The Wrong Kind of Sex

I'm sure most of us have had at least one sexual experience that we regret, for whatever reason. Maybe it was a one night stand, maybe it was just bad, maybe it was with somebody you shouldn't have. Either way we have all had those ones we regret, I know I have had my fair share. Sure I can go over the couple of one night stands that left me empty and wondering "why the fuck would I do that?" the next day. However, those are easier to get over than my biggest regret, which I'm going to go into right now.

Let me first give you some perspective. I had been romantically involved with a girl that I had fallen completely in love with. However, this "relationship" started just mere weeks after her relationship with her ex boyfriend of four years had ended. So because of this, and the fact that she had never gotten over him, our relationship had become quite rocky and full of drama. I know my friends and family can attest to this.

So about a year after I met her, she had gotten back with her ex while telling me the whole time that she wasn't and that she wanted to be with me. When I found out she was actually with him, I was furious to say the least. So with the advice of my friends and family, I gave her a "shit or get off the pot" kind of ultimatum and said she had until this day to break it off with him or I was gone from her life forever. Then when this day finally rolled around she told me that she needed more time and needless to say I was heartbroken. I felt worthless because even after giving the girl I love everything, she still rejected me and it wasn't enough. So a couple of friends came over and I proceeded to try and drink all the pain away. Which doesn't ever work by the way. Now the rest of this night is a blur. I remember at one point Ryan telling me to "forget the girl I was pinning over and just get with the girl that was there." This sounds harmless until you learn that the girl who was there was one of her best friends. So in this low point of my life I made a terrible mistake and had "the wrong kind of sex." Looking back I'm not sure why I did it. Maybe it was because of how I was feeling. Maybe it was because of the rejection I felt from the girl I really wanted so I would accept anybody who would have me.

Now the next day I was in a crisis as I didn't know what to do. On one hand I felt awful because I still loved her and it was her friend, on the other I felt like I didn't owe her anything because she was with somebody else. So I asked my mom for advice, and she told me that "sometimes it's better not to hurt somebody to get rid of your own guilt" so I decided to try and forget about it and never tell anybody about it. Hoping that maybe if I had forgotten that it would be like it never happened.

Things only proceeded to get worse. One because she had finally decided to end it with her ex and move forward with me and two because my best friend Ryan, had started dating her friend. Thankfully I had pretty much forgotten about what happened that night. So more time went on and things with the girl were stressful as she still wasn't over her ex, so she had really done some terrible things to me in the process of getting over him. Ryan had broken up with the friend after a few months.

Finally as things started to get better between me and the girl, I find out that she had sex with her ex. I was furious and in rage. I didn't know what to do. Once again after giving her everything she had thrown it all away like it was meaningless. So I was back to where I was before, feeling hopeless and worthless. And one night I was drinking alone, doing the same stupid thing I had done before to deal with my pain, and her friend texted me because she just found out what happened. She asked if I was doing okay and I said no, and she asked if I wanted some company. I said sure. Which was a terrible mistake because once again I had the "wrong kind of sex."

So then the girl finally was showing me she was sorry for everything and we started finally having a healthy relationship. So I didn't want to mess that up with what was a meaningless sexual encounter to me, just like all those other one night stands I had before. But of course as it always does the truth came out. The backlash from my actions has been severe. Both with her and with Ryan who I told just yesterday.

I fully understand why they are so upset. I haven't felt so disgusted with myself in my entire life. I feel like when I think about what happened it was a different person that I can't even relate to. I did something that I never thought I would. My sister, who I am very close to asked me, "why didn't you tell me?" The truth is that I was embarrassed and ashamed. I usually do everything I can to do the right thing whenever possible, especially when it comes to being honest. I don't know how I got so lost with this one, I'm still trying to figure that one out. I am not at all trying to rationalize my actions. What I did was terrible, and even worse I wasn't honest with the two people this effected most. Those two people are two of the most important people in my life and I hurt them both. For that I am sorry, and I hope that one day they can both forgive me.

Ryan, I'm very sorry for not being honest with you when I always talk about being that way. Yes I fucked up on this one and even with all of our stupid issues I will always consider you one of my best friends.

Becca, I'm so sorry for ruining your friendship and hurting you so much, especially since I promised you I would be the person who wouldn't ever hurt you. Hopefully you can give me a chance to prove to you that I won't ever hurt you like this again. I love you so much.

That's pretty much it. Sex isn't something to be taken lightly and your actions have consequences, I hope you can learn from my mistakes.

How My Loser-Complex Is Preventing Me From Finding Love

*Guest essay by Francisca:

I’m in my mid-twenties, I’m plain, I can be awkward, I’m kind of introverted although in the right circumstances I can be outgoing, I sometimes speak before I think, I’m constantly trying to lose weight although I don’t really need it, I never buy any new clothes since I think everything looks terrible on me, I try to eat healthy but still have slip-ups, I try to maintain a good physique, I’m a natural loner … you follow? So far I sound like the typical slightly insecure young city woman. But there’s more of course.

I recently lost my job, I’m doing terribly at school, I have a very difficult time getting new friends and maintaining the few precious ones I still have, my relationship with my family is not great at all and I have no love life to speak of – like none at all.

Basically I’m failing in every single aspect of life. There is no place where I’m ahead of the game. I feel like a loser. Yeah you’re right… I am a loser.

Now some of you are probably going to tell me how I shouldn’t feel that way and how I’m trapped in a vicious circle, in which I’m self-enhancing this loser- image of myself and so on. But honestly the facts of my life speak volumes. So far I’ve accomplished nothing in my life, nobody is proud of me and nobody cares.

So let’s get this insincere ‘oh-it-can’t-all-be-that-bad’ BS out of the way. I’m not looking for your phony reassurances. Those comments often seem to come from people who are loved-up and happy with their circumstances. In any case I’m not confirming myself as a loser, just to have you people try to dissuade me from that conviction.

One of the consequences of being a loser is that I’m afraid to embark on a love-life, because I have nothing to offer.

If I had been beautiful, it probably would be a lot easier. Then I could at least contribute to the relationship with my amazing looks. But alas, I’m not beautiful. Not witty, not smart(er), not likeable, not cute – just plain, plain, plain. When I meet new people I try to tell as little as possible about me and try to divert the attention to them, out of sheer fear that they may quickly discover how little I have to offer of anything. How bizarrely un-interesting I am. How boring I am. How unworthy I am of their time.

I’ve never been on a date, but I can just imagine how one-sided that performance would be. I would let him do all the talking and find creative ways to not talk about me.

Who am I kidding? I would not go on a date in the first place – if there is anything I know then it’s that as soon as people know how little of value I have to offer, they decide to ditch me. The few friends I still have are around because I somehow convinced them that I’m more than what I really am.

It would kill me to fall in love and know that I have nothing to give. Even worse, that the person who’s the object of my desire will discover what a loser I am and just have that look in his eyes, that attitude, that body language of pity. I wouldn’t be able to stand it.

Therefore the few times I’ve actually taken a liking to someone the solution has so far been to avoid them altogether. Trust me, it’s not their loss at all. Anybody else but me would be much better for these fantastic guys.

I cannot love anybody since I have nothing to give at all. There is nothing I can think of that would be of value to him. I cannot love anybody because I don’t love myself, however clichéd that may sound. I don’t even really like myself, so how can anybody else like me.

I’m such a loser and I know my way out of it, but just seem so incapable of doing it and the doing is everything.

I have no idea where this essay is heading… Guess I wanted to explain how justified feelings of inadequacy can lead to a non existing love-life. I really want to rise above and become less of a loser, but it’s incredibly hard. Don’t get me wrong; I yearn with every fiber of my body to be loved, but it’s impossible when I barely care about myself.

If you have some way of finishing off this blog entry, then please be my guest. Or something.

--Francisca

The Top 100 Rock Guitar Solos of All Time--39-30

39.) "Brothers in Arms" (Dire Straits)



I absolutely adore this song. What brilliant, soul-tugging, fucking tasteful guitar-playing in here. My God. I don't think there has ever been mournful guitar. This song literally leaves me speechless.

38.) "Surfing with the Alien" (Joe Satriani)



Satch's signature song, the title track off his second record, is a descendant of the adrenaline rush of early rock and roll like Chuck Berry and surf-rock songs like "Misirlou." Indeed, I have often heard this song described as "Chuck Berry on steroids." It's bursting at the seams with boyish energy and enthusiasm for the thrill of making music, the high you get from being completely in the zone, wrapped up in a cocoon from the outside world and its banal distractions. I love that the title precisely describes the contrast/harmony of the early, innocent rock feel and the alien, jaw-dropping virtuosity of Joe's playing. Being as this is the first song on the album, that first solo at one minute in hits you like a ton of bricks with its pick-tapping and lightning-fast yet fluid licks (Joe differentiates himself from other '80s shredders by his focus on legato technique instead of tremelo-picked scales, which gives his solos the more organic, fluid sound of a wind instrument, instead of the picked, staccato feel that shredders borrow from piano and violin virtuosos like Paganini--see right heeyuh). The second solo is just pure joy--it truly is Chuck Berry at hyperspeed. My favorite part is the first lick, which just sounds amazing and preternatural. There are so many Berry-esque double stops in this solo, given unique flair through Joe's use of the whammy bar. Joe had such a gift for phrasing in his solos that gave them a sort of pop hook that was missing in other guitarists' repertoires at the time.

37.) "Black Star" (Yngwie Malmsteen)



Without a doubt Yngwie's greatest piece and his signature tune (although not his greatest solo), this is one of the only things I've heard by him I would describe as "beautiful." It has a very unique tone to it--let me try to think of the right words to describe it (and I don't mean guitar tone, but the feel of the song). The best I can think of is a sense of loss, of the ruin of the high culture of the West, Europe's fall from grace and America's brutish ascension to power. It has an elegiac power. Perhaps this is reading a little too deep in Malmsteen, a man who lacks somewhat in the intelligence department, but more than makes up for it in the ego department. But Yngwie's devotion to the Baroque masters, as well as the late-19th century virtuosos like the above-mentioned Paganini, lend this song an air of classical sensibility. This is one of the few times Malmsteen's speed passages actually seem to fit some sort of melodic, song-based purpose. A beautiful song.

36.) "Ladies Nite in Buffalo" (David Lee Roth)



It took me a while to really grasp the full impact of this solo, which resides in perhaps David Lee Roth's greatest solo song. Steve Vai's guitar work adorns the entire song, adding impossibly laid-back rhythm parts and jazzy fills throughout. But the solo is a true piece of work, a miniature yet perfectly complete work of art in itself. It is perhaps Vai's most perfectly structured solo, his equivalent of Joe Satriani's "Crushing Day." It is amazing to hear the difference between Vai's raw solos on Flexable and the polished perfection of this solo on Eat 'Em and Smile just two years later in '86. But I suppose this isn't surprising when you remember that Vai, above all other guitarists, prided himself on being a true musical virtuoso, not able only just to play fast, but to be able to conquer any style of music and composition that he put his mind to. This is like an exquisite gem waiting for the right light to shine on it to reveal its complexity and clarity.

35.) "Whole Lotta Love" (Led Zeppelin)



This is the most masculine, the most virile of all rock songs. This doesn't exude sexiness so much as it just smells of sex. This is not about trying to seduce a woman through lies and niceties, not about love--it's about lusting after and the act of fucking itself. Jimmy nails his best guitar tone ever on that solo. Nothing has ever been fatter--not even Eddie Van Halen's "brown sound." Technically sloppy, just like Page was notorious for, the solo is nevertheless is absolutely, balls-out cum-on-her-face. Very few solos have suited the song better than this one. And what's even better than the solo is the riff, one of rock's very finest. This has got to be my favorite Led Zep song, and perhaps the greatest hard rock song of all time. This is what Van Halen aspired to with a song like "Hot for Teacher," but utterly failed at in delivering the pure goods that this one shoots in your face.

34.) "White Room" (Cream)



Everyone and their mom has heard this song on repeat since birth, but it doesn't stop it from being a great one. I love the gradual build-up of Clapton's wah guitar throughout the song as it progresses, fatalistically, towards that final, orgiastic burst of Clapton's soloing that closes "White Room." "Crossroads" is usually billed as Clapton's great solo in Cream, but I prefer the melodic hooks of this one, as Clapton uses the wah pedal to its full effect in imitating the human voice.

33.) "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" (The Beatles)



Clapton pops up again in this spot, and again we can see his capacity for playing some of the most melodic licks of all time, here countering the bell-like purity of Harrison's voice with phrases of such real emotion that they truly do give you the impression that Clapton's guitar is crying at the beauty and loss in the world. His excellent vibrato is of course a large part of this effect, but it is his breathtaking sense of musical composition that creates such fine musical phrases that they can actually hold their own against one of the Beatles' very best songs. I have never heard Clapton's work with John Mayall's Bluesbreakers, so my opinion is not very valid, but for my money, this song has Clapton's best soloing.

32.) "Voodoo Child (Slight Return)" (The Jimi Hendrix Experience)



Jimi's guitar playing on here has such raw, unpolished force, a sense of expression like he was overflowing with musical energy yet incapable of channeling it, so he opened up his heart and let the force of his own creative sun burst from his fingertips. His playing truly was some of the most original of any guitar player--I can't think of anything that sounds like this, before or after him. He really just fucking goes for it on his best songs. His use of guitar effects was pioneering, but he did it in such a way that they suited the song--even more than that, they suited his musical persona, bringing an otherworldly quality that is uncanny, because it reminds us of something we've forgotten. His songs are so raw and powerful that they shatter our musical (mis)perceptions and allow us to look and hear the world anew, after our soul has been torn down to its most primitive form by Hendrix's caveman/prophet guitar-playing.

31.) "Binge and Grab" (Buckethead)



I've said this a lot of times, I know, but this is truly a case of the solo coming out of absolutely nowhere to kick your ass for being such a pussy. The song begins with such a simple, catchy riff, riding it out for all its worth. Seems pretty bland, amirite? The solo even starts relatively tamely, which is just great, because you are left unprepared for how Buckethead is going to rip your flesh from your bones with his sheer technique and his wonderful energy and perhaps even naivete. How else could you contrast such carefree, innocent licks with such soul-devastating shred and blues-excelsior licks? This one is all feeling for me. Best not to try to over-intellectualize it, because I don't think that is his intention.

30.) "Is There Love in Space" (Joe Satriani)



An absolutely gorgeous song, "Is There Love in Space" has a kind of mature, understated beauty lacking in Satriani's earlier ballads (other than "Rubina"). By this point in his career, Satriani has matured into a less-is-more approach (well, sometimes he has). That means we are missing the resplendent power of Surfing with the Alien's finest songs, but it also means we have the raw emotion of a solo like this one. When I say the word "raw," I think of my description of Hendrix above. A solo like this one is like some kind of Hendrixian beast that has been refined through Joe's vast chops, able to express the feeling of Jimi's creative energy through the prism of Satriani's technique (this is oversimplified, since I don't think anyone has been able to channel Hendrix's wild energy with any great success). But nevertheless, I feel that this solo is Hendrix-inspired, through its impressionistic use of effects and tone to conjure a feel, a mood. The tone is just so overpowering in its contrast to the beauty of the verses, I just can't help being swept away by it into space and the great vault above us, a world Joe seemed eternally drawn to.

--Edward

Sex is to Love as...

Spontaneity is to Courage? Joy is to Contentment? Fire is to Hell? Mystery is to Myth?

I'm not really sure how exactly sex and love are best related, but I think it's safe to say that they are related to each other in deep and tangled ways. I figured I'd bring up the olde sex v love scenario that I heard first through my college Human Sex class (great teacher, really made you think and always wanted to give you a thorough understanding - perhaps sometimes absurdly thorough - the "fuck-saw" in that article could have it's own blog post I'm sure; and his statement on the matter).

The situation (and sorry if you've already heard this, but it seems like prime material for this month):

You are in a deep and intimate relationship with someone that you love.  Everything is going wonderfully with this person and you believe that they could be the one.  But then:

Scenario 1: You come upon your significant other having wild and incredible sex with someone else, doing things that you haven't ever done with your partner, and what's more is that they are expressing joy greater than you've ever seen them experience while having sex with you.

Scenario 2: You come upon your significant other sharing a deeply romantic spot with someone else; not just any spot, but the place where you and your partner have shared your most intimate secrets and dreams.  You listen in and hear your significant other confessing their love with undeniable sincerity for this other person and the other person returning your partner's feelings.  They embrace and kiss deeply.

Which scenario is worse and why?

Of course, there are thousands of variables here that could be changed and altered (such as whether this "someone else" is someone you know or not, and how well if you do know them).  But the point is to assess how seeing your ultimate love have sex with someone else would affect you, how seeing your ultimate love confess their love for someone else would affect you, and how both of these effects compare to each other.

I will grant as a small asterisk that for the second scenario it would be different to witness your significant other confessing their love for someone else versus witnessing them falling in love with someone else over an extended period of time.

Finally, and this may be asking too much for this post (since it already did include the fucksaw), but it may be worthwhile to discuss what ultimately defines "cheating" for you?  Also, is it black and white, or is there a gray scale?  What if it there is not one single "act" of cheating but an attitude or behavior in general?  How does distance and coldness factor in and how often are they related to one partner having feelings for someone else?  All right, too many questions, I know.

I'll have to bring up the good parts of sex and love in my next post.

10 Completely Random, Completely Accurate Songs About Sex:

As much as we wish that every sexual encounter will be important, meaningful, and will eventually lead to some sort of perfect, life-long commitment, having been in college, we know that this is not the case. There are ten songs that I relate to, or see real honesty in on the topic. Hopefully at least one of them will be there for you on a particularly bright morning when you're throwing on your shoes, realizing that you're missing a sock, and hoping that no one will notice your current unfortunate hairstyle until you make it home.

1. Rilo Kiley - Portions For Foxes

Though not my favorite Rilo Kiley song, and in my opinion, written after the prime of their career, this song is a good opening because it describes exactly why I'm terrified to have sex, as well as the common unhealthy behavior brought on by loneliness. "And then there is no mystery left" is what I always fear when finally taking the big step.

2. An Horse - Camp Out

Other than the cheesy mention of Hole and the far too common line "it's okay to fall down", it is optimistic in a realistic way (if that makes sense). It's hoping for something but realizing that it might never exist.

3. Vampire Weekend - Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa

If you can get past the fact that Vampire Weekend is made up of frat boy rejects singing about daddy's money, this song is worth a listen. "Do you wanna fuck, like you know I do" is probably the most telling line. Although I'm not sure why they turn into The Cure in this video...

4. Pixies - Break My Body

I don't think the Pixies need any sort of explanation...

5. The Strokes - Is This It

Julian Casablancas describes the actions of every college boy in a sexual slump.

6. The Nails - 88 Lines About 44 Women

Maybe I'm growing more cynical as the list goes on, but I've been dealing with a lot of male friends like this lately. They feel like their sexual partners can be described in one line, to the equality of clothes tried on that didn't fit for various reasons.

7. Emilie Simon - I Wanna Be Your Dog

Originally by The Stooges (voiced by the talented Iggy Pop), the lyrics are incredibly masochistic. I like the sensual sound that Emilie Simon brings to the song, somehow making it sound much more romantic. We've all had those "so messed up, I want you here" nights...

8. Jose Gonzalez - Heartbeats

Yet another cover, this time of The Knife's incredibly 80's and much less emotional original version. This is the most glorified description of a one-night stand that I've ever heard in a song; love is even formed from a drunken night. This would be entirely unrealistic if the feelings weren't one-sided.

9. Casiotone for the Painfully Alone - Love Connection

At times a bit (or outrageously) too honest, this song approaches everything a girl unfortunately feels or thinks after sleeping with someone and caring far too much about his opinion. While cliche, "I'll start watching my weight again" is a natural and often first reaction in the self consciousness brought about by giving yourself to someone physically.


10. The Beatles - Why Don't We Do It In The Road

These are the most simple, straight-forward lyrics out of the bunch. The Beatles know what they want, and they want it in the road.


Something a tad more personal coming soon!

Male/Female Friendship

Upon being pushed, I will write a post about this, but be warned: I offer nothing black-and-white and no conclusions on this topic.

As Bethany discussed yesterday, I do think that guys and girls can be real friends. I've had certainly a lot of female acquaintances over the years, and more than a few good female friends. I don't think there's much debate as to whether guys can be friends with girls. I think the real topic is the differences between male-female friends and same-sex friends. Am I being too Freudian in my view that the sex drive inevitably taints all things with its nightshade touch? Perhaps, but I think it's a bit hard to escape his influence in modern society, as well as the lingering effects that Western culture's particular brand of Christianity has had on our cultural psyche. We are not sure whether sex has to taint everything, but we can sense that it does in the particular world in which we grew up in. As I've said before, I think that for whatever reason (and I'm not quite sure why this is--it would take great research and perhaps no one has an answer) there has been some sort of fear and loathing towards sex in Western European culture. I'm not sure if it is the same in other cultures, since I'm not that well-versed in them, but there has been an incredibly ambivalent view of sex in our culture for a very long time now. A lot of people link it to (especially medieval) Christianity, but I suspect that is not the cause of it, but merely an indication of what the mindsets were of those in power in those days.

My point in talking about this is that these issues inevitably lie there--perhaps dormant, but always present--when we speak of male-female friendships. In theory, yes they should work. And they do work, like Bethany said. But they work only because we are able to overcome our oftentimes powerful sexual/romantic (how much of a difference is there?) impulses because we think that being friends is more important and/or we know the other person would never reciprocate and we want to save our own pride. But the question is, what are the effects of these underlying urges and feelings? I've always of course believed that male-female friendships do work, because I've always had them and they are fun. But there is usually some underlying element of sexual tension. Either I've had a crush on the girl or she's had a crush on me. Very rarely has this not been the case.

Now who cares if one or the other is attracted to their friend, you say? Well, most of us don't most of the time. But it can lead to trouble if you take it past attraction into the oblivion of love, attachment, and eventually pain. Even if you don't get that far, I think there is always the possibility for sexual jealousy (is there really a worse emotion than this?) and other issues that come along with attachment. Jealousy and attachment is a whole other can of worms that I don't even think I could do justice in blog format. Why is love so possessive? I'm not sure if this is true for all males, but I think that most guys do not want to think about their girlfriends or love interests having sex with other guys either before them or after them. There is nothing quite like the nausea of thinking of your ex fucking another guy, am I right? I think a lot of guys would almost be happy if their girlfriends have never had sex with anyone else before them, because they don't like to think of themselves in sexual comparison to other guys, whereas this is perhaps less of a phenomenon with girls. I don't think many girls want to date inexperienced guys. I wonder why this is different.

I want to believe in the possibility for male-female friendship as much as anyone else. I at times can relate a lot more to females than males, because males in our culture are so obsessed with an outdated idea of emotional denial and stoicism as it relates to masculinity and strength. But I do think that these friendships will forever be "tainted" (to use Bethany's word), although I think that makes them all the more interesting and exciting to be in. A world of peace and magnanimous love would obviously be ideal, but we do not live in one. We live in a world of fleeting love, electric sexual desire, and the unyielding fear of having your heart broken. So we make due of it the best we can. And even if that means dealing with all of the emotional ups and downs that come with opposite-sex friendships, I think it's totally worth it. I, for one, believe they can exist. However, this (as everything is--almost) is a person-by-person thing. Some people I think lack the necessary tools for it to work.

--Edward

"Sex is emotion in motion." Mae West

Since I was young I was taught that I should have sex when I get married. The concept of having the “horizontal hula” anytime before that, especially before 18 was so absurd to me.

However one day I had to find out what everyone one day must. Most people think the “mattress mambo” is no big deal…

I remember first learning that my sister had “sunk the sailor” before she was married, I was shocked, it was impossible. Then the most surreal thing I had heard that far in life…when I was 15 I went back to visit family and friends in Brasil. As I sat there I watched as my best friend of 10 years closed the door to tell me a secret. She was also 15, and she told me she had let her boyfriend “take the skin ship to tuna town.”

When I got back to the United States I had a different view, it was almost life changing because I literally went 15 years thinking that it was not okay, in any city, state, country, to “bump uglies” before 18.

Shortly after that I met my first “real” boyfriend, who I went on to date for 4 years. I still wanted to wait until I was 18 but after feeling so terrible for 8 months for this boy who wouldn’t stop saying he loved me and feeling comfortable with someone for the first time…it happened.

I was 16 and while some might say that’s too young, it was with my first love and I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.

For me it’s not the age anymore, it has nothing to do with the age (of course I am saying this for those who AREN’T 12 or 13…that’s just gross…) it has to do with the person, and whether or not you are mature enough to handle it.

I feel like people now don’t give much thought to who they sleep with. One night stands, casual sex, friends with benefits, etc… It all seems wrong to me, as in FOR me. While I don’t judge others for doing such things, and I honestly don’t think any less of them I just would never do it myself.

The second person I had sex with I was, and am in love with also. It took a long time but it was worth the wait. Although I figured it would be romantic and…sweet I guess?....what I got instead was just as good. The whole thing was hilarious, I mean not in a bad way…that sounds bad….we just had fun, and made jokes about it….during it? Is that wrong? Anyway that’s really not my point…

My point is that as a 21 (almost 22) year old female I see sex a lot like I did when I was 10. I see it as something that I’d only enjoy with “someone that matters” as I told Matt years ago, leading him to take it personally and make fun of me for it for months to come. I see sex as something that is way more enjoyable with someone you connect and are comfortable with. While I can’t say from experience that a one night stand wouldn’t be as good, I’m pretty confident it wouldn’t be. I know It would be anything but fulfilling at least.

I know everyone else will strongly disagree so I’m ready for it, GO:

PS: Someone write about the men can't be friends with women thing.

To Covet

The dove grey smoke swirled languidly from her Parliament light, downward, swallowed up by the steam rising from the sun-baked asphalt. The rain was slowly subsiding for the first time all day, leaving behind it the scent of fresh night, brisk and ready. She checked her phone, fidgeting all the while; four new missed calls from the same number. She cringed, closed her eyes, furrowed her worried brow, and inhaled one last time, fighting desperately the urge to exhale and move on from her cigarette (since this surely meant her departure from underneath the red awning refuge of Joe’s Deli was impending). Her severe stiletto heel punctured the butt, extinguishing the smoldering embers at once. A taxi rapidly approached and she scurried to the curb to hail it down. Climbing inside the patchouli-perfumed cab, she heard her phone vibrate, violently, once more; her thighs clenched against the cool leather seat as she raised the phone to her ear.

            “Hi, sorry,” she exclaimed, surprised by the uneasiness in her own voice.

            “Where the hell are you?” he demanded, verbally sniffing her out, exploiting her transparently mendacious tone.

            “I told you,” she pleaded, “I was meeting Britni for drinks, and”—“Oh, Christ, don’t you even try that with me… what, you think I’m completely oblivious to your bullshit now?” he interrupted without hesitation.

            “I’ll be there in five fucking minutes, couldn’t we just talk about this at the bar?” she asked, knowing full well that five minutes was not enough time and space between she and him. She was failing again, falling back into old patterns, living in a perpetual state of indecision, buying herself more time while trying to beat the clock. Procrastination had become her marked foible.

He’d hung up without warning, prompting the cab driver to make deliberate eye contact with her in the rear view mirror. Her eyes said, “I’m sorry” back to his, suspecting that he’d been offended by her crude choice of words. Instead he gave her a pitying glance, as if to say in a fatherly manner, “No, I’m sorry, dear.”

She handed the cabby a twenty-dollar bill with her shaking hand and jumped out, her pulse quickening as she saw the neon lights of her former-favorite haunt. She smoothed her hands anxiously over her tousled hair and patted her lips with her trembling fingertips, an obsessive-compulsive routine she’d developed to cope with her latent fear of men.  She could already make out the back of his head through the glass—he was yammering on to the saint-like bartender as she cleaned glasses and feigned interest.

She paused in front of the door for a fleeting moment, one second too long, and was surmounted by her own weakness—her willingness to give herself over to longing and reminiscence had been previously pointed out to her as a character flaw she’d have to work on. Gazing at his brown curls (that now seemed distressingly perfect), she forced herself to remember, though it filled every inch of her with sickness; oh, how she’d once fantasized about putting her hands roughly through that very head of hair, how she’d yearned for the scent of his musk, dreamt of his full, fearless mouth. He was nearly twenty years her senior, a topic that often came up in jest when she’d tried so desperately to flirt like the best ingénue. The course he taught was “French Poetry,” and he’d so consummately fulfilled every female student’s fantasy of what a French professor should look like, sound like, act like, (and as she’d come to know: taste like, smell like, feel like, fuck like). He’d moved to New York from Paris the previous fall, leaving behind him a life of writing and directing in Montmatre. He’d often recount to her the wistful yearning for his homeland; “It’s morning now, in Paris” he’d whisper at midnight. She’d sensed that he resented becoming a college professor, something he’d never readily admit to anyone, even in the depths of night, when darkness so kindly shrouds insecurity (just enough to let us all feel brave).

Her masochistic mind made that painful voyage back to the present, wherein the stone cold reality of her choices no longer felt glamorous or romantic, but desperate and reckless. She was only invested in the chase, it would seem, and once she’d caught his attention, she slowly began to retract from his advances. She’d needed him, though, for protection and for shelter of the literal and metaphorical varieties. She had nowhere else to go when she arrived in Manhattan in the spring, and knew what was expected of her in return for a free bed to sleep in while she was so steadfastly down and out. She stepped through the threshold, leaving her jacket and her pride at the door, and made that walk of shame over to the stool next to his. He was already drunk (beads of sweat pooling at his temples) as he leaned forward, sloppily, to kiss her.

“Stop, please, not here,” she begged, as he ignored, smiled, and settled his hand on her cheek. He still smelled of sweet musk, but his touch she no longer felt in her stomach as she once so sensually had. His smile faded; he began to drop his hand from her cheek surreptitiously, down her neck, his fingers tracing the line of her collarbone. He bit his lip, a signature move that implied a multitude of sins. His hand dropped inches further as he cupped her breast, gazing at it like a ripe apple, ready to be consumed.

“Jesus! I said stop!” she yelled, gathering attention from the bartender and surrounding patrons.

“Fine!” he mumbled, “let’s go outside, then.”

He led the way, back out onto the street as she blindly followed. She noticed a slight chill in the air that wasn’t there just ten easy minutes ago. They walked until they reached the empty privacy of an alleyway and she felt frightened to be alone with him for the first time since they’d met.

“Just tell me, please, I’m begging you,” he moaned in a thick Parisian drawl, “tell me why you were with that fucking man last night...”

“I told you three times!” she cried out, shattering the silence of night. She began to recount to him yet again her rehearsed response: “I got to the restaurant early… I sat down at the bar… I was alone and the gentleman next to me offered to buy me a drink. We talked about the weather, the Yankees, and E.B. White. I was laughing at a story he was telling me about his son when you walked in…”

“I don’t believe you, how could I believe you? You don’t fucking care for me—you close your eyes so tightly when we make love… how can I believe you?” he shook his head vigorously from side-to-side, his fingers clenching his own darling curls.

“You’re too drunk.”

“And you’re too heartless,” he lamented.

He turned away from her, presumably to mull over the explanation he’d now heard four times. Leaning forward, he put his heartsick hands on his knees, breathing in and out as fervently as she’d smoked that last cigarette. He stayed, slumped over, his brown leather jacket creasing as he swayed involuntarily from drunkenness. She looked around, wondering if anyone was witnessing this pathetic, public display of wounded jealousy; had it really only been a week since they’d been intimate for the first time? Their sordid relationship had the oddest of trajectories: they’d built up speed, blasted off, and erupted in such a condensed period of time. The comedown was harder on him than she’d anticipated. She laughed to herself as she considered her utterly irreverent indifference to him at this point. Couldn’t it all just be over? Just then, he stood up straight and swiveled around, facing her directly. The look of lust had returned to his olive green eyes as he sauntered back in her direction. Without a moment’s notice, he pushed her up against the brick façade, one hand around her face as he forced his violent kiss onto her lips. His free hand was now thrust up her skirt, grappling for the flesh of her inner thigh. His weight against hers was enough to leave her breathless; she whimpered like a trapped mouse. His balmy hand moved down from her face and placed itself around the circumference of her neck, with just enough pressure to force out a small cough. She knew not what he’d intended to do here, as adrenaline began to course through her. Pushing against his chest, she managed to thrust him off; his inebriated state worked to her advantage. The forceful shove caused him to stumble on the cobblestones.

She walked towards him, feeling that innately feminine need to make sure that he wasn’t hurt (ignoring the fact that he had most definitely intended to hurt her). As she reached down to touch his head, he lunged forward, like an animal of prey, and raised his arm… the slap across her cheek burned incandescently as she crumpled over, her face in her hands, her knees busting open on the street.

“Oh, darling… Oh, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it…” his voice trailed off in disbelief.

She waited—she wanted to be viscerally sure that this had really just happened, and wasn’t the product of her darkly overactive imagination. Without verbalizing so much as a syllable, or shedding a single tear, she picked herself up off the warm, wet ground and walked towards Ninth Avenue, refusing to look back.

 When she reached his loft, her face was swollen and throbbing with heat; she glanced in his foyer mirror, and couldn’t (or didn’t want to?) recognize the ghostly reflection staring back. The faint purple hue of a bruise was already developing just above her cheekbone, and her eyes were so bloodshot their irises glowed Forget-Me-Not blue. She grabbed every piece of clothing, every book, every little trinket, every shred of respect, and stuffed them all headfirst into a black garbage bag. On her way out the door, without having any real plan in mind, she glanced back into the apartment… there sat the queen-sized bed where they’d first made love last Tuesday night. She looked, and looked, and with looking came to find that the want she’d had for him was nowhere to be found in this nice apartment, in this lovely neighborhood, in the city of her childhood dreams.

The door shut stridently behind her. She hoisted the weight of her possessions over her shoulder, contemplating letting go of it all. She couldn’t help but smile, albeit weakly, consoling herself with the notion that this door, his door, she’d never have to venture through again. Completely alone now, she was welcomed into the freeing obscurity of night (which would offer her so much more than his selfish kiss).

Completely Irrelevant But Important

So I need help picking out my roller derby name, and I thought "What better crowd than this one!" (naturally). It needs to reflect my personality while still being badass. Checking to see if the names were registered was a big bummer. I lost "Courtney Shove", "Smack Daniels", and of course, "Syd Vicious" (wasn't the most inventive...). The best I've come up with since was "Flannery O'Knock 'Er", but "Flannery O'Slaughter" is already taken (bitch) so I'm not sure if I want something that similar, even though mine makes more sense.

Quick List of Things I Like:
Southern Gothic Literature
Whiskey
90's music
The color grey
Sweet Briar
Binturongs

Dance is Sex

To try and keep this month from drying up too fast, here comes another... yes, youfuckingtube video provided by the biggest yt whore of them all.  I can't really take credit for finding this sexy, bouncing, club tune; that credit goes to John (see his one and only post). 

This song, as the title likely translates to talk about (little help from the linguists out there?), is about dancing away the numbness into a sort of good pain to indicate to your heart and soul you still exist.  And you exist in motion.  For what it's worth, dance is basically appropriate-for-public sex (well most of the time).  You spend all day trying not to bump into people on trains, in your car, in elevators, at work, and waiting in lines; we all have our personal space in this western Thoreau-gone-luxury-SUV society and the general public is pretty damn uptight about rubbing elbows and anything else.  So when the paranoid and bedraggled masses exit these guarded spaces and enter a dance floor, what you get is physical contact, unguarded, rhythmic, and free.  If dancing and sex do anything it gets us back in touch with our flesh, our time/money/society/politic walls melt and we find ourselves animals again.  This video is a portrait of the everyday struggle with those two aspects of our living.