It's pretty much become a ritual of mine to cuddle on my couch stealing kisses from my dog after a night of being out. Night after night I come home in the mindset that all guys are inherently evil due to things that happened (or didn't happen), objectifying texts I received (or didn't receive), or Facebook relationship statuses making people "off limits" (these are above all the worst to not be a part of); after the days' disappointing events, I can't help but lie there while my sleeps on my chest and arrive at the conclusion that he's the only guy in my life who will always be happy to see me when I come home, lick my face and no one elses, and always stay for breakfast after sleeping in my bed. Dogs, unlike guys, are inherently good.
After doing this for numerous nights, I grew more and more desensitized to the fact that the only "good" guy I'd ever love was one that I kept on a leash when we left the house. At least, I thought I was getting over it until I had a very candid conversation with a guy friend of mine. We were sitting in my backyard talking about past, present, and what we hoped would be future romances. I was sprawled out on the grass absorbing the sunlight while my friend hid under the shade of a tree, but the spotlight was on him as the conversation turned to his ex-girlfriend.
"You can't even call that a relationship, though" he said while he tugged at a blade of grass, "I was so mean to her. I didn't even like her, really."
"You're mean to all girls," even though he's my friend, it's still true. In fact, by being his friend he tells me a lot of things about girls that give me evidence to support my claim.
"I mean, yeah, but like, I used to be nice to girls. I just got sick of getting played out."
"When were you ever nice to girls?"
"Like, freshman year. But every girl I liked would friend zone me and only hook up with older guys who could drive and shit. So I stopped trying to get girls by being nice."
His honesty hit me hard, "Are you serious?"
"Yeah. Happens to every guy."
The myth that I'd dedicated my entire life to ciphering had just been debunked: guys are inherently good, but in every boy's life there are girls who sees them and their niceness exclusively as "friend" qualities and thus deny the boys sexual existence. It is because these girls are mean to them that they stop being nice boys and turn into asshole guys. Like proverbial balls dropping, this is something every boy has to go through before he becomes a guy.
I couldn't believe it. I'd spent my nineteen years of living wondering why guys were such assholes only to realize it was my fault. While I wasn't the one to play out this specific guy, I was one of those girls who swooned over older guys because they had cars and fake IDs. And even more reprehensibly, I was one of those girls who completely rejected the boys my age because they didn't have the bad boy allure of being an older guy. In my youthful stupidity, I'd separated "nice" from "hot," while all I wanted in the present was for those two qualities to mix. Instead of doing the illegal thing of finding one of these young boys who hadn't been turned mean yet, I took a vow to teach my future daughter that, no matter how hot she may grow to be, she must be nice to all boys. If she wants to be a bitch to other girls then that's fine.
7.13.2011
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.
6.21.2011
Eyes Wide Open
There comes a time in every walk home when the front door is reached and the inevitable goodnight kiss commences. You thank the guy who just walked you home, and from there it's like clockwork. His hand finds its way to the small of your back, you look up (or if you're me, you look directly level) at him and your faces close in on each other. The kiss starts out soft, but then the world begins to whirl around your bodies. If you're sober, this the whirling of your emotions, indicating that you really like this guy. If you're not, this is the churning of your stomach, indicating that you took one to many shots. While the sober girl doesn't invite the man who walked her home inside because she wants to take things slow, the not-sober girl doesn't invite the man who walked her home inside because he's bound to get a mouthful of nastiness before she will.
The other night I went to a party within walking distance from my house and continued to get obliterated in bliss knowing that I didn't have to worry about finding a ride home. Hours later into the early morning people began clearing out and I suddenly grew less confident about walking home alone. I slurred out a plea for company and in response a guy friend of mine offered to walk me home. While I found this to be a nice, wholesome gesture, I didn't take into consideration that when you're wearing a spandex dress, you have no guy friends. We walked the two blocks to my house and once we reached the front door, it was like drunken clockwork. His hand had found my lower back (and by "lower back" I mean my ass), our faces closed in on each others, and we began slobering at each others faces like dogs. The world began to whirl around me as it suddenly hit me, if my eyes are closed any longer, I'm going to throw up in this guys mouth.
I'd been hit hard with the spins, so I opened my eyes, but even that didn't help. I needed to focus my vision on something. As if it'd been a BBM from God, I instantaneously felt the vibrate of my phone, so I stealthily pulled my blackberry out of my pocket and began reading my messages over his shoulder while we made out. He didn't realize for a good minute and a half until I started responding to my texts.
"What are you doing?" he pulled away.
"What? Oh!" I opened my eyes as wide as humanly possible and stared at my phone, as if I, too, was surprised it was in my hand. "I was just, uh, checking the time."
"How about we go inside?" I didn't know how I would keep my vision focused on my phone now that I apparently was up-to-date on what time it was. I also didn't know how to tell him that the only thing that would be getting it in tonight would be my toilet bowl.
"My parents are asleep," as if that's stopped me before.
"Bummer, well goodnight. We'll hang another time." He kissed me goodnight.
"Yeah, definitely," I watched him walk down my driveway, then I held up my hand with my phone still in it and slurred out "text me!"
The other night I went to a party within walking distance from my house and continued to get obliterated in bliss knowing that I didn't have to worry about finding a ride home. Hours later into the early morning people began clearing out and I suddenly grew less confident about walking home alone. I slurred out a plea for company and in response a guy friend of mine offered to walk me home. While I found this to be a nice, wholesome gesture, I didn't take into consideration that when you're wearing a spandex dress, you have no guy friends. We walked the two blocks to my house and once we reached the front door, it was like drunken clockwork. His hand had found my lower back (and by "lower back" I mean my ass), our faces closed in on each others, and we began slobering at each others faces like dogs. The world began to whirl around me as it suddenly hit me, if my eyes are closed any longer, I'm going to throw up in this guys mouth.
I'd been hit hard with the spins, so I opened my eyes, but even that didn't help. I needed to focus my vision on something. As if it'd been a BBM from God, I instantaneously felt the vibrate of my phone, so I stealthily pulled my blackberry out of my pocket and began reading my messages over his shoulder while we made out. He didn't realize for a good minute and a half until I started responding to my texts.
"What are you doing?" he pulled away.
"What? Oh!" I opened my eyes as wide as humanly possible and stared at my phone, as if I, too, was surprised it was in my hand. "I was just, uh, checking the time."
"How about we go inside?" I didn't know how I would keep my vision focused on my phone now that I apparently was up-to-date on what time it was. I also didn't know how to tell him that the only thing that would be getting it in tonight would be my toilet bowl.
"My parents are asleep," as if that's stopped me before.
"Bummer, well goodnight. We'll hang another time." He kissed me goodnight.
"Yeah, definitely," I watched him walk down my driveway, then I held up my hand with my phone still in it and slurred out "text me!"
No Man's Land
I, along with every other student that just finished their first year of college, recently made the transition from being independent at school to being back at square one in my hometown. After what I can only describe as a hormonally eventful year, I was relieved to be going home and taking a hiatus from the craziness of college. As can be inferred from the prior posts, I’ve been consumed in random hookups gone awry with different characters from weekend to weekend, and while that’s been something of major aspect of my life, it’s been absolutely exhausting. At home, I wouldn’t have to worry about running into the person I hooked up with the night before while eating breakfast in the safety of my own kitchen, or having to walk back to my room in the morning with heels in hand then see my professor drive past me. A return to blandency was exactly what I needed, just for the summer, so I could return to school with a fresh energy and enthusiasm for making deplorable decisions. I finished my last final Thursday afternoon, packed the rest of my suitcases midday, and then took a redeye that night from LAX to JFK, finally arriving back home at 6 am Friday morning, where I immediately retreated to my TV room and let the rest of the prozac from the flight wear off. I spent the entire day with my practically lifeless body larding out on the couch catching up on the Glee my tivo had so faithfully recorded for me, I couldn’t have been more asexual if I’d tried.
But, my calculations for my desired asexuality dosage had been flawed. The degree of sexual boredom I thought I’d need an entire summer to fulfill I achieved in only seven hours of teenage drama and dancing. Whereas hours earlier I was slumped in a sexless state, I was now sitting with my posture erect fantasizing about hooking up with Mr. Schuester. I finished the last episode and immediately began scrolling through my contacts looking for the old numbers I used to booty-text, and it wasn’t until I was in the E’s that I stopped myself. If I hit up one of the old numbers I used to text in high school then I’d be stooping, and everyone knows it’s better to declare a literal boy-cott than to stoop. One minute you’re scrolling through your contacts when you find the number of the first guy to ever touch your boobs freshman year, then the next thing you know you've wasted your entire summer hooking up with some fresh-off-the-freshman-fifteen boy who peaked in high school where the only thing that keeps you getting off is the fact that you can keep your eyes closed while you’re hooking up and think about how sexy he looked in his yearbook picture from junior year.
I refused to let all the tall, chiseled progress I’d made in college go to waste, so I took the battery out of my phone, walked into the bathroom, and splashed some cold water on my face. “I’m taking a break from men for myself. I’m taking a break from men for myself,” I repeated the phrase with feigning conviction in attempt to prove my self-righteousness to my reflection. In order to declare a successful boy-cott, you need to convince yourself that your “break from men” was your own choice, and not something being thrust upon you.
“I’m taking a break from men for myself.”
I give it a week, my reflection told me with the roll of her eyes.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
But, my calculations for my desired asexuality dosage had been flawed. The degree of sexual boredom I thought I’d need an entire summer to fulfill I achieved in only seven hours of teenage drama and dancing. Whereas hours earlier I was slumped in a sexless state, I was now sitting with my posture erect fantasizing about hooking up with Mr. Schuester. I finished the last episode and immediately began scrolling through my contacts looking for the old numbers I used to booty-text, and it wasn’t until I was in the E’s that I stopped myself. If I hit up one of the old numbers I used to text in high school then I’d be stooping, and everyone knows it’s better to declare a literal boy-cott than to stoop. One minute you’re scrolling through your contacts when you find the number of the first guy to ever touch your boobs freshman year, then the next thing you know you've wasted your entire summer hooking up with some fresh-off-the-freshman-fifteen boy who peaked in high school where the only thing that keeps you getting off is the fact that you can keep your eyes closed while you’re hooking up and think about how sexy he looked in his yearbook picture from junior year.
I refused to let all the tall, chiseled progress I’d made in college go to waste, so I took the battery out of my phone, walked into the bathroom, and splashed some cold water on my face. “I’m taking a break from men for myself. I’m taking a break from men for myself,” I repeated the phrase with feigning conviction in attempt to prove my self-righteousness to my reflection. In order to declare a successful boy-cott, you need to convince yourself that your “break from men” was your own choice, and not something being thrust upon you.
“I’m taking a break from men for myself.”
I give it a week, my reflection told me with the roll of her eyes.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
5.29.2011
I Was Like, Why Am I So Obsessed With You?
After any hook up I've ever had, I've found it impossible not to obsess over it the entire next day (or in some cases, the entire next year.) Regardless of whether the hook up was good or bad, I can't help but look at the person's facebook the next day, and even jump whenever my phone vibrates thinking that it could be a text from them. For some reason, any sexual encounter I have gives me a case of obsession. Obsessing is like Herpes; you contract it from sexual activity and while there's no cure for it, you can lead a perfectly healthy life only having to deal with the occasional outbreak.
But what triggers outbreaks can vary from an actual hook up to just a brief encounter with someone you've had feelings for. Just when I thought I'd dealt with every obsession-worthy encounter Saturday night, this Sunday morning brought on an obsessive event all it's own. I was roused from my sleep at 9:30 a.m. by a phone call from a guy I'd hooked up with a few times in the past couple weekends but hadn't seen out the night before. In all of five seconds I went from being engulfed in a deep sleep to painfully awake with my heart pounding in my throat. What could he possibly want? I was dying to know what he was calling me about, but at the same time I couldn't muster up the courage to answer the phone. It's probably a butt-dial, Taylor. Don't overthink it. I silenced the ringer and crawled back into my bed. In attempt to go back to sleep, I shut my eyes, but both my mind and my heart were racing. But why would he call me and not just text me? Maybe he had something important to tell me. And is it even possible to be butt-dialed at 9:30 on a Sunday morning? Because I don't think people are conscious and moving around enough to make Sunday mornings a plausible butt-dialing time. I was having an obsession outbreak, and so it goes that for the next three hours I laid in bed, wide awake, contemplating every possible reason for why this guy would be calling me at 9:30 on a Sunday morning.
But if obsessing is an STD, is it contagious? Is it possible that while I'm still sitting here wondering why he called me six hours after my phone rang this morning, he's sitting around wondering why I didn't answer his call or even why I haven't tried to call him back? Or can some people be immune to obsessing? When you have a sexual encounter with someone, is it possible to never think about it after the fact? A part of me almost wishes my sexually transmitted obsession was a viral problem, and not a mental one. For Herpes, you pick up an antiviral prescription from your local pharmacy. But for obsession, the most you can do to treat it is pick up an issue of Cosmo and pray the answer to your questions lies in one of the articles.
But what triggers outbreaks can vary from an actual hook up to just a brief encounter with someone you've had feelings for. Just when I thought I'd dealt with every obsession-worthy encounter Saturday night, this Sunday morning brought on an obsessive event all it's own. I was roused from my sleep at 9:30 a.m. by a phone call from a guy I'd hooked up with a few times in the past couple weekends but hadn't seen out the night before. In all of five seconds I went from being engulfed in a deep sleep to painfully awake with my heart pounding in my throat. What could he possibly want? I was dying to know what he was calling me about, but at the same time I couldn't muster up the courage to answer the phone. It's probably a butt-dial, Taylor. Don't overthink it. I silenced the ringer and crawled back into my bed. In attempt to go back to sleep, I shut my eyes, but both my mind and my heart were racing. But why would he call me and not just text me? Maybe he had something important to tell me. And is it even possible to be butt-dialed at 9:30 on a Sunday morning? Because I don't think people are conscious and moving around enough to make Sunday mornings a plausible butt-dialing time. I was having an obsession outbreak, and so it goes that for the next three hours I laid in bed, wide awake, contemplating every possible reason for why this guy would be calling me at 9:30 on a Sunday morning.
But if obsessing is an STD, is it contagious? Is it possible that while I'm still sitting here wondering why he called me six hours after my phone rang this morning, he's sitting around wondering why I didn't answer his call or even why I haven't tried to call him back? Or can some people be immune to obsessing? When you have a sexual encounter with someone, is it possible to never think about it after the fact? A part of me almost wishes my sexually transmitted obsession was a viral problem, and not a mental one. For Herpes, you pick up an antiviral prescription from your local pharmacy. But for obsession, the most you can do to treat it is pick up an issue of Cosmo and pray the answer to your questions lies in one of the articles.
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.
5.21.2011
One Woman's Trash... Is Trash Until She Sees It's Another Woman's Treasure
Life would be much more convenient if we were dating inside a vacuum. A vacuum where each woman exists in solitude, accompanied only by her personal pool of eligible bachelors. Within this dating vacuum, we'd be able to figure out exactly what we want without having to second guess ourselves or make the same mistake twice. But unfortunately, we do not live in a vacuum. We share a world with three billion other women, creating competition within our gender. From the beginning of time, all the women of a village would fight over the hunter-and-gatherer with the biggest biceps and the loin cloth made of the finest animal skins that their side of the Bering Strait had to offer. Now, it's women from every social circle fighting over the untamable bad boy who juggles women and refuses to be tied down. For some reason, even more attractive than a guy with six pack abs, a sparkling personality, or even a meaty trust account is a guy who has other women interested in him. You don't even have to start out liking this guy, just as soon as you know that other women want him you then suddenly have to have him ("like, you don't understand, it's an emergency, I think I'm in love with him, like, oh my god.")
As easy as it is for me to roll my eyes at this pitiful attribute of womanhood, I myself am not immune to it. As I have learned over the past two weekends, competition is inevitably the ultimate turn-on. The saturday before last I had what I can honestly declare to be the worst sexual encounter of my entire life. This guy was not a good kisser, a terrible conversationalist, he didn't get my jokes, and to top it all off the only time I'd seen a smaller penis was whilst changing diapers (and at that size I think the scientific categorization changes from "penis" to "peepee.") And the worst part about it was that it was supposed to be a great hook up! He was gorgeous (minus points for being blond, though), tall, and we'd gotten along so well during our anthropology class! But the morning after our abominable hook up, I spent my entire hangover mulling over the perturbing event and came to terms with the fact that I was completely and totally over my crush and his peepee. That is, until the next weekend.
That following thursday, my friend Molly and I went out to a pirate themed party at the PeePee's frat where within five seconds of being there we saw the PeePee making out with a petite blonde girl. In shock, we scurried down the hall and ducked into the bathroom to freak out in the privacy of our own stall.
"Oh my god," Molly squealed, "I think that's his girlfriend from home!" My favorite things about Molly are that she went to high school with the PeePee, and that she, like I, enjoys Facebook stalking on-the-go via Blackberry. "Hold on, I'm looking up her profile," she said, fastidiously typing and scrolling, "yep, it's her. Her status says she's visiting for the weekend." And just like that, a switch had been flipped. I went from being beyond turned off to never wanting him more. I was lusting after the PeePee. I hadn't dressed up for the pirate party, but now I was on a mission to get someone else's treasure.
"Should I text him?" Never a good idea.
"Yeah! Do it!" Fuck you, Molly.
"Okay, okay, I'm doing it! I'll just pretend like I didn't see him and ask what he's doing tonight!" As I began typing my pseudo-aloof text, my phone received a text from the PeePee himself! A simple "Hey" that managed to make everything more complicated.
My pulse was racing. I texted back saying "Hey, I'm at your frat". Within the same minute he texted back saying "Where???" Now I was freaking out.
"Molly, he just said 'Where???' with three question marks!!!"
"Oh my god! Tell him you're upstairs!"
I answered with my location and waited for him to text back, but he didn't. Several minutes passed, rendering me debilitatingly anxious.
"Okay, he still hasn't answered, should I text him again like 'Did you want to hang?'" Even in my drunken state I should have known that if you have to double text someone, you shouldn't be texting them at all.
"Yeah, that's good, send that!" I hate you, Molly.
I sent the second text and still no answer. I felt like trash for allowing myself to become so vulnerable so easily, especially over a guy that I'd gotten over the weekend before!
"Let's get out of the bathroom, we've been in here for like, ten minutes. People are gonna think we had either diarrhea or lesbian sex." Still gripping my phone waiting for a text back, we left the safety of our stall. As we walked into the hallway, I didn't get a response text, but I did get a different message. I saw the PeePee walk into the same room that he'd brought me into the weekend before with his petite blonde girlfriend from home and shut the door. The room that I had never wanted to go back into until I saw the petite blonde girl go in there. The petite blonde girl that had transformed my trash into an unattainable treasure.
Molly put her arm over my shoulder, "Let's go get another drink." And so we did.
As easy as it is for me to roll my eyes at this pitiful attribute of womanhood, I myself am not immune to it. As I have learned over the past two weekends, competition is inevitably the ultimate turn-on. The saturday before last I had what I can honestly declare to be the worst sexual encounter of my entire life. This guy was not a good kisser, a terrible conversationalist, he didn't get my jokes, and to top it all off the only time I'd seen a smaller penis was whilst changing diapers (and at that size I think the scientific categorization changes from "penis" to "peepee.") And the worst part about it was that it was supposed to be a great hook up! He was gorgeous (minus points for being blond, though), tall, and we'd gotten along so well during our anthropology class! But the morning after our abominable hook up, I spent my entire hangover mulling over the perturbing event and came to terms with the fact that I was completely and totally over my crush and his peepee. That is, until the next weekend.
That following thursday, my friend Molly and I went out to a pirate themed party at the PeePee's frat where within five seconds of being there we saw the PeePee making out with a petite blonde girl. In shock, we scurried down the hall and ducked into the bathroom to freak out in the privacy of our own stall.
"Oh my god," Molly squealed, "I think that's his girlfriend from home!" My favorite things about Molly are that she went to high school with the PeePee, and that she, like I, enjoys Facebook stalking on-the-go via Blackberry. "Hold on, I'm looking up her profile," she said, fastidiously typing and scrolling, "yep, it's her. Her status says she's visiting for the weekend." And just like that, a switch had been flipped. I went from being beyond turned off to never wanting him more. I was lusting after the PeePee. I hadn't dressed up for the pirate party, but now I was on a mission to get someone else's treasure.
"Should I text him?" Never a good idea.
"Yeah! Do it!" Fuck you, Molly.
"Okay, okay, I'm doing it! I'll just pretend like I didn't see him and ask what he's doing tonight!" As I began typing my pseudo-aloof text, my phone received a text from the PeePee himself! A simple "Hey" that managed to make everything more complicated.
My pulse was racing. I texted back saying "Hey, I'm at your frat". Within the same minute he texted back saying "Where???" Now I was freaking out.
"Molly, he just said 'Where???' with three question marks!!!"
"Oh my god! Tell him you're upstairs!"
I answered with my location and waited for him to text back, but he didn't. Several minutes passed, rendering me debilitatingly anxious.
"Okay, he still hasn't answered, should I text him again like 'Did you want to hang?'" Even in my drunken state I should have known that if you have to double text someone, you shouldn't be texting them at all.
"Yeah, that's good, send that!" I hate you, Molly.
I sent the second text and still no answer. I felt like trash for allowing myself to become so vulnerable so easily, especially over a guy that I'd gotten over the weekend before!
"Let's get out of the bathroom, we've been in here for like, ten minutes. People are gonna think we had either diarrhea or lesbian sex." Still gripping my phone waiting for a text back, we left the safety of our stall. As we walked into the hallway, I didn't get a response text, but I did get a different message. I saw the PeePee walk into the same room that he'd brought me into the weekend before with his petite blonde girlfriend from home and shut the door. The room that I had never wanted to go back into until I saw the petite blonde girl go in there. The petite blonde girl that had transformed my trash into an unattainable treasure.
Molly put her arm over my shoulder, "Let's go get another drink." And so we did.
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.
Daylight
It was one of those nights when from the moment I started getting ready I knew my goal for the next 5 hours wasn’t to have fun with my friends, or meet new people, or even to drink and let loose, but to get some. This desire, no, not desire, this need to get with a fresh face was exhibited perfectly in my outfit choice. I knew that with the combination of alcohol intake and the inevitable masses of sorority girls in different variations of the same LBD, my white minidress would stand out like a caucasian boy in Harlem, only I’d be getting hit on, not shot down. I put on my outfit, did my hair and makeup, and knew that as soon as I stepped out of my dorm room I was stepping into a mission.
The story starts out the same as most: my friends and I ventured off to a frat where we drank and mingled with the brothers. But per usual, our disadvantage came when the flocks of blonde haired sisters came in who, unlike my friends and I who were meeting the guys, already knew them. Eager to fulfill my purpose for the night, I found a group of guys that weren’t occupied by sorority girls. I introduced myself and they introduced a handle into the conversation so my new friends and I took some shots. The more I drank, the more aware I became of how familiar one of the brothers looked. Who the fuck does he look like, I racked my brain, trying to match his face to another from my memory. After minutes of what in retrospect I realize was me staring into space with my mouth agape, I exclaimed “Ben Affleck!”
What was more interesting than my unprompted, tourettes-like exclamation of the Good Will Hunting actor’s name was how unfazed the brother was by this.
“Hah, yeah, I get that all the time.” His cheeks reddened a little, looking almost embarrassed.
“Well, at least he's attractive and it's not like you look like John C. Reilly or someone ugly,” as soon as I made this bizarro-flirty statement I knew I’d found my purpose for the night. The more I drank, the more he looked like Ben Affleck. And so it goes that after a little more talking we were kissing on the roof until I started getting the spins from having my eyes closed and had to fabricate a Friday-8 am-class lie in fear that if I didn’t go back to my room and kept kissing him that I’d throw up in his mouth.
Given my hangover, the next morning I woke up surprisingly upbeat. I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my class-free Friday: I wanted to get coffee with my friend, dish about last night, and then go back to my room to nap and watch Pearl Harbor. I phoned my neighbor and together we walked from our dorm across campus to the coffee place.
“I wish I could show you a picture of him, he was so cute! Like, I’m not exaggerating when I say he looks exactly like Ben Affleck. I think it’s the eyes. They have the exact same shape eyes. And coloring. Like seriously, he was so cute.”
We walked along and talked, consumed in our own world until a passerby disrupted our bliss.
“Oh hey, Taylor!”
I jerked my head out of the conversation to see ‘Ben Affleck,’ which immediately rendered me shocked. It wasn’t that he looked nothing like Ben Affleck, he looked like Ben Affleck in one of those unfortunate pictures that super trashy tabloids use to accompany captions like “BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE AT HOSPITAL AFTER METH OVERDOSE,” or “THE UNBELIEVABLE TRUTH BEHIND HIS PARTY NIGHTS WITH SHEMALES.”
“Oh, uh, hey!” I was too stunned to stop my legs from walking, so I gave him a smile and carried on with my friend.
After that I didn’t want breakfast anymore. And I certainly didn’t want to watch Pearl Harbor. I just wanted to go back to sleep.
The story starts out the same as most: my friends and I ventured off to a frat where we drank and mingled with the brothers. But per usual, our disadvantage came when the flocks of blonde haired sisters came in who, unlike my friends and I who were meeting the guys, already knew them. Eager to fulfill my purpose for the night, I found a group of guys that weren’t occupied by sorority girls. I introduced myself and they introduced a handle into the conversation so my new friends and I took some shots. The more I drank, the more aware I became of how familiar one of the brothers looked. Who the fuck does he look like, I racked my brain, trying to match his face to another from my memory. After minutes of what in retrospect I realize was me staring into space with my mouth agape, I exclaimed “Ben Affleck!”
What was more interesting than my unprompted, tourettes-like exclamation of the Good Will Hunting actor’s name was how unfazed the brother was by this.
“Hah, yeah, I get that all the time.” His cheeks reddened a little, looking almost embarrassed.
“Well, at least he's attractive and it's not like you look like John C. Reilly or someone ugly,” as soon as I made this bizarro-flirty statement I knew I’d found my purpose for the night. The more I drank, the more he looked like Ben Affleck. And so it goes that after a little more talking we were kissing on the roof until I started getting the spins from having my eyes closed and had to fabricate a Friday-8 am-class lie in fear that if I didn’t go back to my room and kept kissing him that I’d throw up in his mouth.
Given my hangover, the next morning I woke up surprisingly upbeat. I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my class-free Friday: I wanted to get coffee with my friend, dish about last night, and then go back to my room to nap and watch Pearl Harbor. I phoned my neighbor and together we walked from our dorm across campus to the coffee place.
“I wish I could show you a picture of him, he was so cute! Like, I’m not exaggerating when I say he looks exactly like Ben Affleck. I think it’s the eyes. They have the exact same shape eyes. And coloring. Like seriously, he was so cute.”
We walked along and talked, consumed in our own world until a passerby disrupted our bliss.
“Oh hey, Taylor!”
I jerked my head out of the conversation to see ‘Ben Affleck,’ which immediately rendered me shocked. It wasn’t that he looked nothing like Ben Affleck, he looked like Ben Affleck in one of those unfortunate pictures that super trashy tabloids use to accompany captions like “BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE AT HOSPITAL AFTER METH OVERDOSE,” or “THE UNBELIEVABLE TRUTH BEHIND HIS PARTY NIGHTS WITH SHEMALES.”
“Oh, uh, hey!” I was too stunned to stop my legs from walking, so I gave him a smile and carried on with my friend.
After that I didn’t want breakfast anymore. And I certainly didn’t want to watch Pearl Harbor. I just wanted to go back to sleep.
4.10.2011
A Viagrable Candidate
Many people worry if they go to a large university that they'll be overwhelmed by the masses and get lost among their innumerable peers, but in actuality there are many ways for the college student to consolidate their social circle. Through the utilization of communities like Greek life, athletics, and performing arts, a student has the ability to make their campus feel much smaller. However, one should be warned that within these communities there is virtually no separation between the private and the public, and therefore the concept of secrecy doesn't really exist. These communities entertain something that I like to call the Locker Room Effect. The Locker Room Effect is when a person shares the details of a hook-up with their teammates/frat bros/sorority sisters, with the intention of it staying confined to that group of people, which it inevitably never does. Though there are definite positives to the Locker Room Effect. When you're interested in a person, finding out their entire sexual history is easier than typing their name into the Facebook search bar.
Last night I went to a party armed with my sorority friend as a wingman. We made our rounds, I met new people, it was all very routine until my friend introduced me to a particularly tall and eyebrowedly endowed guy. After a brief conversation, I gushed to my friend, "He is so hot!" Immediately a funny look came over her face.
"What? What's up with him? Does he have a girlfriend?"
"Ha ha, no, that's not it." She took a second to snicker before continuing, "He can't stay hard."
I choked on my beer.
"This girl in my house used to be hooking up with him, and she said they tried like, three times to have sex but he just couldn't."
"No fucking way..." I was shocked, but not revolted. In truth, I was even more intrigued by him now. There was something appealing about how he was physically unable to toot it and boot it. Thus far in my college experience, I'd experienced weekly feelings of hatred towards the male gender. Every Thursday-Saturday I'd met a new guy and only two hours later always found myself sternly saying "No, I'm not going to fuck you" as they tried to persuasively kiss my neck. But this guy was a different story. His perspectively embarrassing secret made him the perfect candidate for a hook up in my eyes.
Last night I went to a party armed with my sorority friend as a wingman. We made our rounds, I met new people, it was all very routine until my friend introduced me to a particularly tall and eyebrowedly endowed guy. After a brief conversation, I gushed to my friend, "He is so hot!" Immediately a funny look came over her face.
"What? What's up with him? Does he have a girlfriend?"
"Ha ha, no, that's not it." She took a second to snicker before continuing, "He can't stay hard."
I choked on my beer.
"This girl in my house used to be hooking up with him, and she said they tried like, three times to have sex but he just couldn't."
"No fucking way..." I was shocked, but not revolted. In truth, I was even more intrigued by him now. There was something appealing about how he was physically unable to toot it and boot it. Thus far in my college experience, I'd experienced weekly feelings of hatred towards the male gender. Every Thursday-Saturday I'd met a new guy and only two hours later always found myself sternly saying "No, I'm not going to fuck you" as they tried to persuasively kiss my neck. But this guy was a different story. His perspectively embarrassing secret made him the perfect candidate for a hook up in my eyes.
4.05.2011
America's Next Top Liar
Most people (like my ex-roommate) lie to make themselves seem considerably more cool/impressive/alluring than they really are. But while it's pointless to lie because eventually the people you lie to will learn how much you genuinely suck (like my ex-roommate), it's even more pointless to tell a lie that makes you less cool/impressive/appealing than you actually are. This is exactly the social faux-paus I committed the other night, and ever since the lie left my lips I've been trying to figure out what compelled me to tell it.
I was at a club with my friends and so it goes that aging hipster after aging hipster bought us drinks. I guess during some time of this I got pretty drunk, because when this one man started talking to me I found myself failing to grasp control over what came out of my mouth.
"So, where are you from?" I just love men who ooze creativity and innovation in their lines.
"I'm originally from here in New York City, but I live in L.A. now so I'm here visiting some friends." This is an example of a good lie, as it was semi-plausible. The next lie I'd tell would not contain these elements of credibility.
"Awesome, I love L.A. Sometimes I think of leaving the city to move there."
"Really? Sometimes I think of going the other way around," this wasn't a lie, but rather aggrandizing my character the way any good actress/liar does, "but I never could. My whole life is there now." Wow, how overly dramatic (like my ex-roommate).
"What do you do there? Are you a model?" There it was, the highest conversational honor one can receive in New York. The question girls have the goal of achieving as they primp themselves to go out.
"No," the words just plopped out of my mouth as I defecated all over the conversation, "I'm in grad school studying to be a teacher."
"Are you a model?"
"No, I'm in grad school studying to be a teacher."
"Are you a model?"
"No, I'm in grad school studying to be a teacher."
"Are you a model?"
"No, I'm in grad school studying to be a teacher."
Was I an idiot? When someone asks you if you're a model, you always say "yes." It's like the cardinal rule of clubbing.
"Wow, that's really cool," this guy was a moron, "I can tell you're going to make a really great teacher."
Yes, this revealing dress I'm wearing really says I care about the education of America's future generations. And to make his lie even more bogus, I wouldn't make a great teacher because I hate children in mass quantities.
As full of shit as this guy was with his unqualified compliments, I was worse. I was a girl who'd dedicated two hours of primping in attempt to get into the club looking like a model and not an underage student, only to lie in conversation and pretend I was a teacher. I had basically eliminated myself.
I was at a club with my friends and so it goes that aging hipster after aging hipster bought us drinks. I guess during some time of this I got pretty drunk, because when this one man started talking to me I found myself failing to grasp control over what came out of my mouth.
"So, where are you from?" I just love men who ooze creativity and innovation in their lines.
"I'm originally from here in New York City, but I live in L.A. now so I'm here visiting some friends." This is an example of a good lie, as it was semi-plausible. The next lie I'd tell would not contain these elements of credibility.
"Awesome, I love L.A. Sometimes I think of leaving the city to move there."
"Really? Sometimes I think of going the other way around," this wasn't a lie, but rather aggrandizing my character the way any good actress/liar does, "but I never could. My whole life is there now." Wow, how overly dramatic (like my ex-roommate).
"What do you do there? Are you a model?" There it was, the highest conversational honor one can receive in New York. The question girls have the goal of achieving as they primp themselves to go out.
"No," the words just plopped out of my mouth as I defecated all over the conversation, "I'm in grad school studying to be a teacher."
"Are you a model?"
"No, I'm in grad school studying to be a teacher."
"Are you a model?"
"No, I'm in grad school studying to be a teacher."
"Are you a model?"
"No, I'm in grad school studying to be a teacher."
Was I an idiot? When someone asks you if you're a model, you always say "yes." It's like the cardinal rule of clubbing.
"Wow, that's really cool," this guy was a moron, "I can tell you're going to make a really great teacher."
Yes, this revealing dress I'm wearing really says I care about the education of America's future generations. And to make his lie even more bogus, I wouldn't make a great teacher because I hate children in mass quantities.
As full of shit as this guy was with his unqualified compliments, I was worse. I was a girl who'd dedicated two hours of primping in attempt to get into the club looking like a model and not an underage student, only to lie in conversation and pretend I was a teacher. I had basically eliminated myself.
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