantic love as well.
More things to to keep your eye on in our infant century: Orgasmic Meditation classes. NY Mag has a very, um, titillating story about one of their writers attending one of these eight-hour, $195 classes in the city. The company OneTaste touts Orgasmic Meditation as "yoga" for your orgasm—well, the female heterosexual orgasm, mainly, according to NY Mag.
At the bar, she turned to me and asked, “Have you ever heard of a seven-year-long booty call? Because I've been having casual sex with the same man for seven years. And this man...I don't know anyone better than I know him. I know exactly what he's thinking all the time. Doesn't mean I like it, but at least I know. This guy has picked me up off the bathroom floor when I was crying, and I've kicked him out of my apartment in nothing but his boxers, we know each other so well. But still I don't want to be his wife—I don't even want to be his girlfriend.”
The best sex I ever had was break up sex.
Technically, we had been broken up for three weeks. But he lived in London and begged me to wait until he got a break in his schedule and could come to New York so that we could do it face to face and not over Skype (the way I had originally planned). I agreed. I figured I owed him that much, and also myself for that matter. We had been together for three years and I was still wearing the ring he gave me—the ring he made me actually, with his own two hands.
It happens to everyone...and I mean EVERYONE. You know what I'm talking about—the dreaded, awkward and perhaps nightmare-inducing limp dick situation. It happened to me the first time I tried to have sex. My healthy 24-year-old boyfriend just couldn't quite get it up. We never talked about it, and for years I carried with me the fear that I was somehow inadequate.
I think I may have met someone.
Ok, hold onto your hat—we've only been on 3 dates. But they were pretty great dates! Nothing too exciting happened, we didn't go rock climbing, or cast each other's bodies in silicone, or swim with dolphins or anything else a dating show on MTV might have a new couple do. We just sat in some dark bars curled up in corners with bottles of red wine and chatted. After our first date I invited him up to my house for a night cap, stating simply that I also didn't have any alcohol. Then I did not sleep with him. (Congratulatory pat on the back). If you're wondering what we did do — I showed him my etchings and then packed him into a cab before the reasonable hour of 12:30.
Yesterday, noted mustache aficionado Dr. Phil posed the following question on Twitter: “If a girl is drunk, is it OK to have sex with her? Reply yes or no to @drphil #teensaccused.” Oh, Dr. Phil. What kind of crazy information did you have on Oprah to force her to unleash your stupidity on the entire world?
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