As a little girl, my pimp of a mother would arrange bath time playdates between me and almost every little boy on my block. Time that wasn't spent in the tub was still spent nakedly playing "doctor." In short, my naked history with boys goes far back. But some time between kindergarten and first grade, I ditched my pre-med life and stopped playing naked doctor with boys in exchange for injecting cootie-shots with my girl friends. It wasn't until years later upon reaching sexual maturity that my interest in the male anatomy resurfaced, and so the naked playdates recommenced.
Playtime in college is vastly more enjoyable than the playdates of our youth. We're mature young adults now, meaning we're of a, legal or not, drinking age, and the permissible age to sign an apartment lease independent from parental authority. Week in and week out, I find myself playing doctor with young men regardless of if they're on the road to medical school or not. These boys don't need to call their moms for permission to sleep over, and don't refer to their junk as "private parts" or "pee pees." In contrary, private parts have become exceedingly public. However, I should have expected that when things seem too good to be true, they probably are. This past Saturday night, or more accurately Sunday morning, served as a wake up call that I've been taking sexual maturity for granted. I now find myself wondering if we all innately reach sexual maturity through human biology, or if some of us forever remain kids at heart.
The night started out no different from the standard mature young adult night. My friends and I took advantage of the free-for-all-who-have-a-vagina alcohol at our favorite fraternity and danced the fine line between incoherent and fun. Somewhere amidst the dancing on couches and shotgun competitions, I ran into one of my casual guy friends. Let it be said that, in college, when I say "guy friend" I mean an attractive acquaintance with whom I maintain a friendly relationship for the provisional goal of eventually hooking up with them. This guy friend was no exception, so I was down to fool around.
Less than an hour later and without the permission of our parents, my guy friend and I decided to have a sleepover at his apartment which is exactly how I woke up that Sunday morning to his manly arms cuddling me. Sexual maturity rocks.
"Hey," he said in a sleepy voice, then laid an equally sleepy kiss on my lips.
"Mhmm, good morning," the fact that I didn't wake up spewing out a slur of groggy obscenities the way I typically do when being roused from my sleep is a miracle in itself.
"I had a lot of fun hanging out with you last night," he smiled with his cute smile.
"Yeah, I really did too," I couldn't help but smile back. But after a few seconds of us drowsily smiling at each other, I jolted into panic when I realized that my study group of nerds had inconsiderately decided that we meet on a Sunday morning. "Oh shit, what time is it? I have a study group at 9 and need to shower before."
He reached his sculpted, fratty bicep over and checked his phone.
"It's 8," he gave me yet another smile and pulled me on top of him, "still a little time to fool around."
Though I am absolutely not a morning person, and I had a truly exceptional hangover, I was totally into this. So despite my pounding head, I indulged in the sleepy bliss of kissing in the morning. But my bliss was short lived; after a couple of minutes, my guy friend was trying to push my pounding head down to give him head. He wanted to play doctor by giving me an injection in the mouth, and my hangover and I were not down to go down. I resisted his push, but then he started begging.
"Aww, please baby, please! Just go down!" His smile was cute, but not that cute.
"No, I don't want to right now," it was way too early for this shit.
"Please, Taylor!" His incessant begging was quickly getting on my nerves.
"No, stop it," how could I tell him that the only thing I wanted in my mouth was a hot cup of coffee?
"Ughhhh, come on Tay!" he pleaded as he kept pushing me downward. I'd reached my limit.
"Seriously, stop! You're really annoying me!" I felt silly scolding him, but it was necessary.
Just when I thought I'd put up with his worst, he rolled away from me onto his side of the bed and whined under his breath "Well, you're annoying me..."
My jaw dropped; If I hadn't been rendered speechless, I wouldn't have known whether to laugh or get angry at his childish display. One thing was certain, I'd been snapped out of our playtime. I realized I wasn't lying next to a sexy and mature young man, I was lying next to a big baby with a big dick.
I didn't have time to babysit, so I got out of bed and gathered my stuff, "Okay, see you later."
"Wait, stop,"he said as I moved towards the door, "at least let me walk you downstairs."
I wanted to make a snide remark about how his mother had taught him such good manners, but I didn't want to piss him off since I needed him to walk me downstairs and I also needed to borrow his shirt so I wouldn't have to commit the disgraceful crime of wearing sequins in the morning.
Once I was freed from his apartment, I spent my walk home not sprinting in shame, but instead comprehending what had just gone down in result of not going down. I started to think that sexual maturity isn't something everyone arrives at after puberty, but rather something that a small minority arrives at from proper emotional development. Just because someone can get a boner, it doesn't necessarily mean they're qualified to use it. In the short walk from his apartment to my dorm room I'd once again lost all hope in men. I realized that the little boys I used to have bathtimes with had better manners than the college boy whose apartment I'd just slept over at.
Showing posts with label Hotties. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hotties. Show all posts
1.25.2012
1.03.2012
Dude, Where's My Dignity?
As is evident in every Nancy Drew book or thriller-genre movie ever made, mysterious things happen at night. Every weird plot twist is always committed under the dark veil of night, then discovered in the daylight. It often feels like I'm an aspiring detective majoring in forensics with how frequently my college career requires me to solve my own mysteries. More often than I'd like to give a self-abasing number to, I find myself waking up in a mysterious location with enigmatic clues as to what happened the night before in my purse. The detective within me investigates further by finding texts from unknown numbers, and deciphering cryptic texts from my own outbox. Normally I'm able to crack the case by midafternoon, but this past weekend I was met with the most difficult case of my forensic career.
I woke up feeling like I'd been through a war against myself. Head pounding, body aching, tally marks all over my arms, and bruises all over my legs. I knew where I'd started my night, and I could safely theorize that I ended my night in my room since that's where I woke up, but everything in between desperately needed solving. The sheer pain of my hangover lead me to believe that last night had not been a standard beer and vodka night. I looked at the tallies on my arm to see how much I'd drank, but my tallies stopped after the first few drinks then turned into roman numerals and dirty drawings extending up my forearm. But as I tried to make sense of the cryptic scribbles on my arm, I found my first clue. The area of my hand between my thumb and pointer finger was red and chafed.
"Tequila shots!" I gasped. That was why my night was a perplexing blur. But knowing that I'd done tequila shots gave me a vague recollection of the pregame. I remembered going salt, shot, lime with a sexy stranger that I'd seen around campus but hadn't seen at any parties until last night. This clue gave me a sneaking suspicion that I'd done something stupid. My salted hand reached onto the floor for my purse and I checked to see if anything was missing; I had my phone and room key, but my dignity was missing! My phone was out of battery, so I plugged it in to see if I'd taken any pictures or sent any texts that would help me crack this case. My phone revived itself, but there was no evidence which led me to believe that it had died before I could send any drunk texts. While it was dead I'd missed texts from my friend who I'd gone out with.
The first one read"Where are you?" Then five minutes later "I lost you again, where'd you go?", then "?", and finally "Taylor!! Are you dead?!" This was not going to be good. I needed to call her.
"Hmphgn... hello?" I'd woken her up.
"What happened last night?" The first rule of being a good detective is always ask questions.
"Haha I have no idea. I hardly even saw you at the party, you totally disappeared! When I finally found you, you were crying and kept on saying 'I got kicked out, I got kicked out' which clearly wasn't true because you were still at the party. Then you started asking me to draw on you."
"I'm never drinking tequila again," I lied to myself.
"You don't remember?"
"Not a thing!"
"I wish I could tell you more. Ugh, I should start getting ready for class."
"Yeah, same."
"Rough, good luck remembering your night."
I made the arduous trek from my bed to my bathroom sink and started getting ready for class. But once I put in my contacts, I looked in the mirror and found another clue all over my neck. Either I'd been violently strangled or someone had given me hickies. I ruled out the first possibility and came to the conclusion that I'd kissed someone or something the night before. But I didn't have the gift of time to test a DNA sample from my neck and match it to the perpetrator, so I rubbed some concealer on my neck and ran off to class.
The walk across campus was ridden with the anxiety that any passerby could potentially be the perpetrator. It was the most frustrated I'd ever been; it was already midafternoon and I still had no theory as to my dignity's whereabouts! I'd reached a serious block in my case and was starting to think that I'd never break through it. It was then at my lowest that I ran into my friend from freshman year.
"Hey girl, how are you feeling?" She asked me with sympathetic eyes.
"What do you mean?" Was my despair that obvious?
"Do you remember seeing me last night?"
"No!" I exclaimed happily, "you saw me last night??"
"Yeah, you were crying to me," she was clearly confused by my reaction, "are you okay now?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, what was I saying to you?"
"Uhh, well, you told me you had been making out with some guy in the bathroom of the bar, but then the security guard told you guys to get out of the bathroom, then you were just crying and saying 'I got kicked out' over and over."
I finally knew where my lost dignity was. But there was still one critical part of the mystery that needed unraveling. I grabbed my friend by the shoulders, seeking the final piece of information.
"I need you to tell me who the boy from the bathroom was," I had a crazy look in my eyes. My dignity was definitely a thing of the past.
"I don't know his name, but earlier that night before you were crying I'd seen you making out with some tall guy with kind of longish brown hair."
The sexy stranger from the pregame! I sputtered out a "thanks" to my friend and ran off. I had a bizarre peace of mind knowing that the sexy stranger had been the perpetrator of my hickey. On the one hand, I could rest assured that my hickey was not from someone hideously disfigured, but someone I'd wanted to hook up with since the first time I stalker-esquely saw them from afar. On the other hand, I'd inevitably made a Lindsay Lohan out of myself in front of one of the most attractive people I've ever seen in person. Regardless, I finally knew where my dignity had gone, though in no way did I have my dignity back.
I woke up feeling like I'd been through a war against myself. Head pounding, body aching, tally marks all over my arms, and bruises all over my legs. I knew where I'd started my night, and I could safely theorize that I ended my night in my room since that's where I woke up, but everything in between desperately needed solving. The sheer pain of my hangover lead me to believe that last night had not been a standard beer and vodka night. I looked at the tallies on my arm to see how much I'd drank, but my tallies stopped after the first few drinks then turned into roman numerals and dirty drawings extending up my forearm. But as I tried to make sense of the cryptic scribbles on my arm, I found my first clue. The area of my hand between my thumb and pointer finger was red and chafed.
"Tequila shots!" I gasped. That was why my night was a perplexing blur. But knowing that I'd done tequila shots gave me a vague recollection of the pregame. I remembered going salt, shot, lime with a sexy stranger that I'd seen around campus but hadn't seen at any parties until last night. This clue gave me a sneaking suspicion that I'd done something stupid. My salted hand reached onto the floor for my purse and I checked to see if anything was missing; I had my phone and room key, but my dignity was missing! My phone was out of battery, so I plugged it in to see if I'd taken any pictures or sent any texts that would help me crack this case. My phone revived itself, but there was no evidence which led me to believe that it had died before I could send any drunk texts. While it was dead I'd missed texts from my friend who I'd gone out with.
The first one read"Where are you?" Then five minutes later "I lost you again, where'd you go?", then "?", and finally "Taylor!! Are you dead?!" This was not going to be good. I needed to call her.
"Hmphgn... hello?" I'd woken her up.
"What happened last night?" The first rule of being a good detective is always ask questions.
"Haha I have no idea. I hardly even saw you at the party, you totally disappeared! When I finally found you, you were crying and kept on saying 'I got kicked out, I got kicked out' which clearly wasn't true because you were still at the party. Then you started asking me to draw on you."
"I'm never drinking tequila again," I lied to myself.
"You don't remember?"
"Not a thing!"
"I wish I could tell you more. Ugh, I should start getting ready for class."
"Yeah, same."
"Rough, good luck remembering your night."
I made the arduous trek from my bed to my bathroom sink and started getting ready for class. But once I put in my contacts, I looked in the mirror and found another clue all over my neck. Either I'd been violently strangled or someone had given me hickies. I ruled out the first possibility and came to the conclusion that I'd kissed someone or something the night before. But I didn't have the gift of time to test a DNA sample from my neck and match it to the perpetrator, so I rubbed some concealer on my neck and ran off to class.
The walk across campus was ridden with the anxiety that any passerby could potentially be the perpetrator. It was the most frustrated I'd ever been; it was already midafternoon and I still had no theory as to my dignity's whereabouts! I'd reached a serious block in my case and was starting to think that I'd never break through it. It was then at my lowest that I ran into my friend from freshman year.
"Hey girl, how are you feeling?" She asked me with sympathetic eyes.
"What do you mean?" Was my despair that obvious?
"Do you remember seeing me last night?"
"No!" I exclaimed happily, "you saw me last night??"
"Yeah, you were crying to me," she was clearly confused by my reaction, "are you okay now?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, what was I saying to you?"
"Uhh, well, you told me you had been making out with some guy in the bathroom of the bar, but then the security guard told you guys to get out of the bathroom, then you were just crying and saying 'I got kicked out' over and over."
I finally knew where my lost dignity was. But there was still one critical part of the mystery that needed unraveling. I grabbed my friend by the shoulders, seeking the final piece of information.
"I need you to tell me who the boy from the bathroom was," I had a crazy look in my eyes. My dignity was definitely a thing of the past.
"I don't know his name, but earlier that night before you were crying I'd seen you making out with some tall guy with kind of longish brown hair."
The sexy stranger from the pregame! I sputtered out a "thanks" to my friend and ran off. I had a bizarre peace of mind knowing that the sexy stranger had been the perpetrator of my hickey. On the one hand, I could rest assured that my hickey was not from someone hideously disfigured, but someone I'd wanted to hook up with since the first time I stalker-esquely saw them from afar. On the other hand, I'd inevitably made a Lindsay Lohan out of myself in front of one of the most attractive people I've ever seen in person. Regardless, I finally knew where my dignity had gone, though in no way did I have my dignity back.
11.09.2011
The Not So Red Scare
It all started with excruciating stomach pains this past monday in the middle of the night. In too much discomfort to sleep, and my mind now racing wishing I could call downstairs to my mom to get me ginger ale and saltines, I went online to schedule the earliest appointment available for the next morning at the school doctor. Seven hours of the worst, most fragmented sleep later, I woke up with my stomach still hurting, but help would be on the way soon. Hunched over, I rolled out of bed, pulled on sweatpants, and hobbled down to the student health center. After a fantastic weekend, it only seemed fair that my week should start off terribly. I thought I'd made amends for the fun I'd had Saturday night with my Sunday morning hangover, but apparently the party gods still wanted me to repent for my drinking. However, it was worth it. Even though I felt as if I was going to shit out my stomach, I was still blissfully happy about how much fun I'd had at the party Saturday, not to mention how much fun I'd had after the party with the hottie from my Linguistics discussion.
After a Trail of Tears-esque walk, I was finally at the doctor. I checked in for my appointment and went to sit in the waiting area. The waiting rooms in doctors offices are my absolute favorite place to people watch. There were plenty of people occupying the seats around me that looked as if they were at death's door, but those weren't the people I was interested in. It's the ones who appear to have nothing wrong with them; those are the ones that have the most interesting reason for being there. They have STD written all over them.
I was in the middle of deciding whether the blonde girl across from me looked more like a "herpes" or a "chlamydia" when I was called over by a nurse. She brought me into a room, took my height and weight (ugh), then said the doctor would come see me shortly.
As I waited for the doctor, I took out my phone to text my mom. I'd told her I was having stomach pains last night, and ever since then I could practically feel her having a panic attack, even from 2,000 miles away. I reassured her with a text, "at the doctor's now! your little girl is going to be just fine!" Moments later she replied with "wish I could be there with you! love you baby!"
Just then, the doctor opened the door and gave me what I assume was a smile.
"Alright now, what seems to be the problem?" She took a seat and pulled out a form covered clipboard.
"Well, last night I couldn't sleep because I was having really intense stomach cramps, and now they've carried over to this morning."
She went on to ask all the usual questions: "Are you allergic to any medications?" "Are you currently taking any medications?" "Any history of heart disease/diabetes/high blood pressure in your family?" "When was the date of your last period?"
The last one made me stop and think. I was silent for about five seconds as I flipped back through my mental calendar. Finally, I broke the silence, "End of August."
The doctor paused. Never looking up from her clipboard, she said "Well, that's quite a while."
She was right. It was November. Anyone who's graduated from kindergarten could've told me that it's been over a month since August.
"When was the last time you had sex?" Her eyes still on the clipboard.
Oh, you've got this one, you're fine, I told myself, confident that my last date of intercourse was uncontroversial. "Like, sex-sex?"
"Either vaginal or oral."
Oh. "Saturday."
"And how long have you been with that partner?"
Is that actually on the fucking form? Who wrote these, my mother?? "Uhh," well this was uncomfortable, "not really at all..."
"Do you drink?"
Fucking duh. "Yes."
"Do you smoke?"
Yes. "Not regularly."
"How often do you drink?"
"Umm, like, twice a week," I lied.
"And how many drinks do you drink in a night?"
"Four or five-ish." Another lie.
"Do you ever black out?"
"Not regularly."I pretended to itch my nose but was really checking to see if it was growing from lying so much.
Still focused on the form she said, "The concern doctors have about blacking out is that you'll partake in sexual activity and not be able to remember whether it happened and whether or not you practiced safe sex."
I gulped heavily.
She scribbled down some things on her clipboard and I could tell my medical forms were turning into a burn book. Diagnosis: grotsky little biotch.
At last she looked up from the clipboard. "Do you use protection?"
"Yes," I said with a look in my eyes that cried please don't call my mom.
"Have you taken a pregnancy test since your last missed period?"
"No, but I mean, I'm not. Like, I'm definitely not."I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince, her or myself. As if the nurse hadn't made me feel bad enough when she took my weight, the doctor made me feel like a deplorable whore. Going to the doctor was supposed to fix whatever was bothering you, but this appointment had made me feel even worse.
"Okay, well I'm going to have you take one just to be safe. As for your stomach pains, I've written you a prescription for a low dosage painkiller. If your symptoms persist after a couple of days, come back for a follow-up visit." She handed me a little plastic bag with a small container and a set of directions in it. "As for the test, I'll email you the results within 24 hours."
I grabbed the bag in a lightheaded daze. "Thank you," and thank you for attaching a timebomb to my new pregnancy paranoia.
The week earlier, I'd had midterms that I'd hardly studied for and guessed on practically every multiple choice question, but this test I felt least confident after taking. I gave my test answers to the nurse, and walked back to my dorm in a stressed out, tense trance.
It was impossible to do anything. I couldn't watch TV because every show and commercial coincidentally had a baby or toddler in it, I couldn't do any homework because when I sat at my computer all I could do was refresh my email, and I couldn't sleep because my mind was racing too fast to settle into an REM cycle. So I laid in my bed with the lights off and blinds shut, and just let my mind race. I did this for so many hours that when I finally got up from my bed it was dark outside. I sleepwalked over to my computer and checked my email. I was in a haze until I realized I had a message in my inbox. With that my mind jolted awake and my pulse began pounding. My hand was shaking so badly that it took me several tries to fix the mouse on the message to click it open. Finally, my motor skills allowed me to read the message. I thought my heart was going to jump out of my throat.
My eyes scanned over the screen until I found the word "negative." After that, I reread the message at least ten times before it finally resonated with me you're fine, and furthermore you don't have to call mom with some very bad news.
"YES!!!" I jumped feet into the air when midjump I realized my stomach was still in excruciating pain. Consequently, instead of landing the jump, I fell to the floor, but still kept screaming in joy. Within the span of 10 hours, I'd gone from having nothing more than serious stomach pains, to being possibly pregnant, to being definitely not pregnant with serious stomach pains and possibly a broken ankle. As much as I bitch about my period when I have it, on that day I learned that having it is better than not having it at all.
After a Trail of Tears-esque walk, I was finally at the doctor. I checked in for my appointment and went to sit in the waiting area. The waiting rooms in doctors offices are my absolute favorite place to people watch. There were plenty of people occupying the seats around me that looked as if they were at death's door, but those weren't the people I was interested in. It's the ones who appear to have nothing wrong with them; those are the ones that have the most interesting reason for being there. They have STD written all over them.
I was in the middle of deciding whether the blonde girl across from me looked more like a "herpes" or a "chlamydia" when I was called over by a nurse. She brought me into a room, took my height and weight (ugh), then said the doctor would come see me shortly.
As I waited for the doctor, I took out my phone to text my mom. I'd told her I was having stomach pains last night, and ever since then I could practically feel her having a panic attack, even from 2,000 miles away. I reassured her with a text, "at the doctor's now! your little girl is going to be just fine!" Moments later she replied with "wish I could be there with you! love you baby!"
Just then, the doctor opened the door and gave me what I assume was a smile.
"Alright now, what seems to be the problem?" She took a seat and pulled out a form covered clipboard.
"Well, last night I couldn't sleep because I was having really intense stomach cramps, and now they've carried over to this morning."
She went on to ask all the usual questions: "Are you allergic to any medications?" "Are you currently taking any medications?" "Any history of heart disease/diabetes/high blood pressure in your family?" "When was the date of your last period?"
The last one made me stop and think. I was silent for about five seconds as I flipped back through my mental calendar. Finally, I broke the silence, "End of August."
The doctor paused. Never looking up from her clipboard, she said "Well, that's quite a while."
She was right. It was November. Anyone who's graduated from kindergarten could've told me that it's been over a month since August.
"When was the last time you had sex?" Her eyes still on the clipboard.
Oh, you've got this one, you're fine, I told myself, confident that my last date of intercourse was uncontroversial. "Like, sex-sex?"
"Either vaginal or oral."
Oh. "Saturday."
"And how long have you been with that partner?"
Is that actually on the fucking form? Who wrote these, my mother?? "Uhh," well this was uncomfortable, "not really at all..."
"Do you drink?"
Fucking duh. "Yes."
"Do you smoke?"
Yes. "Not regularly."
"How often do you drink?"
"Umm, like, twice a week," I lied.
"And how many drinks do you drink in a night?"
"Four or five-ish." Another lie.
"Do you ever black out?"
"Not regularly."I pretended to itch my nose but was really checking to see if it was growing from lying so much.
Still focused on the form she said, "The concern doctors have about blacking out is that you'll partake in sexual activity and not be able to remember whether it happened and whether or not you practiced safe sex."
I gulped heavily.
She scribbled down some things on her clipboard and I could tell my medical forms were turning into a burn book. Diagnosis: grotsky little biotch.
At last she looked up from the clipboard. "Do you use protection?"
"Yes," I said with a look in my eyes that cried please don't call my mom.
"Have you taken a pregnancy test since your last missed period?"
"No, but I mean, I'm not. Like, I'm definitely not."I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince, her or myself. As if the nurse hadn't made me feel bad enough when she took my weight, the doctor made me feel like a deplorable whore. Going to the doctor was supposed to fix whatever was bothering you, but this appointment had made me feel even worse.
"Okay, well I'm going to have you take one just to be safe. As for your stomach pains, I've written you a prescription for a low dosage painkiller. If your symptoms persist after a couple of days, come back for a follow-up visit." She handed me a little plastic bag with a small container and a set of directions in it. "As for the test, I'll email you the results within 24 hours."
I grabbed the bag in a lightheaded daze. "Thank you," and thank you for attaching a timebomb to my new pregnancy paranoia.
The week earlier, I'd had midterms that I'd hardly studied for and guessed on practically every multiple choice question, but this test I felt least confident after taking. I gave my test answers to the nurse, and walked back to my dorm in a stressed out, tense trance.
It was impossible to do anything. I couldn't watch TV because every show and commercial coincidentally had a baby or toddler in it, I couldn't do any homework because when I sat at my computer all I could do was refresh my email, and I couldn't sleep because my mind was racing too fast to settle into an REM cycle. So I laid in my bed with the lights off and blinds shut, and just let my mind race. I did this for so many hours that when I finally got up from my bed it was dark outside. I sleepwalked over to my computer and checked my email. I was in a haze until I realized I had a message in my inbox. With that my mind jolted awake and my pulse began pounding. My hand was shaking so badly that it took me several tries to fix the mouse on the message to click it open. Finally, my motor skills allowed me to read the message. I thought my heart was going to jump out of my throat.
My eyes scanned over the screen until I found the word "negative." After that, I reread the message at least ten times before it finally resonated with me you're fine, and furthermore you don't have to call mom with some very bad news.
"YES!!!" I jumped feet into the air when midjump I realized my stomach was still in excruciating pain. Consequently, instead of landing the jump, I fell to the floor, but still kept screaming in joy. Within the span of 10 hours, I'd gone from having nothing more than serious stomach pains, to being possibly pregnant, to being definitely not pregnant with serious stomach pains and possibly a broken ankle. As much as I bitch about my period when I have it, on that day I learned that having it is better than not having it at all.
7.10.2011
Don't Speak.
Sometimes it's better to drink so much that you have no memory of what happened the night before. That way you are able to endure your hangover in a state of ignorance-is-bliss. Unfortunately, I did not wake up in such a state of bliss; rather, I got drunk enough to spill all the thoughts occupying my mind, but not drunk enough to erase the action from my memory. Instead, I've spent my grueling hangover cringing, able to remember all my slurs verbatim. In all honesty, this is the way I spend most of my hangovers. I can't always be counted on to remember to take my ADD medicine, or to be at work on time, but you can always depend on me to lose my filter once I start drinking. Normally I'm able to get by without facing the repercussions of my words, however, last night I said too much to my circle of friends. The people I hang out with everyday. Even when I'm sober.
It all happened when my parents made the rare move of leaving me home alone this weekend, an opportunity I seized by inviting my friends over to daydrink. As enthusiastic as I was to get drunk and tan, I was equally eager to hook up with somebody. I hated the thought of being left in my unsupervised house full of possibilities only to not make the absolute most of it. I felt pressure to rise to the occasion and have someone to fool around with come night. That's when my eyes went straight to one of my good friends. I'd always had a somewhat secret crush on this friend and since he was single he became an ideal candidate.
With a goal in mind, I naturally began flirting. This is when things started going downhill. I was trying to be funny and flirty simultaneously which explains the following: my excessive sex jokes, my insisting that we make the afternoon "beach themed" in order to a) get everybody drunker than they intended, thanks to my blender, and b) give me a reason for wearing my bikini, and then finally doing my signature drunk-flirting move (actually, I don't even think it's clever enough to constitute as "flirting") of putting my fist in my mouth.
A million frozen drinks later the sun went down, and, still in my bikini and officially wasted, I was completely goal-oriented. According to my drunken logic, since the previous maneuvers hadn't accomplished anything it only made sense that I hadn't been obvious enough. I stupidly decided that I needed to be a more aggressive flirter. But much to my dismay, I'd apparently decided this too late.
"Hey, I think I'm gonna head home, I'm pretty wiped out from today. Thanks for having me, though." He moved towards my front door, and instinctively I tried to intercept.
Time to think fast, "No, you can't leave yet!"
"What, why not?"
"Because I'll be all alone!" This would have made sense if we hadn't just been drinking with all our friends in my kitchen.
"Haha, no you won't, the rest of the crew is still here!" He made moves towards the doorknob, causing me to lose the little composure I had.
"But you still can't leave!"
"I don't get it, why?"
"Because you're cute," Drunken prose was just dribbling out of my mouth. I'd wanted someone to fool around with, but instead I was just a drunken fool.
Before either of us had a chance to digest what I'd just word vomited on our conversation, the rest of our friends came into the entrance hall.
"Aw, dude are you leaving?"
He looked around, "Yeah, I'm gonna head home now."
As soon as it became clear that even after my drunken confession I'd been unable to reach my goal, my confidence deflated like the cheap and faulty gel-padded bras I used to wear in 7th grade that offered no support and could only be relied on to pop and seep gel through my shirt, making my awkwardly pubescent appearance even worse when I thought I'd already hit rock bottom with my lanky-yet-chubby frame, glasses, braces, and untameable eyebrow(s). Whereas earlier that day I was trying to be funny by putting my fist in my mouth, I'd now successfully gotten my big feet into my even bigger mouth.
"But I'll see you tomorrow?" he offered as he hugged me goodbye.
Yeah, you're right, I thought to myself. I will see you tomorrow. And the day after, and all the days following that until the end of summer when we go back off to college. And then I'll see you at Thanksgiving break.
Per usual, there was a silver-lining to my drunken misstep that provided a lesson learned: while a parent-less house seems like a goldmine of opportunity, it is key to remember that silence is golden.
It all happened when my parents made the rare move of leaving me home alone this weekend, an opportunity I seized by inviting my friends over to daydrink. As enthusiastic as I was to get drunk and tan, I was equally eager to hook up with somebody. I hated the thought of being left in my unsupervised house full of possibilities only to not make the absolute most of it. I felt pressure to rise to the occasion and have someone to fool around with come night. That's when my eyes went straight to one of my good friends. I'd always had a somewhat secret crush on this friend and since he was single he became an ideal candidate.
With a goal in mind, I naturally began flirting. This is when things started going downhill. I was trying to be funny and flirty simultaneously which explains the following: my excessive sex jokes, my insisting that we make the afternoon "beach themed" in order to a) get everybody drunker than they intended, thanks to my blender, and b) give me a reason for wearing my bikini, and then finally doing my signature drunk-flirting move (actually, I don't even think it's clever enough to constitute as "flirting") of putting my fist in my mouth.
A million frozen drinks later the sun went down, and, still in my bikini and officially wasted, I was completely goal-oriented. According to my drunken logic, since the previous maneuvers hadn't accomplished anything it only made sense that I hadn't been obvious enough. I stupidly decided that I needed to be a more aggressive flirter. But much to my dismay, I'd apparently decided this too late.
"Hey, I think I'm gonna head home, I'm pretty wiped out from today. Thanks for having me, though." He moved towards my front door, and instinctively I tried to intercept.
Time to think fast, "No, you can't leave yet!"
"What, why not?"
"Because I'll be all alone!" This would have made sense if we hadn't just been drinking with all our friends in my kitchen.
"Haha, no you won't, the rest of the crew is still here!" He made moves towards the doorknob, causing me to lose the little composure I had.
"But you still can't leave!"
"I don't get it, why?"
"Because you're cute," Drunken prose was just dribbling out of my mouth. I'd wanted someone to fool around with, but instead I was just a drunken fool.
Before either of us had a chance to digest what I'd just word vomited on our conversation, the rest of our friends came into the entrance hall.
"Aw, dude are you leaving?"
He looked around, "Yeah, I'm gonna head home now."
As soon as it became clear that even after my drunken confession I'd been unable to reach my goal, my confidence deflated like the cheap and faulty gel-padded bras I used to wear in 7th grade that offered no support and could only be relied on to pop and seep gel through my shirt, making my awkwardly pubescent appearance even worse when I thought I'd already hit rock bottom with my lanky-yet-chubby frame, glasses, braces, and untameable eyebrow(s). Whereas earlier that day I was trying to be funny by putting my fist in my mouth, I'd now successfully gotten my big feet into my even bigger mouth.
"But I'll see you tomorrow?" he offered as he hugged me goodbye.
Yeah, you're right, I thought to myself. I will see you tomorrow. And the day after, and all the days following that until the end of summer when we go back off to college. And then I'll see you at Thanksgiving break.
Per usual, there was a silver-lining to my drunken misstep that provided a lesson learned: while a parent-less house seems like a goldmine of opportunity, it is key to remember that silence is golden.
5.26.2011
Oops... I Did It Again
The only thing worse than a terrible hook up is the second time you get with that same terrible hook up. The first time you make this mistake, you're freed from blame since there's really no provisional indicator of a bad hook-up. Bad hook-ups are dangerous because their looks and personality are indistinguishable from the good hook-ups, and that's exactly how they trap you in. When you have a terrible hook up, you learn your lesson quickly (sometimes very quickly) and then move on to the next one. But the second time is unforgivable, even irredeemable. You're totally cognizant of what this hook up has in store, yet somehow you find yourself in the same situation all over again. Except this time, things move much more slowly since your thoughts are decelerated on the fact that you're a fucking idiot. By some great, unknown force of nature, you suddenly find yourself eyes closed, lips locked, and while everything you're doing is blurring through you, you produce a single lucid thought that says how did I end up here again? You feel like an absolute idiot for wandering into the same trap twice, and you come to the actualization that you're a lot less smart than you thought you were. When I was a freshman in high school, I drank too much (feigning surprise) and long-story-short woke up in the hospital with my parents at my bedside engulfed in distress and concern. As a novice drinker, I didn't dwell on my stupid mistake and moved on from the incident. But all of seven months later during my sophomore year I drank too much and wound up in the hospital again. This time when I woke my parents' didn't wear looks of worry, but rather of indomitable anger. My mistake wasn't cute anymore, and so it goes I was sentenced to five months of parentally run house arrest to dwell on what a retard I was.
It turns out I didn't get a hell of a lot smarter in college. While the mistake of repeating a bad hook up didn't land an IV in my arm, it still makes me want to vomit blood. I know how I made the mistake the first time- the guy was absolutely gorgeous. But as I discovered, his looks only acted as a disguise for his dire bedroom skills. It was hard coming to terms with the fact that someone so beautiful could make me want to lynch myself from his top bunk using my bra, but my lesson had been learned and there was no way I was going in that bedroom again. In my sober state of mind I arbitrated that I did not under any circumstances want to hook up with him again. I did, however, want to remain friends with him because in addition to being inconveniently gorgeous he was also a pretty nice guy. So the next weekend when I received a text from him inviting me to a party I didn't hesitate to round up my troops and head over. It was fun hanging out and drinking with him and his friends, but then suddenly it became too much fun. He was starting to flirt with me, and much to my sober-dismay I started flirting back. Even though I was getting pretty drunk, it can't be blamed entirely on the alcohol. I was getting sucked in the same way I'd gotten sucked in the last time; he was visually hypnotizing, and working in cohorts with his looks was his personality, which was charming the shit out of me. As we continued our witty banter the distance between our bodies was diminishing and people slowly started clearing out of the room. It wasn't as if either of us was consciously making movements, it was like some gravitational force was pulling us together. And that is how by some power unknown to me I found myself kissing (okay, groping) the same bad kisser (groper) I'd told myself I never wanted to kiss/grope ever again. The last time we started kissing I experienced a mental shift from totally turned on to repulsed. This time, when we started kissing I made the shift from turned on to repulsed with myself. Again being deceived by his looks and charm, my feeling of remorse was the same, but this time it was joined by extreme self-disdain. I didn't know if this even constituted as being deceived since technically I was perfectly aware of what was in store from the second I started flirting back with him. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, I'm never drinking again. Until next weekend.
It turns out I didn't get a hell of a lot smarter in college. While the mistake of repeating a bad hook up didn't land an IV in my arm, it still makes me want to vomit blood. I know how I made the mistake the first time- the guy was absolutely gorgeous. But as I discovered, his looks only acted as a disguise for his dire bedroom skills. It was hard coming to terms with the fact that someone so beautiful could make me want to lynch myself from his top bunk using my bra, but my lesson had been learned and there was no way I was going in that bedroom again. In my sober state of mind I arbitrated that I did not under any circumstances want to hook up with him again. I did, however, want to remain friends with him because in addition to being inconveniently gorgeous he was also a pretty nice guy. So the next weekend when I received a text from him inviting me to a party I didn't hesitate to round up my troops and head over. It was fun hanging out and drinking with him and his friends, but then suddenly it became too much fun. He was starting to flirt with me, and much to my sober-dismay I started flirting back. Even though I was getting pretty drunk, it can't be blamed entirely on the alcohol. I was getting sucked in the same way I'd gotten sucked in the last time; he was visually hypnotizing, and working in cohorts with his looks was his personality, which was charming the shit out of me. As we continued our witty banter the distance between our bodies was diminishing and people slowly started clearing out of the room. It wasn't as if either of us was consciously making movements, it was like some gravitational force was pulling us together. And that is how by some power unknown to me I found myself kissing (okay, groping) the same bad kisser (groper) I'd told myself I never wanted to kiss/grope ever again. The last time we started kissing I experienced a mental shift from totally turned on to repulsed. This time, when we started kissing I made the shift from turned on to repulsed with myself. Again being deceived by his looks and charm, my feeling of remorse was the same, but this time it was joined by extreme self-disdain. I didn't know if this even constituted as being deceived since technically I was perfectly aware of what was in store from the second I started flirting back with him. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, I'm never drinking again. Until next weekend.
5.18.2011
Are You There, God? It's Me, Taylor (Just Wanted To Tell You 'Nice Try')
The story starts the same as all the others: it was a Thursday night perfect for frat-hopping, I was looking tall, tan, and sexy in my dress, I found a guy who was looking tall, tan and sexy and wanted to take off my dress, and so it goes that after a hastier period of time than I'd like to self-respectingly admit we wound up back at my room. At that point things weren't just normal anymore, they were better than normal. It was like this guy had been sent to me by an angel. He was 6"5, but his broad shoulders combatted any potential lankiness, his eyebrows were of the perfect girth, and his aesthetic appeal was proportional to his kissing proficiency. But as much to my dismay as it would be to his, because of my "no sex with strangers" policy (I know, how old fashioned of me), I felt compelled to brief him before he removed his boxer briefs.
"I feel like I should tell you that we're not going to have sex tonight," I really should just get a disclaimer tattooed across my forehead.
Just as I was anticipating the normal reaction of disappointment, he appeared surprisingly relieved.
"No, that's good," he kept on kissing me.
"What? Why?" Normally the response to my disclaimer was one of coercion and blue-balledness, so while his non-argumentative response should have been a Godsend it actually made me more confused than appeased.
"I'm not trying to have sex tonight," he explained as he placed pecks around my ear.
Now I was offended. I pulled away, "Um excuse me, why not?" He better have a good fucking answer.
He laughed at my ludicrousness and explained, "I'm trying to be a better Christian and not sleep around so much."
Being the type of Christian who only worships God during Christmas morning when he answers my prayer for a new pair of over-the-knee boots, I would've under ordinary circumstances found this response kind of gay. But something about how his trigonometric jawbone worked with his perfect mouth to utter those words while his boyishly charming brown eyes stared into mine had me to wanting to worship him as my new religion. Listening to him explain his religious scruples made me want to bite his lower lip, and suddenly I wished I had a Bible next to my bed just so I could watch him read it to me.
I accepted his reason for not wanting to have sex with me and we kept making out. But now I was curious. Dangerously curious. I wanted to see what kind of Holy Grail was being protected by his Calvin Klein's. So just like Eve making her way through the apple orchard, I was making-out my way through his clothes. I couldn't control myself, first to go was his shirt (wow), then his shoes, followed by his belt, then his pants, and last but definitely not least were his boxer-briefs. It was in that moment that for the first time in my life, I saw evidence of a higher power. I was born again.
My untamable curiosity had brought us dangerously close to sin. I felt guilty for tempting my hook-up, but at the same time I felt like my own scruples were being tested. A higher power was well aware of my "no sex with strangers" rule and had sent me this absolutely gorgeous hunk of man to simultaneously test his morals as well as mine. I was both the temptress as well as the temptee.
"I can't take it anymore, let's just do it." It was like he was reading my mind.
I wasn't a minion of Satan trying to corrupt this sexy creation of God, I was just a woman overcome with curiosity. I was Eve, desperate for a bite of the apple, or rather, a taste of the banana. But I'd heard the story before and knew the outcome; I wasn't sure I could handle the responsibility of opening the Pandora's Box of cocks.
"No," I said, absolutely loathing my own self-control, "you and I both don't want this."
"Yeah, you're right." He kissed my face, "Damn, you so right, I hate it."
I kissed him back and ran my fingers over his immaculate abs, thinking to myself no, I hate it more.
"I feel like I should tell you that we're not going to have sex tonight," I really should just get a disclaimer tattooed across my forehead.
Just as I was anticipating the normal reaction of disappointment, he appeared surprisingly relieved.
"No, that's good," he kept on kissing me.
"What? Why?" Normally the response to my disclaimer was one of coercion and blue-balledness, so while his non-argumentative response should have been a Godsend it actually made me more confused than appeased.
"I'm not trying to have sex tonight," he explained as he placed pecks around my ear.
Now I was offended. I pulled away, "Um excuse me, why not?" He better have a good fucking answer.
He laughed at my ludicrousness and explained, "I'm trying to be a better Christian and not sleep around so much."
Being the type of Christian who only worships God during Christmas morning when he answers my prayer for a new pair of over-the-knee boots, I would've under ordinary circumstances found this response kind of gay. But something about how his trigonometric jawbone worked with his perfect mouth to utter those words while his boyishly charming brown eyes stared into mine had me to wanting to worship him as my new religion. Listening to him explain his religious scruples made me want to bite his lower lip, and suddenly I wished I had a Bible next to my bed just so I could watch him read it to me.
I accepted his reason for not wanting to have sex with me and we kept making out. But now I was curious. Dangerously curious. I wanted to see what kind of Holy Grail was being protected by his Calvin Klein's. So just like Eve making her way through the apple orchard, I was making-out my way through his clothes. I couldn't control myself, first to go was his shirt (wow), then his shoes, followed by his belt, then his pants, and last but definitely not least were his boxer-briefs. It was in that moment that for the first time in my life, I saw evidence of a higher power. I was born again.
My untamable curiosity had brought us dangerously close to sin. I felt guilty for tempting my hook-up, but at the same time I felt like my own scruples were being tested. A higher power was well aware of my "no sex with strangers" rule and had sent me this absolutely gorgeous hunk of man to simultaneously test his morals as well as mine. I was both the temptress as well as the temptee.
"I can't take it anymore, let's just do it." It was like he was reading my mind.
I wasn't a minion of Satan trying to corrupt this sexy creation of God, I was just a woman overcome with curiosity. I was Eve, desperate for a bite of the apple, or rather, a taste of the banana. But I'd heard the story before and knew the outcome; I wasn't sure I could handle the responsibility of opening the Pandora's Box of cocks.
"No," I said, absolutely loathing my own self-control, "you and I both don't want this."
"Yeah, you're right." He kissed my face, "Damn, you so right, I hate it."
I kissed him back and ran my fingers over his immaculate abs, thinking to myself no, I hate it more.
5.13.2011
Butthole Intruder
This past Thursday night entailed a hook up that was quintessential to my college experience. Per usual, my drunken, ill-thought out actions led to an encounter with the opposite sex that invoked a type of moral or lesson learned. This Thursday's lesson: always go back to the guy's room. This is absolutely vital incase the guy you're hooking up with is an undercover freak. Let me tell you, it's a lot harder to escape from your own room than it is to escape from theirs.
Now, the thing about weird guys is that most of them look exactly like normal guys. It isn't until they're in your bed that it hits you woah, this guy's a freak, and not in the good way. Case in point, I'd known of this noticeably good looking guy for almost the entire school year, and having met him a handful of times through mutual friends I was dying to hook up with him. Tall, athletic, with strong dark features, he was totally my type, which is why I was so excited when we started dancing together at a party this past Thursday night. Dancing led to kissing, which led to groping, which led to me kicking my roommate out of the room for the night in exchange for doing her next load of laundry.
After having a crush on this guy from the second I knew who he was, I was thrilled to have him back at my room. And everything was going well, too. He was a good kisser, looked great without clothes on, and thus far was fun to hook up with. The mood was totally hot; we were lying in my bed exploring each others bodies with our hands, when suddenly I tensed up. Oh my god, panic seized me as I felt him intrusively trying to finger my butthole. It's not that he didn't know where everything was, his hands were full of conviction. I moved his fingers away from my butt and tried to brush it off, but a few moments later he was trying again! The Butthole Intruder was striking back! In turn, I once again moved his hand. Then I felt him trying to push my body down to give him head. Hell no am I putting you in my mouth, I thought to myself, if that's what you like to do with your fingers then who knows where your penis has been?
"No, I'm sorry, I'm not gonna do that," I explained as he pushed down on my body.
"Really?" His disappointment was palpable, "Why not?"
Because it scares me to think about where your dick has been, "Uhh, because, uh, I don't know you well enough."
He accepted my answer and we kept on kissing. But as I felt his hands moving back towards my butthole, I knew I had to do something.
"Seriously, though, you should go find another girl who'll go down on you. I really won't be offended if you leave," God, did I regret bringing him back to my dorm.
"No, it's fine, I'm not gonna do that to you." Why are the normal guys never this nice?
"Are you sure? Because I really don't mind. Like really." Get out of my room before I call the cops on you.
"I'm serious," the Butthole Intruder laid a kiss on my face, "I'm staying here."
Fuck.
I spent the rest of the night playing our game of call and response as he would attempt to finger my butthole, then I'd move his hand away, until finally we both fell asleep. At the crack of dawn that Friday morning I was roused from my slumber from the noise of the Butthole Intruder getting dressed in my bathroom. Oh, thank God, I thought to myself as I squeezed my eyelids shut, guardedly clenched my butt cheeks, and pretended to still be in a deep, drunken sleep. I heard him creep silently out the door. Hide your kids, hide your wife, there's a Butthole Intruder on the loose.
Now, the thing about weird guys is that most of them look exactly like normal guys. It isn't until they're in your bed that it hits you woah, this guy's a freak, and not in the good way. Case in point, I'd known of this noticeably good looking guy for almost the entire school year, and having met him a handful of times through mutual friends I was dying to hook up with him. Tall, athletic, with strong dark features, he was totally my type, which is why I was so excited when we started dancing together at a party this past Thursday night. Dancing led to kissing, which led to groping, which led to me kicking my roommate out of the room for the night in exchange for doing her next load of laundry.
After having a crush on this guy from the second I knew who he was, I was thrilled to have him back at my room. And everything was going well, too. He was a good kisser, looked great without clothes on, and thus far was fun to hook up with. The mood was totally hot; we were lying in my bed exploring each others bodies with our hands, when suddenly I tensed up. Oh my god, panic seized me as I felt him intrusively trying to finger my butthole. It's not that he didn't know where everything was, his hands were full of conviction. I moved his fingers away from my butt and tried to brush it off, but a few moments later he was trying again! The Butthole Intruder was striking back! In turn, I once again moved his hand. Then I felt him trying to push my body down to give him head. Hell no am I putting you in my mouth, I thought to myself, if that's what you like to do with your fingers then who knows where your penis has been?
"No, I'm sorry, I'm not gonna do that," I explained as he pushed down on my body.
"Really?" His disappointment was palpable, "Why not?"
Because it scares me to think about where your dick has been, "Uhh, because, uh, I don't know you well enough."
He accepted my answer and we kept on kissing. But as I felt his hands moving back towards my butthole, I knew I had to do something.
"Seriously, though, you should go find another girl who'll go down on you. I really won't be offended if you leave," God, did I regret bringing him back to my dorm.
"No, it's fine, I'm not gonna do that to you." Why are the normal guys never this nice?
"Are you sure? Because I really don't mind. Like really." Get out of my room before I call the cops on you.
"I'm serious," the Butthole Intruder laid a kiss on my face, "I'm staying here."
Fuck.
I spent the rest of the night playing our game of call and response as he would attempt to finger my butthole, then I'd move his hand away, until finally we both fell asleep. At the crack of dawn that Friday morning I was roused from my slumber from the noise of the Butthole Intruder getting dressed in my bathroom. Oh, thank God, I thought to myself as I squeezed my eyelids shut, guardedly clenched my butt cheeks, and pretended to still be in a deep, drunken sleep. I heard him creep silently out the door. Hide your kids, hide your wife, there's a Butthole Intruder on the loose.
5.06.2011
I'm A Man About It
I am by no means a feminist, but at the same time there are few things that frustrate me more than gender inequality. On the first day of my Intro to Women's Studies class (shut up, its a GPA booster) the professor had us take an anonymous poll about what we felt was the biggest social issue facing women today to which I passionately answered "the unequal ratio of giving head to receiving head." For every conversation I've had with a friend that runs along the lines of "I can't believe he just played me out like that. This whole time he's been telling me that he wants to date me and shit like that, and now I find out he's been hooking up with not just a girl in Theta, but a Kappa sister too!" is normally preceded by a conversation a few weeks earlier that goes like this "We haven't had sex yet, but I've given him head like a million times. He hasn't gone down on me though, I don't know, I don't really want to ask him for it though." And come to think of it, I've never even heard of a case where a woman has pushed on a man's head and shoulders until he's gone down. Too many Sunday morning brunches have included "Yeah, I gave him head last night. It's not that he made me, he was just really insistent. Not like he returned the favor, though" while not nearly enough have had the situation go the other way around.
After spending several days flipping through flashcards, quizzing myself on feminist authors and famous literary works, I took my Womens Studies midterm on thursday and after completion was ready to blow off some steam. What I wanted was for the first time in 78 hours to not think about gender equality, but as it turns out the material didn't stray as far from my conscious as I intended it to. Everything was seemingly normal as I dressed (tight, short skirt, face full of makeup, pain-inducing shoes, everything Audre Lorde stands against), but when I left my room making my way into the night, I had a fresh purpose. A dominant purpose. With a goal known only to my subconscious, I pregamed with an agenda; an agenda that became very clear once the guy I'd been talking to for a few weeks now texted me to meet up. With my agenda realized, my friends and I went off to the party that texting boy was at, where I stayed for all of ten minutes before we were making out in a manner that if I'd seen other people doing it I'd describe as disgustingly public and execrable but since it was me I'll describe as passionate and totally hot. A decent amount of kissing and teasing later, and we were fleeing the public eye to the privacy of his place down the street. And by his place, I mean his room in his frat house. I wandered into his trap unknowing, it wasn't until I was in his bedroom looking at the vintage Playboy covers that hung in frames along the walls that I realized I was on my way to being objectified. I stood in the center of the room with equal distance between his bed and the door, and as he came up behind me and started kissing my neck I realized I had a decision to make. Well, if you leave now he's gonna think that he intimidated you, and therefore you backing down is you losing. But, if you stay then you run the risk of being used which really isn't much better. Honestly, what you have to do is just stick it out and be a man about it.
"So," he said in between pecks leading from my jawbone down to my shoulders and collarbone, "should we move to the bed?" My eyes were locked on the bed, then after a few seconds I turned around to kiss him hard on the mouth. As he sunk into the kiss, my eyes were now glancing over his shoulder onto the door. Time to choose. Are you gonna man up or back down? I pulled away, now my eyes were staring directly into his. I gave him a challenging look and answered "Sure." I knew exactly how I was going to play this. We laid on his bed. In almost no time and with almost no help from me, he was now fully naked. Things began to escalate in the usual fashion, until some decisive moves were being made. I could tell he wanted to fuck, but lying in the bed of his frat house there wasn't anything I wanted to do less. "No," I said softly in his ear. "No?" he looked at me with hopeful eyes, but unswayed I simply shook my head. Crestfallen yet respectful, we carried on. I could feel him fidgeting, he was like water being heated, I just had to wait until he started boiling. "Even if I have a condom?" Though I admired his efforts, the answer was still no. "Well, can I go down on you?" Now he was at a boil. I gave him a shy yet challenging grin, giving him the greenlight. And just like that, I became the man-in-charge. I had him exactly where I wanted him without having to do anything that I didn't want to do. It felt so good on so many different levels. Once I had gotten what I wanted and his head was up once again next to mine on the pillow, he then just looked into my eyes. He didn't mean to look vulnerable, but given the current state of what had just went down and what was not going down in the immediate future, he looked extremely vulnerable. He looked into my eyes and I looked over his shoulder at the door. The harder he stared at me, the more longingly I looked at the door. He put his arm around me, pulling me closer into his body, which caused me to finally boil.
"Actually, I think I'm just gonna go back to my room now."
"You sure? Because you can totally sleep here," he offered graciously. What a gentleman.
"No, no, it's fine, I have a lot of stuff I need to do tomorrow, I should sleep in my own room." I sat up and briskly put my clothes on. After making sure my purse had the essentials in it (phone, room key, gum), I stood up from the bed. I opened the door then quickly pivoted around, "Thanks, though" and just like that I was out.
I walked down frat row with a skip in my step, but a lag in my heart. My brain was telling me that I'd made one small step for women and one giant leap for womankind; I knew I should feel good about what I'd just done. And in my mind I knew I could dedicate my actions to all my girlfriends who'd given unrequited oral and felt used after. But it turns out I didn't feel as empowered as I thought I would have. I actually felt kind of empty. It turns out I didn't get the kind of pleasure from being a man that I thought I would. I guess I just don't have the balls it requires to play someone out.
After spending several days flipping through flashcards, quizzing myself on feminist authors and famous literary works, I took my Womens Studies midterm on thursday and after completion was ready to blow off some steam. What I wanted was for the first time in 78 hours to not think about gender equality, but as it turns out the material didn't stray as far from my conscious as I intended it to. Everything was seemingly normal as I dressed (tight, short skirt, face full of makeup, pain-inducing shoes, everything Audre Lorde stands against), but when I left my room making my way into the night, I had a fresh purpose. A dominant purpose. With a goal known only to my subconscious, I pregamed with an agenda; an agenda that became very clear once the guy I'd been talking to for a few weeks now texted me to meet up. With my agenda realized, my friends and I went off to the party that texting boy was at, where I stayed for all of ten minutes before we were making out in a manner that if I'd seen other people doing it I'd describe as disgustingly public and execrable but since it was me I'll describe as passionate and totally hot. A decent amount of kissing and teasing later, and we were fleeing the public eye to the privacy of his place down the street. And by his place, I mean his room in his frat house. I wandered into his trap unknowing, it wasn't until I was in his bedroom looking at the vintage Playboy covers that hung in frames along the walls that I realized I was on my way to being objectified. I stood in the center of the room with equal distance between his bed and the door, and as he came up behind me and started kissing my neck I realized I had a decision to make. Well, if you leave now he's gonna think that he intimidated you, and therefore you backing down is you losing. But, if you stay then you run the risk of being used which really isn't much better. Honestly, what you have to do is just stick it out and be a man about it.
"So," he said in between pecks leading from my jawbone down to my shoulders and collarbone, "should we move to the bed?" My eyes were locked on the bed, then after a few seconds I turned around to kiss him hard on the mouth. As he sunk into the kiss, my eyes were now glancing over his shoulder onto the door. Time to choose. Are you gonna man up or back down? I pulled away, now my eyes were staring directly into his. I gave him a challenging look and answered "Sure." I knew exactly how I was going to play this. We laid on his bed. In almost no time and with almost no help from me, he was now fully naked. Things began to escalate in the usual fashion, until some decisive moves were being made. I could tell he wanted to fuck, but lying in the bed of his frat house there wasn't anything I wanted to do less. "No," I said softly in his ear. "No?" he looked at me with hopeful eyes, but unswayed I simply shook my head. Crestfallen yet respectful, we carried on. I could feel him fidgeting, he was like water being heated, I just had to wait until he started boiling. "Even if I have a condom?" Though I admired his efforts, the answer was still no. "Well, can I go down on you?" Now he was at a boil. I gave him a shy yet challenging grin, giving him the greenlight. And just like that, I became the man-in-charge. I had him exactly where I wanted him without having to do anything that I didn't want to do. It felt so good on so many different levels. Once I had gotten what I wanted and his head was up once again next to mine on the pillow, he then just looked into my eyes. He didn't mean to look vulnerable, but given the current state of what had just went down and what was not going down in the immediate future, he looked extremely vulnerable. He looked into my eyes and I looked over his shoulder at the door. The harder he stared at me, the more longingly I looked at the door. He put his arm around me, pulling me closer into his body, which caused me to finally boil.
"Actually, I think I'm just gonna go back to my room now."
"You sure? Because you can totally sleep here," he offered graciously. What a gentleman.
"No, no, it's fine, I have a lot of stuff I need to do tomorrow, I should sleep in my own room." I sat up and briskly put my clothes on. After making sure my purse had the essentials in it (phone, room key, gum), I stood up from the bed. I opened the door then quickly pivoted around, "Thanks, though" and just like that I was out.
I walked down frat row with a skip in my step, but a lag in my heart. My brain was telling me that I'd made one small step for women and one giant leap for womankind; I knew I should feel good about what I'd just done. And in my mind I knew I could dedicate my actions to all my girlfriends who'd given unrequited oral and felt used after. But it turns out I didn't feel as empowered as I thought I would have. I actually felt kind of empty. It turns out I didn't get the kind of pleasure from being a man that I thought I would. I guess I just don't have the balls it requires to play someone out.
4.21.2011
Can I Have Yo Numba? No.
Even worse than wishing you had somebody's phone number is the feeling of anticipation and potential rejection that comes when you know someone has your phone number and you wish they'd text you. That total anxiety, sending all your mental power into channeling thoughts that are sent directly to them telling them to text you. When you know someone has your phone number in their contacts, you don't even necessarily want something grandoise to come out of it, you just want a simple "hey, whats up."
This is why I've always found it's better to have someone else's number. Except for sending the not-so-occasional drunk text, this has potential to work out well. The antithesis to the problem of wanting someone to text you, the best thing ever is when someone gives you their number and tells you to text them, then when you don't, the next time they see you they say something like "Oh hey, why didn't you text me this weekend?" Can you say "ball's in my court"?
As I sit here typing, thinking about the time the hot guy from lecture said that very "why didn't you text me this weekend?" after getting his number, I'm absolutely rue-ing the day when I texted him asking what the homework was (I had already done the homework) just so that he'd have my number in his phone, with the hope that he'd text me that upcoming weekend. But on this thursday night, I sit anxiously by my phone, waiting for a text from him, sending positive energy to Verizon and also his hormones, waiting for a text from him, summoning every ancient God we learned about in our mythology lecture, still waiting for that text from him.
But it's not as if I said "text me this weekend, I would like to satisfy some urges with you," or even something normal like "yeah, text me if your frat has a party tonight," it was him who said "I'll text you if I go out tonight." I didn't prompt that statement and I didn't for a reason! That reason being it's driving me fucking crazy to see my phone with no new texts! Twenty minutes ago, my phone rang and I almost busted a proverbial nut, only to see that it was my mom calling! And then she had the nerve to ask why I sounded so erratic on the phone!
The potential teenage romance looming inside the lecture hall is not worth my current state of stress. I'm not giving out my phone number anymore.
This is why I've always found it's better to have someone else's number. Except for sending the not-so-occasional drunk text, this has potential to work out well. The antithesis to the problem of wanting someone to text you, the best thing ever is when someone gives you their number and tells you to text them, then when you don't, the next time they see you they say something like "Oh hey, why didn't you text me this weekend?" Can you say "ball's in my court"?
As I sit here typing, thinking about the time the hot guy from lecture said that very "why didn't you text me this weekend?" after getting his number, I'm absolutely rue-ing the day when I texted him asking what the homework was (I had already done the homework) just so that he'd have my number in his phone, with the hope that he'd text me that upcoming weekend. But on this thursday night, I sit anxiously by my phone, waiting for a text from him, sending positive energy to Verizon and also his hormones, waiting for a text from him, summoning every ancient God we learned about in our mythology lecture, still waiting for that text from him.
But it's not as if I said "text me this weekend, I would like to satisfy some urges with you," or even something normal like "yeah, text me if your frat has a party tonight," it was him who said "I'll text you if I go out tonight." I didn't prompt that statement and I didn't for a reason! That reason being it's driving me fucking crazy to see my phone with no new texts! Twenty minutes ago, my phone rang and I almost busted a proverbial nut, only to see that it was my mom calling! And then she had the nerve to ask why I sounded so erratic on the phone!
The potential teenage romance looming inside the lecture hall is not worth my current state of stress. I'm not giving out my phone number anymore.
4.17.2011
Underwhere Art Thou?
I once read in Cosmo that kissing relieves stress (which could explain why both times I took the SATs I wasn't distracted by boredom but rather by sheer, unadulterated horniness), which I assume relieves stress exponentially with how much other business goes down during a hook up session. And it makes sense; when I flip through my mental rolodex of hookups I realized that the better the night, the less that occupied my mind. When you're in that moment of a great hook-up, nothing else can possibly be on your thoughts. It's kind of like being in Jamaica where there are no worries (hakuna matata?).
The other night I had one of the most stress-free hookups of my entire life with what I can only describe as the most beautiful man in the history of mankind. Now, my not-so-inner narcissist will tell you I don't consider myself to be homely and if I was a guy I would totally want to get with me until I was turned off by my hideous personality, but I'll even admit that this guy was way out of my league. But nonetheless, some higher power took into consideration that my last hook-up had the intellect and temperament of a Real World housemate, which is how I ended up in the beautiful man's bed wearing nothing but my socks and one earring (this was not a fashion statement, I lost the other one.) Being in Jamaica doesn't even begin to describe how unstressed I was. It was like being the queen of Jamaica, smoking a fat blunt on the beach, while listening to a Reggae band play "Hakunah Matata."
Late into the night when things began to cool down, the beautiful man asked me a most decisive late-night question. "So, we have two options," he sexily said, "one, which is the option I like, is that you can sleep over and neither of us have to move, or two is that I can drive you back to your dorm." In fear that come morning and sobriety I'd be too stunned by his good looks to form a sentence, I opted for the ride to my dorm. He left the bedroom to get his keys while I dressed. Boots, check. Dress, check. Purse, check. Bra, check. Underwear... underwear?! I couldn't find my fucking underwear! I searched all over the bed and the floor, but my underwear must have been engulfed in the piles of workout clothes that carpeted the floor. Within seconds I was exiled from Jamaica and thrown into a stress-filled Hell. This wouldn't have been such a big deal had I been wearing a sexy pair of underwear, but of course I needed to do laundry so the pair I'd been wearing was from the Gap.
"Hey, you ready to go?" he asked me with his sexy grin.
Officially rendered out-of-breath and weak-at-the-knees, I managed to get out a "Yeah" and follow him obediently to his car. I should have felt free as I sat in his passenger seat totally commando, but I didn't. I felt imprisoned by my own anxiety. After the longest 3 minute car ride of my entire life, we finally arrived back at my dorm. The beautiful man kissed me goodbye, but all I could think was you're going to be cleaning your room and wonder "Why are my moms panties on the floor?" Hakunah fucking matata.
The other night I had one of the most stress-free hookups of my entire life with what I can only describe as the most beautiful man in the history of mankind. Now, my not-so-inner narcissist will tell you I don't consider myself to be homely and if I was a guy I would totally want to get with me until I was turned off by my hideous personality, but I'll even admit that this guy was way out of my league. But nonetheless, some higher power took into consideration that my last hook-up had the intellect and temperament of a Real World housemate, which is how I ended up in the beautiful man's bed wearing nothing but my socks and one earring (this was not a fashion statement, I lost the other one.) Being in Jamaica doesn't even begin to describe how unstressed I was. It was like being the queen of Jamaica, smoking a fat blunt on the beach, while listening to a Reggae band play "Hakunah Matata."
Late into the night when things began to cool down, the beautiful man asked me a most decisive late-night question. "So, we have two options," he sexily said, "one, which is the option I like, is that you can sleep over and neither of us have to move, or two is that I can drive you back to your dorm." In fear that come morning and sobriety I'd be too stunned by his good looks to form a sentence, I opted for the ride to my dorm. He left the bedroom to get his keys while I dressed. Boots, check. Dress, check. Purse, check. Bra, check. Underwear... underwear?! I couldn't find my fucking underwear! I searched all over the bed and the floor, but my underwear must have been engulfed in the piles of workout clothes that carpeted the floor. Within seconds I was exiled from Jamaica and thrown into a stress-filled Hell. This wouldn't have been such a big deal had I been wearing a sexy pair of underwear, but of course I needed to do laundry so the pair I'd been wearing was from the Gap.
"Hey, you ready to go?" he asked me with his sexy grin.
Officially rendered out-of-breath and weak-at-the-knees, I managed to get out a "Yeah" and follow him obediently to his car. I should have felt free as I sat in his passenger seat totally commando, but I didn't. I felt imprisoned by my own anxiety. After the longest 3 minute car ride of my entire life, we finally arrived back at my dorm. The beautiful man kissed me goodbye, but all I could think was you're going to be cleaning your room and wonder "Why are my moms panties on the floor?" Hakunah fucking matata.
3.31.2011
Go Fuck Yourself
Today I had an actualization that I can only comfortably (or rather uncomfortably) describe as perturbing. Most of my epiphanies center around the basis of "Oh, you can see my black underwear straight through my tight, white dress," or "Oh, he came out at college? That explains why he was so fixated with my shoulders that time we hooked up," but this one today was no laughing matter. The thing that I realized today not only shook my world, but decimated my inner peace with a force that's off the richter scale.
It happened at lunch. I'd just gotten a new Blackberry after losing my previous phone in my usual weekend drunken stupor, so after days of Walden-like solitude I was back in technology's grace and finally able to contact one of my friends to hang out. After an epoch of separation (five days), we had tons to catch up on. Our weekends: what we remembered, what we wish we didn't remember, the guys who we prayed would remember our names, all the standard Monday lunch talk that we hadn't had yet since up until Wednesday I was basically living without running water, human contact, and HBO. But my new phone turned out to be useful for more than just texting my friends.
"Oh my god!" it dawned on me, "I can show you the gorgeous guy I hooked up with this weekend via my new Blackberry!" I typed and scrolled fastidiously while gushing, "Like seriously, he might be the most handsome piece of man I've ever seen. He's actually perfect. He's like, 6"5, but not lanky, he's totally ripped. Huge shoulders. And oh-my-fucking-god, his bone structure!! You could actually do trig problems using the angle of his jawbone. And he has these super strong cheekbones that accentuate his even stronger dark, bold eyebrows. Fuck, he has nice eyebrows. Facebook loading? Why is this taking so long?"
"Ooh, what's his coloring like?" My friend inquired.
"Oh, he's totally tan and has really thick dark brown hair. He's half italian! I forget what else he is, but we bonded so hard since both of our families come from Sicily! Oh yes, his profile loaded, look!"
The sight of his profile picture was enough to make me salivate and drool a sizable mote around our lunch table. My friend, on the other hand, didn't have the same reaction. She just stared at his picture in silence, all the while wearing a quizzical look on her face. Her silence made me go from giddy to nervous, so I asked her what she was thinking.
"He kind of... looks like you."
My instantaneous bewilderment was palpable.
"Well not like you, but if you were a guy then you'd look like him." She continued, while I inwardly wished she'd never started speaking, "Come to think of it, he looks like all the other guys you get with. You know, tall, tan, athletic, brown haired, big eyebrowed, visibly Italian."
"Wait, you're right. And furthermore, my only criticism of this particular guy was that I thought his teeth were too small, and I have fucking huge teeth!"
We sat in libido-shattering silence, just staring at my hookup's profile picture. Neither of us even so much as flinched for five excruciating minutes.
"Yeah..." my friend said, "that's really weird."
Despite my best efforts, I couldn't shake the conversation from my self awareness. It got me thinking, do opposites really attract? Or are the rules of attraction based on similarities? Like Lindsay Lohan during a therapy session, I inevitably traced my sexual disturbia back to my childhood. All the physical features that I'd spent my entire adolescence hating (for example, my debilitating height, my oversized eyebrow which eventually tweezed into eyebrows, and my prodigious teeth that practically rape whoever I smile at) not only did I learn to love in myself, but I also learned to love them in the opposite sex. All this time, has my apparent shallowness been a misdiagnosed case of narcissism? Given all the evidence, does this mean that I'm legitimately in love with myself? I guess this finally presents an answer to the age old question: "If presented with the opportunity, would you fuck yourself?"
It happened at lunch. I'd just gotten a new Blackberry after losing my previous phone in my usual weekend drunken stupor, so after days of Walden-like solitude I was back in technology's grace and finally able to contact one of my friends to hang out. After an epoch of separation (five days), we had tons to catch up on. Our weekends: what we remembered, what we wish we didn't remember, the guys who we prayed would remember our names, all the standard Monday lunch talk that we hadn't had yet since up until Wednesday I was basically living without running water, human contact, and HBO. But my new phone turned out to be useful for more than just texting my friends.
"Oh my god!" it dawned on me, "I can show you the gorgeous guy I hooked up with this weekend via my new Blackberry!" I typed and scrolled fastidiously while gushing, "Like seriously, he might be the most handsome piece of man I've ever seen. He's actually perfect. He's like, 6"5, but not lanky, he's totally ripped. Huge shoulders. And oh-my-fucking-god, his bone structure!! You could actually do trig problems using the angle of his jawbone. And he has these super strong cheekbones that accentuate his even stronger dark, bold eyebrows. Fuck, he has nice eyebrows. Facebook loading? Why is this taking so long?"
"Ooh, what's his coloring like?" My friend inquired.
"Oh, he's totally tan and has really thick dark brown hair. He's half italian! I forget what else he is, but we bonded so hard since both of our families come from Sicily! Oh yes, his profile loaded, look!"
The sight of his profile picture was enough to make me salivate and drool a sizable mote around our lunch table. My friend, on the other hand, didn't have the same reaction. She just stared at his picture in silence, all the while wearing a quizzical look on her face. Her silence made me go from giddy to nervous, so I asked her what she was thinking.
"He kind of... looks like you."
My instantaneous bewilderment was palpable.
"Well not like you, but if you were a guy then you'd look like him." She continued, while I inwardly wished she'd never started speaking, "Come to think of it, he looks like all the other guys you get with. You know, tall, tan, athletic, brown haired, big eyebrowed, visibly Italian."
"Wait, you're right. And furthermore, my only criticism of this particular guy was that I thought his teeth were too small, and I have fucking huge teeth!"
We sat in libido-shattering silence, just staring at my hookup's profile picture. Neither of us even so much as flinched for five excruciating minutes.
"Yeah..." my friend said, "that's really weird."
Despite my best efforts, I couldn't shake the conversation from my self awareness. It got me thinking, do opposites really attract? Or are the rules of attraction based on similarities? Like Lindsay Lohan during a therapy session, I inevitably traced my sexual disturbia back to my childhood. All the physical features that I'd spent my entire adolescence hating (for example, my debilitating height, my oversized eyebrow which eventually tweezed into eyebrows, and my prodigious teeth that practically rape whoever I smile at) not only did I learn to love in myself, but I also learned to love them in the opposite sex. All this time, has my apparent shallowness been a misdiagnosed case of narcissism? Given all the evidence, does this mean that I'm legitimately in love with myself? I guess this finally presents an answer to the age old question: "If presented with the opportunity, would you fuck yourself?"
3.30.2011
How To Look Good Naked
It's absolute bullshit when men claim that women go to clubs not wanting to find men but rather dance with their friends. As women, we don't spend hours upon hours doing our hair, artfully applying makeup, and crafting the perfect ensemble to impress our friends, nor are our friends the reason why we tolerate the painful heels/spanx powercombo. When we look cute to go out to lunch it's for our friends, when we look sexy to go to the club it's for the dick. Don't get it twisted. With that being said, the other weekend I had the pleasure of staying at my friends' apartment in New York City. While I absolutely love L.A., it lacks the excitement and enchantment of New York, and the hustle and bustle is exactly what I miss so dearly on the West Coast. I made the brief commute from my New Jersey suburb to the big city 90% excited reunite with high school friends, and 10% excited to see all the hot, scruffy men they promised were lingering in the club scene. Once I arrived at the apartment, all of our energy was collectively focused on encaging these men. In fact, as we primped and pregamed, every sentence uttered had the word "hotties" in it (ex. "Let's find hotties tonight," "The club better be packed with hotties," "Hotties for everyone!" "Let's take a shot in honor of finding hotties!", and so on).
One long friday night into an early saturday morning of hunting hotties on the club scene passed, until eventually each girl and their respective prowling experience arrived back at the apartment to pass out in inebriated bliss. The next afternoon we woke up, and so three girls (one still drunk, two painstakingly hungover) sat in the New York apartment rehashing what happened the night before. There were the outloud readings of texts sent last night, stories told that answered "where did you disappear to while we were at the bathroom/upstairs bar/DJ booth?" and most importantly the discussion of which hotties were present at the club and who hooked up with which hottie.
"Ughhh, too many hotties were there last night," my friend moaned as her hazel and hungover eyes rolled around in her throbbing head. "I wanted to talk to them all but I was too drunk."
We all inwardly reflected on the different variations of tall, brunette men with their different variations of plaid flannels, all rocking their different variations of I-just-don't-give-a-fuck, messy-yet-styled hairstyles. In silence we dwelled on the fine specimen of hotties until a disrupting visual broke our serenity.
"Uhh, umm, you guys, look!!" barely able to formulate words I frantically pointed out their window. In New York fashion, the living room window offered a straight view into a neighboring apartment, and centered proudly in that opposing window was a penis. It was something we'd sought after so fervidly last night, but in the cold light of morning was nothing shy of repulsive.
"Oh my god, what the fuck!!!" Our jaws were dropped (and not in the good way) as we stared at the window paralyzed with horror. We couldn't see the tendant's face, but we knew he was brown haired and jewish. The man wore nothing but a red tee shirt and had his binds pulled down partially so through the window only from his shoulders to his balls were visible. We watched the penis walk around the room, making the bed, folding clothes, destroying our libidos.
In retrospect, our disgust at the situation was groundless. We wanted dick the night before, so waking up to it should have been a blessing. After pondering the situation it occurred to me: the morning dick never bought us drinks, or used hackneyed "so, you must be a model" pick-up lines. The morning dick never even called us pretty. We want dick once the man it's attached to has wooed us with his charming personality. But once the man is not there and all we have access to is a dick just hanging out, we don't want it anymore. So men, how to look good naked? Have a good personality.
One long friday night into an early saturday morning of hunting hotties on the club scene passed, until eventually each girl and their respective prowling experience arrived back at the apartment to pass out in inebriated bliss. The next afternoon we woke up, and so three girls (one still drunk, two painstakingly hungover) sat in the New York apartment rehashing what happened the night before. There were the outloud readings of texts sent last night, stories told that answered "where did you disappear to while we were at the bathroom/upstairs bar/DJ booth?" and most importantly the discussion of which hotties were present at the club and who hooked up with which hottie.
"Ughhh, too many hotties were there last night," my friend moaned as her hazel and hungover eyes rolled around in her throbbing head. "I wanted to talk to them all but I was too drunk."
We all inwardly reflected on the different variations of tall, brunette men with their different variations of plaid flannels, all rocking their different variations of I-just-don't-give-a-fuck, messy-yet-styled hairstyles. In silence we dwelled on the fine specimen of hotties until a disrupting visual broke our serenity.
"Uhh, umm, you guys, look!!" barely able to formulate words I frantically pointed out their window. In New York fashion, the living room window offered a straight view into a neighboring apartment, and centered proudly in that opposing window was a penis. It was something we'd sought after so fervidly last night, but in the cold light of morning was nothing shy of repulsive.
"Oh my god, what the fuck!!!" Our jaws were dropped (and not in the good way) as we stared at the window paralyzed with horror. We couldn't see the tendant's face, but we knew he was brown haired and jewish. The man wore nothing but a red tee shirt and had his binds pulled down partially so through the window only from his shoulders to his balls were visible. We watched the penis walk around the room, making the bed, folding clothes, destroying our libidos.
In retrospect, our disgust at the situation was groundless. We wanted dick the night before, so waking up to it should have been a blessing. After pondering the situation it occurred to me: the morning dick never bought us drinks, or used hackneyed "so, you must be a model" pick-up lines. The morning dick never even called us pretty. We want dick once the man it's attached to has wooed us with his charming personality. But once the man is not there and all we have access to is a dick just hanging out, we don't want it anymore. So men, how to look good naked? Have a good personality.
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