NY, NY

I am going to NY this weekend.

I will finish part 2 of of my previous post when I return.

But there should be some good stories from this weekend.

Hopefully.

The Best Argument for Promiscuity

What all my small, fleeting bad decisions will ultimately lead up to.

Watch with caution. Your life is about to flash before you.

September pt 2

I could describe the details of that particular night with depth. But I don’t know if I want to, if I need to. It’s not necessary for this story.

September didn’t disappoint, but didn’t bring me to new highs, and I’m not sure if I did the same for him. I felt uneasy in his room, the corners lined with eight different bikes. Wheels attached and detached. Handle bars strewn, and brakes broken, chains unhinged.

I felt like one of the detached bikes in his room, all the parts and pieces were there, but they were scattered, and it was impossible to make them all work in unison. Both of us attempting to go on a risky ride together, bumpy, on a swerving trail that wouldn’t lead us anywhere significant. I could feel our mutual frustration, his because he fixes things, he puts things back together for a living, mine because I didn’t want to acknowledge that it was broken in the first place, that it couldn’t work.

He was courteous and gracious, trying to please me. Whispering in the dark with those lips that led me here in the first place.

He had to wake up early for work at the bike store, so we eventually distanced ourselves, and I was grateful for it. When he got up to get ready, I lay there for a minute, inhaling the burnt commercially produced waffle smell and wondered if it was my fault.

He brought me coffee, boiling and black, with no sugar, to bed and told me he would make sure I went on my way safely, and that he had a good time. He stroked my hair while I blew on the faint white steam rising from the cup, inhaling  the mildly bitter aroma and savoring the fact that he had guessed how I take my coffee without having to ask. It was a nice moment

He walked me to the subway stop, cabs are scarce in his neighborhood at this time and told me the history behind the tree-lined row houses in the area. He brought a bike with them, his favorite one, shiny and gliding perfectly, parts intact. He clasped the handles and walked it along side of us. The irony of it was not lost on me. He was holding on to what worked, what put him at ease, while I was off to the side, navigating myself unevenly in a place I wasn’t familiar with. He greeted neighbors, smiled at a playing child, and held his arm out to protect me when I failed to look both ways, from a car speeding rapidly down the street.

He dropped me off at the steps of the escalator leading down to the metro kicking the stand of his bike so it would stay there, balanced, while he leaned in to kiss me goodbye. He would return to it while I left. I didn’t expect the kiss, so I turned my face, and those lips, swollen even further and slightly crimson, landed on the apple of my cheek.

When I got into the metro station, I found out there was a delay, a 30 minute delay because someone had jumped in front of a moving train earlier that morning and died. I texted him without hesitation, telling him the awful story, and he replied that he was glad that I was safe.  It puzzled me that he was concerned about my safety when the story had nothing to with me. I was still intact, alive.

I didn’t know what to make of this and it bothered me for the rest of the day. I wasn’t sure of how I felt about him, but I wanted it to work somehow.  I remember not being able to go home immediately, strolling up and down the streets of Chinatown, thinking about it.

It was at that moment I decided I wanted to see him again.

I was going away for three weeks, to visit my family. In between jobs. I called him the night before I left after having drinks with some friends. The alcohol gave the courage to see if he wanted to see me. He was at a concert with his friends but agreed to come over to my place.  He asked if he should ride his bike over–but I said no, take a cab.

I went home and waited for him to arrive. I was nervous and jittery and felt a strange pain in my stomach. I couldn’t figure out what it was until I went to the bathroom. Cramps. It wasn’t nerves, this was just bad timing. Unfortunate timing.

He was already almost at my place so I didn’t tell him what was going on. When he came in, I gave him an extended tour, and then sat him down and talked for a long time. He was kind and friendly, and sweet but I knew I was just delaying the inevitable. When I finally told him of the situation, he didn’t react badly. At all. I could see that again, he was trying to make it work. Trying to take the situation and make it run smoothly despite the cracks that had surfaced again.

He stayed over and we made the best of it. But again, even though we couldn’t take it far, it still wasn’t working, and yet we were both forcing something that was not there. He left the next morning, giving me a lengthy and lingering kiss goodbye, telling me to enjoy my trip and that we would reconnect when I got back.

I didn’t think about him much when I was away, perhaps just on two or three occasions and I was unsure of how to handle it when I returned.

When I got back I didn’t get in touch with him, and about two weeks went by and he finally texted me. I called him back but he didn’t pick up. He called me, but I didn’t pick up. He left a voicemail saying he was going to Pennsylvania for a bike race and would get in touch with me when he got back. The phone tag went on for about three days and then when he called me I was finally available to pick up.

We talked generally for a few minutes, me about my trip, and he about his race. He had done really well, he and his bike had functioned well as a team and reached their goal, a new height.

Finally I asked him if he would like to get together again soon. He went silent on the phone. He started off with an apology, and said that he couldn’t. Assured me that it wasn’t me. Something had happened while I was away and he just didn’t want to date, and that it was a really inconvenient time for him. I didn’t press or prod him. I said ok and let the conversation end abruptly. We both wished each other well.

I knew that it was an excuse. That he made something up so that he could appear damaged. He didn’t want to see me because he knew it wouldn’t work. I knew this too but I thought perhaps we could keep it casual until it did work.

He knew he couldn’t fix it, that it wasn’t like one of those bikes in his store. It bruised me, the rejection, and at first I couldn’t really understand why, I was so used to having the upper hand, deciding what worked and what didn’t. Molding it so it would.

But it taught me that I couldn’t adapt everything, create something out of nothing. The end was neccesary.

Leggo my Ego.

September. Part 1

September.

September had the hugest lips I have ever seen.

It was really dark when I met September. Fuck, it’s always dark when I seem to meet anyone these days. Dark and musty and stuffy. Suffocating.

I’m dancing with some friends. Well, flailing really. My arms, hips and feet are all moving in a different directions. I’m salsa-ing, hip-hoping, I’m swaying, tango-ing, I’m calypso-ing. I’ve lost the beat. I never really had any sense of the beat. Mostly, I’m just trying to keep up.

The music is good. Not what I like to listen to during the day, but definitely what I’m into tonight. When you are dancing in a place where space is a treasured commodity, you aren’t really dancing at all. You are just re-positioning yourself constantly, setting a wide enough perimeter around yourself so that you aren’t unnecessarily touching other people. That kind of friction makes me sick, because it’s always moist and you don’t always react quickly enough to know where those beads of perspiration that just brushed your arm is coming from.

I look at him because he seems like the only one here that is moving with knowledge. conscious of steps. Whirling around like he owns the fucking place. But not in the way that makes you think he prefers a hefty penis to the intricate folds of a labia. He’s straight, I surmise.

The constant repositioning has landed me right near him and without hesitation he repositions himself so that we’re dancing. Well, hes dancing. Again, I’m just trying to keep up.

It’s gross and I’m sweating and I don’t want this anymore. I suggest that we go upstairs and grab a drink. I don’t think I waited for an answer, grabbing his arm and shuttling him up the stairs.

He’s wearing a blue plaid shirt this boy, and his face at this point is nondescript. Average. Fit. A few inches taller. Nothing significant I can call out. Nothing significant that I will remember in the morning. Run of the mill.

We walk into the deserted bar area and perch ourselves on some seats. It’s nearly 2:30 am, and it’s last call. He orders a vodka soda for me and a beer for himself, but the bartender tells him we can only order shots right now. I don’t really understand the logic behind it, but I go with it. I don’t know what he orders. I insist on paying. I’m not sure why. I do this sometimes, I don’t let the guy pay.  He protests, and I’m happy to hear this, but I slap my card on the bar. It disappears immediately by the swift fingertips of  the desperate bartender who just wants to go home and fuck his girlfriend. Who doesn’t want to watch this awkward interaction between two drunk people who are just shooting the shit at the end of the night.

I hold my nose and crinkle my face as I take my shot. A habit of mine, when I don’t know what it is, because I’m hoping it’s not Jaeger, not tequila, not vodka. Hoping it’s a fucking lemon drop. That it’s a shot of water actually.

After I suck down the shot (which ends up being a Kamikaze–who orders that?) we talk for a few minutes. Actually, he talks and talks and fucking talks. I don’t know what he’s saying. Something about a bike, something about Vermont, something about living a sustainable lifestyle. I’m seeing double and this fucking hippie won’t shut up. I come to the realization then that I have lost my friends. I have to find them. The inevitable panic of being left alone at a closing bar sets in.

I walk outside and he’s right behind me. I’m calling them and they are not picking up. He looks skeptical. Did she really have friends here, his face reads?

Finally I spot them, smoking in a corner. I tell him that I have to go. He insists that I stay, but begrudgingly lets me go. He quickly takes down my number. I’m not that interested, but I let him have it and then I leave.

—————————————————————–

One week later.

He calls. I don’t recognize the number so I don’t pick up. When I listen to my voicemail later I am surprised to hear his deep, breathy voice leaving a message after the beep.

It sounds like he’s reading from a script. Seriously. There are specific pauses. The sentences start out sort of weak, and end in uptones. He’s asking me out. Telling me he enjoyed last weekend. That he’s decided he’d like a repeat.

But I’m glad he called. That was ballsy. It’s the move that made me move. And accept. And call back.

I have no fucking idea what this kid looks like. At this point, I don’t think I could have picked him out of a line up. And it’s what I do when I can’t  exactly remember what someone looks like. I imagine them behind faded glass, holding up signs with numbers, facing backwards, facing forwards. No smiles. They can’t see me. But I can see them, and I can decide then if I can remember.

In this case, I can’t.

I contemplate meeting up with him and then decide to go for it. It would be like a blind date. Well, blind for me anyway. What do I have to lose? Nothing. Give a little of my time and gain a good story.

He selects the Saloon as our meeting spot. A small bar with a varied selection of beer and where you can sit close.  Where your ankles can graze against each other. Where the owner yells at you if you are standing up. It’s that kind of place.

I show up 21 minutes and 43 seconds late. As I pay the cab driver, I see a man, standing and sort of shuffling his feet at the entrance. I know it’s him. He looks fucking awkward and a little pissed off. I contemplate standing across the street for awhile while he shuffles, just to look at his face as each minute passes. Each minute that I’m later and later. I don’t do it though because I’m distracted by something I see.

I walk up to him and he gives me a knowing glance, a smile. I’m trying to smile back, but I can’t. He. has. gigantic. f.u.c.k.i.ng. lips.

I can’t look past it, even as his arms are raised to give me a welcoming hug, to give me the kind of hug that he’s reassured that I’m not ugly. That I’m as good as he remembered. Maybe better.

I can’t decide whether he’s cute. I can’t. I want him to stand still so I can take a picture and then decide. So I can take a moment, and analyze his face and decide whether he’s worth my time. But for some reason I can’t. His face so interesting. So not what I had expected.

The next two hours are not important. We talked and shared the generic details of our lives. I got nervous and ordered a coffee flavored beer. It’s vile. He works at a bike store. He graduated from some eco-friendly hipster-esque school in Vermont. He backpacked through various states in the mid-west until he got robbed from meth-heads and ended up having to hit his family up for money.

All the while, I can’t stop staring at them. They are so huge that anything he tells me gets lost, gets hidden by the bountiful amount of natural collagen in his lips. Nothing can compare to how enormous they are, how moist. How unbecoming. How becoming. How unsexy. I want them though. Those Tyrannosaurus pillows.

My friends text that they are close by. Would we want to come join them after our date? I say yes. Oh yes. My friends need to see this. Understand what I’m in for with that face labium.

We joined my friends at a bar nearby after, and I’m studying their faces as they take him in. It’s kindergarten and I’m the featured student for show and tell.

They like him. He’s easy to like, friendly and a little understated. He talks a bit but mostly lets me take over. He’s in my territory.

We drink and go dancing again and its fun. Pure fun. Pure stupid, crazy, idiotic fun. I’m not trying to look cute, or pretty, I’m having a good time because I don’t care, I’m not nervous. Mostly I’m just trying to distract myself from looking at the protruding pouches underneath his nose.

Towards the end of the night, he proposes that I come back to his place. I give him the normal routine of hesitation. Eventually we are whizzing down the streets to his neighborhood. I needed to give this a chance, just for the night. I knew I couldn’t date this. But I knew I could maybe devour this.

He lives in a house, with three other boys. Sound asleep. I am the only visitor.

As we enter, he warns me. His place is a mess. His roommates don’t clean up often.

The only real thing I remember from this moment is the smell that hits me immediately. Burnt Eggos. There isn’t a more distinctive smell to me in this world than this. Burnt. Eggos.

Before I have a chance to comment on it, standing at the bottom of his staircase, lined with t-shirts, a baseball, three pairs of shoes and a book, he kisses me.

The monster dwelling on his face have taken over my eyes, my ears, my throat, my chin, and I’m sinking. I’m burning.

Just like those fucking Eggos.

To be continued.

Points to Consider 2

1. A lot of  people I’ve spoken to have told me that they are quiet when they masturbate. Don’t make any noises. Even when they orgasm.  The quiver and shoulder shake is dead silent. Why? And are we all silent? Does it follow the same philosophical quandary as this?: If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”

2. Don’t try to be funny when in bed with someone. Unless you have control over your humor. I do not. Thanking a guy for making “your first time so special” with fake teared up doe-eyes won’t go over well. Trust me on this. I did it for shits and giggles a few times. You want to see a look worse than an ugly man’s orgasm face? Tell him he robbed you of your chastity. 

p.s. Also don’t scream out that you are VERY FERTILE, when you think he’s being reckless with his condom usage. Nothing shrivels up it up faster then hearing the words fertile. and Uterus.

3. Walk away when the conversation is getting good. Don’t. fucking. linger. Don’t do it. Just remove yourself. Think about how bad you have wanted someone when they were abrupt.

4. Don’t beat your dick against my clitoris. It’s weird. Stop doing it. Seriously.

The House Always Wins

I’m waiting for a friend at Tryst.

She’s late. She’s always late.

It’s the kind of place that you can’t just sit down and wait while holding a seat, because there are no seats available. Even on a sunday night. It’s a mingling market. Chatter, typing, clinking of tea cups, beer mugs and plates of banana bread.

People are seated in circles, draped around the bar, lounging on sunken in sofas, hovered over tables with groups who look like they are leaving, but linger for another round.  Immersed in something. Aware of everything around them. There is an overt sense of self-importance at this place.

I’m standing by the door, shifting my weight from foot to foot. Exaggerated movements so that people are aware I am waiting for someone. We do these things so that people know that we have friends, so they know that we’re impatient. They say nonverbal communication is 90% of all communication. My communication is clear, my time is precious. I have things to do on a Sunday. I’m irritated that I have to wait. I too, want to immerse myself  in this environment, not hang around in that in-between place.

In between hanging out with someone and being alone. In between starting a night and saying my goodbyes.

I fish my phone out of my pocket and awkwardly thumb the touchpad with my gloved fingers. I go through my contact list, desperate to call someone. As I am scrolling down the list of my usual suspects, I see them.

My graveyard. The numbers in my phone that have been sitting there for months, for years.  I usually avoid going through my entire contact list. I have a favorites list set up so I can avoid seeing all my contacts. But today, I look. The men that have called and not called. Who I have pressed “ignore” for, who have gone to voicemail. The men who I have reached out to. Made plans with. Went out on dates with. Hooked up with. Been ignored by. Been blown off by.

It’s difficult for me to look at all the names. Not that there are hundreds, but there are a substantial amount. Fleeting moments in time when I thought I could stand still for a while with that person. Or where I thought exchanging numbers would be a good and polite exit strategy. I control who I speak to on my phone.

I am scrolling up and down, over and over, concentrating on each name, dredging up the feelings associated with each one.

I feel as if I am at a casino, at one of those slot machines, and the slots are scrolling and scrolling. I stop at each name, but none of them are the jackpot. None of them won me anything. I’m at the penny slots, and each one drained my time, my energy, and sometimes my sanity.

I fear that I’ll be that old lady, saggy pants and a muffin top, breasts unsuccessfully trying to defy gravity, trying her luck at the slots again and again, but gaining nothing with the verdict of each try. The memories and feelings don’t match up. It’s always a mismatch. A losing streak that spans a lifetime.

There could have been a simple solution to this. Hit delete. Erase them all. Don’t let them sit and fester on my phone. But I couldn’t do it. I needed the reminder. The proof, of the want they had.

And so I could laugh about it with my friends. So that I’d always have good stories, good texts to show.

There are a few that I have a good story for. I’ll share them and sprinkle them throughout the blog now and then. With months, instead of names.

Coming soon..

I’ve been caught up with life the past week or so….but I have some stories brewing.

So stay tuned…

The Basics Part 2

It was probably two days later when my friend and I went back to the same bar. I frequent this place. It amuses me that I probably still have remnants of the hangover I had from the last time I was here. That the bottles behind the bar would contain what was still in my system. Perhaps rotting in my liver.

We select seats. I like to be seated at the bar. I like the way it feels to have my toes pressed up against the wood, while the bottoms of my feet cling to the bar stool, and I like doing the inevitable lean as I signal for another drink. The struggle to capture the attention of the most important person here. The person who decides my fate. The Bartender.  I like being able to swirl around and gauge the activity buzzing around me in the room and then turn my back on it a minute later. I like being able to put my drink down and to graze the rim with my fingers, circling it again and again, as if I was trying to make music with it. I enjoy hearing snippets of the conversation next to me, sometimes chiming in when appropriate. Aren’t we all voyeurs anyway? 

 These are the little pleasures I feel at the bar. The solitary ones.

My friend and I are there for an hour. Two hours. Two hours and 14 minutes. and 30 seconds. or so. Our mouths move endlessly. Repeating stories, recounting escapades. There is a lot of laughing, a few thoughtful pauses. We are both in exceptionally playful moods tonight. A good sign. There is nothing worse than going out with someone when you are feeling playful and the other is feeling dull. And eventually you feel dull too.

suddenly she grabs my arm. Gives me a look.

He was here. At the bar. Just like I knew he would be. Just like I hoped he would be. Just like I hoped he wouldn’t be.

Luckily there is a mirror perched above the bar so I don’t have to turn around. I see him. Wearing the same leather jacket. I don’t focus too much on his face, in fact I barely look at it at all. I was mostly looking at his presence.

I knew I couldn’t be the one to first approach him. He would have to see me and then come over. The completely irrational side of me was perturbed that he hadn’t called or texted me to tell me he was going out. As if I was somehow supposed to be with him the next time he decided to have a social experience. It bothered me that this crosses my mind, but I let it go. It’s a natural thought progression.

The last thing I want to do is look uncool in front of my friend. No matter how comfortable I am with my friends, I always feel the need to act a lot saner than I am. We continue the conversation and I find myself slightly more animated and I am silently kicking myself because of it. Is he going to like me more if I laugh a little louder? Smile a little wider? Frown? Text?

I looked up and saw in the mirror that he had noticed me. That he was still noticing me. That he hadn’t turned his eyes away. But he didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t signal. We caught each other’s eyes but his didn’t look curious like mine. He was staring at me, but there was no gauging what he felt or thought.

I thought perhaps it was a game. A rising sexual current. The tug of war that would end up with tangled sheets and arched spines.

His presence there began hindering my ability to enjoy the company of my friend. And I hated that. I hated that I couldn’t just let it go. I just needed to know why he wasn’t saying anything. Why I wasn’t saying anything.

I kept drinking. It helped.

Soon I got the nerve to  leave my seat and go to the bathroom and then return to stand right near him to order a drink. I’ve had a conversation with this person. This person has whispered in my ear but nothing was happening now. He knew I was standing there but he wasn’t saying or doing anything.

I’m stubborn so I don’t do anything about it. I gather my drink and stalk off, feeling him watch me. Thinking he’s laughing at his stupid game.

I go over to where my friend has moved. She’s talking to a group of three men. Not extremely attractive but friendly. Seemingly normal. I begin to loosen up and start talking to one of the guys but keep glancing over. And then cringe to myself at my apparent weakness. Glance. Cringe. Glance. Cringe. It goes on and on.

He’s talking to someone else at the bar. A woman. They are sitting side by side. No, now he’s standing. Wait, he’s sitting. They don’t break the momentum of their lively discussion. Their combined laughter can be heard in penetrating waves over the crowd as if I have a listening device positioned between them. I can almost hear what he’s saying. Is he asking her questions? Is he divulging few details about himself?

I force myself to turn away for five minutes. And when I turn back around, my friend is standing in front of him. Talking to him. Talking at him. There is a confused look on her face. There is a hesitant look on his face. The woman he’s talking with is saying something. My friend is laughing. But I can tell it’s not at a joke. She’s laughing at them. Shaking her head, and walking towards me.

She looks sickened, my friend. The blush of disgust takes over her entire face. She stands in front of me, laughing awkwardly as she tells me the details of their rushed conversation. Softening the blow.

He is married. To her.

I’m staring at him as she drops words like “open relationship,” and “brings  home other women sometimes.” My friend tells me that he pretended not to know who she was, who I was. The he proclaimed that his wife was sitting with him before she had a chance to question his morals. My friend can’t tell if the wife is upset or not. Whether shes ok that her husband prowls for women and brings back selections to their home. Their home. His wife told my friend she should feel embarrassed. This is where my friend laughed at them, impolitely informing them that they should be embarrassed. Collectively. Husband and wife.

As she’s airing it all out to me his eyes don’t leave mine. It’s an intense moment, hearing a secret about a person when they are right there, looking at you. Exposed.

I’m fumbling with my words as I am trying to understand. He’s fucking married? How is that possible? Didn’t we talk for hours? Didn’t we share.

No. I shared. He asked everything. I told him everything.

He told me things.

But he didn’t tell me the basics.

The Basics Part 1

He was two hands older than me. And a pinkie.

It was one of those situations when I saw him through a crowd distinctively. The other people sort of blurred away, and my eyes focused intently on him.

It’s funny because I knew he was going to like me even before he saw me. I could feel the attraction he would have for me before it even existed. Before I even existed to him.

I walked over, casually and stood next to him. I ordered a drink. Vodka Soda. Three limes. He looked over at me. Over his shoulder, mid conversation with someone else and smiled. I didn’t smile back.

Asked if he knew me from somewhere. I reminded him of some person. Some place.

Of course. Sure I do.

I called him out. That line is lame as shit and I refuse to accept that opener. I half expected him to take offence, but he seemed to like that I didn’t accept his paltry excuse for conversation.

I walked away. I had friends who better captured my attention. His eyes followed me as I walked away. I could feel it.

About 15 minutes later, I am back at the bar. Ordering water. I like to stay hydrated. It’s my thing.

Suddenly he’s next to me. He calls me out on my beverage preference. He is cupping what looks like Jameson in his hand and looking at me as if I am about 13 years old.

He doesn’t accept  that I would drink water. He orders two beers, places one in front of me and then taps the stool next to him. I sit.

He is really fucking attractive. Not what I would normally like at all. He has muscles that outline his shoulders. He is wearing a leather jacket, but not an ironic one. One that grips his chest and grip his forearms.  A deep-set jaw line and a gaping Adam’s apple. Hazel/green eyes. Large pupils. Achingingly tall.

He starts shooting off questions to me. But not the basics. He isn’t interested in what I do for a living or what neighborhood I live in. He wants to know why I’m here. At this bar. Why I don’t have a boyfriend. What happened with my previous boyfriend. What I like in men. Why I laugh so much. Why I’m so good at eye contact. Why I’m so straightforward.  Why I’m so awkward and twitchy. Why I don’t give a fuck. Why I do. Sex. Love. Sex. Sex. Sex.

The questions go on and on. He is really working me.Over an hour into the conversation he finally gets  into some of the basics. He wants to know about school, work, living situation. Siblings. Five year plan. He takes and takes and takes but offers very little to me. I’m enchanted.

It’s making me really fucking nervous and I find myself not really giving him complete answers. Barely completing my sentences. Dazzled. A bit charmed. I began analyzing what I was saying to the point where I was so fucking aggravated I was sputtering. Throwing out random words. He was completely amused. Thought I was excruciatingly adorable. Told me this.

Then he stopped asking and started telling me things. He likes to lick calves and the backs of knees. That he would massage my back and make me scream. He told me all this with a monotone in his voice that was both alarming and disarming. He told me what he wanted to do to me. What he had done with others. How I would reach orgasm with him time and time again. He didn’t make up excuses or apologies. He was brilliant.

In any other situation, I would have deemed him a pervert and would have removed myself from the situation. Sex offender comes to mind. Creep. Scoundrel. But his delivery was perfection. His confidence. The way he engaged me was so precise, I simply could.not.help.myself.

He kept leaning in and I kept running away. It was too much, I was bursting with stupid, simple excitement. My friends teased me from afar and motioned us over. He wanted to know if he would pass the test. If they would approve.

My friend, she grilled him. Insisted that he take my number. That he take me out.  That he take me. Declared that she thought I was beautiful as if she was convinced he couldn’t see and decide for himself. Convinced that he needed to shower me with more compliments. I loved her at this moment. How delightfully embarrassing.

He takes it in stride. Holds his own among friends that would tear his weakness apart. He seemed to like the interaction with my friend looking over to wink at me from time to time.

We move away from my friends to be alone again. He makes a light suggestion while stroking my back. His apartment is walking distance. Would I care to accompany him?

He tells me that it would be totally up to me. That we wouldn’t do anything I wasn’t comfortable with.

Sure.

I am not naive. I know what he wanted. And I knew what I wanted. I wanted to go back to his one bedroom apartment so that he could lick my calves. Do what he wanted. Do what I wanted. The temptation was palpable. It would be so easy. Might be so pleasing.

I denied him. I don’t know why exactly I did but I wanted to prolong this. I wanted to go home and touch myself and think about it. I wanted him to call me.

He took my number, carefully asking for my full name and gave me all the right assurances. Then he disappeared around the corner as we left the bar.

We would meet again. Something in me told me that this wasn’t over.

And I was right.

Cabin Fever

It hasn’t snowed like this in years.

And we were trapped. Quite literally. In a tiny suburb outside of DC.

Four girls. Three Dogs. Tequila. Endless beer.

We drank our selves silly. Raw. We ate as if calories didn’t count. We talked. We didn’t talk. We slept. We didn’t sleep.

There were movies. There was interpretive dancing. Hair braiding. Sex talk.

It was really nice being surrounded by beautiful, significant, charismatic women. You begin to realize what really defines you when you spend time with women you like, you trust. It’s a good, free-flowing energy.

The quintessential girl’s sleepover. Except it lasted for nearly three days.

It might have been too much.

Two of us are single. Two of us are not. It’s an interesting combination to have.

But the fact of the matter was at our deepest most human core, we were all horny. So horny.

I definitely think that something happens in the winter, especially when the ground is blanketed with a heavy snowfall. The frost in the air makes our need to mate more pronounced, more robust.

And we are four sexually active, sexually aware women. Some, have seen consistent action with the same person, while others have been experimenting with various forms of male genitalia in 2009. With fluctuating bouts of masturbation. We are all in touch, know what gets us off. Know what works and what doesn’t.

But there is a stark difference between the relationship girls and the single girls.

The girls in relationships pepper our conversations with talk of missing their boyfriends. Talk of snuggles. Comfort. Baby talk. They show us pictures, tell us about presents. Go to other rooms  for clandestine telephone calls and rapid texting.  They try not to do this too often, as it becomes extremely annoying for all involved. But secretly, they are warmed by the fact that somewhere, outside of this snowy mess, there is a man waiting to sex them. Adore them. Love them.

The single girls, while disgusted at the prospect of having a full time boyfriend want comfort too. The comfort and discomfort of casual encounters. The comfort of crossing and uncrossing legs nervously at the bar while gently stroking a vodka martini. Four olives.  They are warmed by the fact that somewhere, outside the blueish grey streets, there are men waiting to fuck them.

A sort of frenzy begins amongst us and by the third day and we want OUT. We need to get back to our lives. We stop talking to each other. Our giggly and tipsy voices are silenced by our frustration.

We take shovels, rakes and other digging paraphernalia and set to work on the buried car. We collectively change a tire that was flattened by the oppressive weight of the snow. We trek to gas stations to inquire about mechanics. We are doing everything in our power to release ourselves from the situation.

I was possibly the least patient of all the girls. I needed to get home. The clothes I had been wearing for the past two days made me feel ugly. Weathered. I needed a fresh shower. I needed starvation.

I needed a beer. At a bar. Surrounded by people. Insulated with men.

I called a cab. The expense was minute compared to my desperation. The girls decided to work on the car some more and then leave. I couldn’t wait that long.

When I finally got back to my place, I basked in the glory of my blissfully independent life.

As I soaked in the tub, I contemplated plans for the evening. Though I was happy in my familiar surroundings I know that I needed to be in public. To be seen.

I don’t know if it’s a feeling that all single girls have but when I’m out of the social scene for a few days, I start to panic. Perhaps its my insecurity. But there is this pressure I feel to be seen. I want people to know I’m there. I’m present. I’m fucking single.

So of course I call the girls I was just with, as if the last few days hadn’t even happened. Would they like to join me for a drink downtown?

With the exception of one girl (one of the relationship girls) we agree to meet. We agree to spend time with each other as if we hadn’t just left each other. We’re going to be in public, so its a different kind of hanging out. We have nothing left to talk about.

But we are comforted. Comforted by each other’s presence. And comforted by the fact that whether we are in relationships or single, there will be men.

And we really fucking like that.