Filed under: casual sex, true love | Tags: English boys, Mexico, romantic comedies, Tequila, wedding
It was a curious feeling, of guilty apathy, an emotionless way of going through the motions, because in my mind, I was still trapped in the romantic-comedy portion of my life that had ended 72 hours prior. It felt like coming off of a roller coaster; something about it still tingled like a ghost. And her I was now, back to my regular Monday rendezvous as if the previous week had all been a dream. And as I sipped my glass of water anticipating the mechanical events that were about to occur with our mutual perfunctory disrobement, I felt bad. Because this was going to be the last Monday-sex appointment for a long time; he was going on some voyage of self discovery for the following six months through Asia. And instead of making the most of it, I was thinking about someone completely unavailable who lived over 5,000 miles away…
Ten days before, I had arrived in Baja California for the wedding of my English exboyfriend to his lovely Mexican bride whom he had met shortly after I had departed from London during my semester abroad. She had walked into the pub he worked at looking for a job, and she just so happened to be hot enough to get one. When the time came for her to return to Mexico, he followed her. It didn’t matter that they had nothing in common, that she liked Shakira, and he liked Jarvis Cocker, that their means of communication was limited by their inability to speak each others native tongues fluently. I’m sure they didn’t have philosophical, theological, or analytical conversations about the meaning of life or anything else; maybe that made it easier to be in love.
Two years later, I received an invitation for their wedding. Being the only American invited, of course I had to be a part of all this. But little did I suspect that the best-man would be everything included in my fetish-checklist for English boys. It didn’t matter that he he had a girlfriend back home in England; it didn’t matter that he was going back to her. There was a lot of tequila. And we were the main characters in a two-star romantic comedy staring Zooey Deschanel (the quirky alternative sexually-liberated American chick in onesys (or what the English like to call–playsuits) and Matt Smith (the cocky cynical chain-smoking Englishman in suspenders). (And perhaps Michael Showalter would play the groom (provided that he could fake an ample English accent) and Penelope Cruz would play the bride.) This wasn’t a movie with a great storyline: we were just wedding guests in a tropical resort, it was meant for us to say witty things and turn it into a steamy love affair, until our return tickets started ticking, reminding us it was time to go home. Our last day together was like you would expect it– a sex marathon punctuated with a bittersweetly sarcastic reminder that we would always have Baja. And like a flash. The bomb went off and I was back home. Back to this routine perfunctory fuck of a time. But even this was coming to an end. My utilitarian once-a-week-night stand was leaving for 6 months. Whatever. I kind of just wanted to get it over with.
Filed under: at the bar, at the office, casual sex | Tags: casual sex, mondays, once-a-week night stand, one-night stand
Once a week, usually Monday’s, at around 9:30 PM, I would walk six blocks to his apartment, ring his buzzer two times, and wait for no more than three seconds for his apartment gate to unlock. I would then walk up three flights of stairs, knock on his door, and he would let me into his minimalist, clean apartment sparsely occupied with standard modern furniture in safe neutral tones. He would notice that I was slightly perspired from the three flights of stairs, and he would offer me a glass of water, because whiskey wasn’t an option, he didn’t drink. Because unlike most guys I sleep with, I didn’t meet this one at a bar/party, I met this one at work, two years before we started sleeping together. It wasn’t until I got laid-off, drunk, and willing to look past his utilitarian REI fleece that I actually finally went home with him. He was a computer programmer, and I was soon to find out an avid extreme-sports enthusiast who had never heard of any of the bands, films, and writers I made references to. In short, we had nothing in common except a mutual interest in getting laid Monday evenings.
So I would sit on his couch and we would sip on water and placidly discuss things like ABC sitcoms, Obama’s healtcare reform plan, and oil-eating bacteria. I would then casually remove my dress and toss it across his room, walk into his bedroom, and remove my bra. He would be walking right behind me two steps away. Three seconds later, I would be lying on his bed, propped up on my elbows, waiting for him to take my panties off with his teeth. I would pull on his hair, and we would roll around his plaid sheets for the next four hours. Four hours, every seven days, for the previous five months, I had consistently been getting laid. And then I went to Mexico and had sex with an Englishman. When I came back, nothing was the same.
Filed under: at the warehouse/show/party, casual sex | Tags: Annie Hall, bros, casual sex, four loko, ghandi, playahs, sexual martyr, titties
I don’t know if you know, but you probably do know, (because I probably recently fucked your friend, or maybe even you) that I’ve been rather promiscuous lately. Why? Because I’m a super fun girl drinking too much Four Loko at a party that is ‘down’. Did I get off, ever? No. I mean, I was close, like a couple times, maybe. Did I say I got off? (Why do you even care? Why do you even ask? Do you want me to lie?) Yes, I lied. I mean, what difference does it make. You should be flattered that I’m preserving your ego. If you’re wondering if it was ‘good sex,’ (like does that affirm your manhood?) no, but it wasn’t bad, either, for the most part. Another thing I should really like to point out, please don’t say shit like ‘you are so sexy’, ‘can I take you to sushi?’, ‘next time we do this…’ because it weirds me out. The honest truth is, I’m just playing this game called ‘scoring’, and I’m trapped in the body of a 16 year old bro. Does this make me a slut? Don’t playa hate, appreciate. Like Ghandi says, “Love the sinner, hate the sin.” I guess you could say I’m a sexual martyr.
So we’re making out and stuff and you’re like squeezing my boobs, and I’m like damn, this is hot. And there’s this muted decision that we’re going to your room/my room. And then I’m naked. And there’s this moment of sheer panic when we can’t find a condom. And then we find a condom. And my internal monologue is saying, ‘here we go again. I want to snuggle with my cat and watch Annie Hall. Genitalia-genitalia slapping, this is weird. Too late to back-out now. Just go with it. It’ll be over soon, probably.’ Sometimes you want to talk. And I don’t want to. Sometimes it’s necessary, because I don’t want cum on my tits. I’m sorry, titty fucking is weird. But seriously, what is the deal with titty fucking? It’s like, let me just squeeze my breasts together so you can slide your penis in between them. Sometimes I seriously feel like laughing, okay, most of the time. I’m sorry. It’s not you. It’s the mies en scène. Perhaps you read my blog and hope I (don’t) write about you. Perhaps you read my blog and dream about the day I write about you. Perhaps you’re worried that if we ‘did it’ then everyone would know via my blog. Get over it.
The Trucks – Titties
Filed under: casual sex, what if | Tags: cute boys, day dreaming, Francis, granola, slumber party, Whole Foods
I imagined I would say that to Francis, because he was working that day, and I was buying granola. And he would say, “I love granola for breakfast.” And I’d reply in my bedroom voice, “Good, because you’re invited to my slumber party.” Then he would get a little flustered, tap his fingers on the counter, scratch his head, bite his lip and say, “When is it?” I would lick my lips, raise my chin, lean forward and say, “When you get off work, silly.” Then I’d drop the granola in my eco-friendly canvas bag, scribble my address on the receipt, fold it once, slide it across the counter, give a little wink, wave my fingers goodbye, and walk home counting the butterflies in my stomach.
Instead, I finished my day dream, dropped the granola in my eco-friendly canvas bag, sighed, and walked home.
Filed under: casual sex, love, luv, Q and A | Tags: casual sex, girls, love, luv, naked, Q and A, sex, sexual, sexy, taxonomy, terrified, transparent, unsexual, vulnerable
Sometimes I receive questions from you about ‘who I really am’ and ‘what I’m really about,’ so I hope these answers answer some of your questions. Got more? ask me. luv yall.
Q: Don’t you ever get tired of playing the taxonomist? “You’re that type of boy. I’m this type of girl.”
A: Absolutely not, I think it’s something that I’m good at it. I started this blog because my friends were seeking relationship advice from me, and the advice I was giving them was working. (By relationship I mean both dating, hooking up, and monogamous relationships.) Friday nite, bring ‘em along, I’d watch them do their thing, how they interact with each other, figure out what they’re ‘about,’ then pull my friend to the side and advise them on what to say, what to do. I became the ‘go to’ girl in my clique.
Q: Is everybody really so transparent to you?
A: For the most part yes, but the transparency only goes so deep. I realized that I was being objectified, used, and under appreciated by most guys I was dating. Rightly so, because I didn’t put much of myself out there to see. And I became the product of my physical attributes, cheeky snide commentary, and fuck-me attitude. That is my level of transparency. And in all honesty, it doesn’t bother me much. Everyone has a level of how much of themselves they really want to show, for the most part it’s a subconscious thing that everyone does. And I’ve become really good at ‘Unmasking The Face‘ (see book by Paul Ekman and Wallace Friesen for more details.)
Q: Like, who are these unsexual girls to whom you implicitly refer? And furthermore, why “sexual” not “sexy”?
A: Unsexual girls are pretty easy to spot. For the most part, they don’t do casual sex. They need to have strong feelings for someone before they consider having sex with them. This does not mean they are not sexy. They can still be smoking hot. And you can be sexual and unsexy (see any episode of Jerry Springer). Plenty of white trash girls out there that are not hot who are getting it on all the time. Then there are the sexy and sexual, free spirited girls that have no moral dilemma with getting it on.
Q: Is the idea of being that naked, that vulnerable before another person sort of terrifying?
A: No, why should it be?
Filed under: at the bar, casual sex, passing out | Tags: bows, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, momma's boy, mother's day, omg, passing out, religious, stupid tattoos, tecate, the city, the mission, vodka cranberry, vultures
Mother’s Day Eve, sitting in the corner of the bar closest to the entrance, we didn’t have anything better to do but drink Tecate. Then these two boys showed up. “Don’t mind me I just have to wipe this puke off my face,” and one of them reached over to grab a napkin, “What will you ladies have to drink?” And through our own drunken haze we were able to be completely unaware of their incapacitation. Vodka cranberry. What are your guys’ names? I had my eyes on the seemingly sober one with the bad tattoos. Is that your mother’s name tattooed on your chest? It was. I took it as a sign. He had a tattoo of his dog dressed up as Mother Mary on his forearm. I thought it was ridiculously sexy. While his friend repeatedly demonstrated his tummy-undulating belly-dancing talent for my friends, momma’s boy was carving his fingers around my waist. He said, “I like your bow. You’re so pretty, I could eat you.” Drunk vultures want to devour girls that wear bows in their hair. I said, “You’re looking down my dress.” He said, “Can you blame me?” And by the time my bestfriend got back from the restroom, he had his tongue down my throat.
3 AM, as we meandered through the streets of the Mission, we took two steps forward and one step back. “Oh my god, oh my god,” echoed in his breathe every time his hand slid over my hips, down the small of my back, and across my breasts. I love to make boys feel religious. I took him home with me, and before I finished brushing my teeth, he was fast asleep. I crawled into bed next to him and woke up with his hand in my underwear the following morning. He was quiet, mechanical, passionless, mundane. He didn’t remember any of the sweet little nothings that rolled off his tongue the nite before. He didn’t even remember my name.
Filed under: at the warehouse/show/party, casual sex, sex, slutty | Tags: 40s, cheap beer, digits, Friday nite, hipsters, LA, miller highlife, mission street, NYC, San Francisco, seventies pornstar, sex, shitty band
Some drunk bleach blond was screaming into a microphone: You’re all a bunch of blasé motherfuckers. The room was heavy with the stench of body odor, cigarettes, and cheap beer. No one wanted to dance except for the gay boy in the red dress. Sorry, girlfriend, none of these hipsters want to dance to your shitty band. Somewhere on Mission Street, up a narrow staircase, there is a party and everyone is there. This girl that I used to see at parties all the time, back in 2006 (before our mutual friend moved to LA) was there. I didn’t say hi to her. My friend’s sister’s ex-boyfriend was there. I didn’t say hi to him. The gay boy in the red dress, who moved to NYC (but hated it, so now he’s back) was there. I jumped into his arms, and then we went and got 40s together. We talked about the good ol’ times and exchanged digits again.
This boy I usd to have sex with was there. I didn’t even notice him at first. I walked by. He tweaked my nipple. I looked up to see who it was, and he smiled. And just like that he was chugging my 40 and saying how much he missed me, with one arm wrapped tightly around my waist asking me if I’d been a “good girl.” I hadn’t seen him in a month. He stopped calling, and I never call boys. I lost my phone; let me get your number again. He was an asshole, but his phone was new, so I believed him. He asked me if I missed him. I said, “I guess you can say that,” I really did; “I’ve been keeping busy, you know.” I set myself up for him calling me a slut, and there’s something about how he reminds me of a seventies pornstar that validates him calling me a slut. And at 2 AM on Friday nite, I really missed that sentiment: feeling pretty, pretty slutty.
Filed under: at the bar, casual sex, diagrams | Tags: chance encounters, degrees of separation, greatest novel, neighborhood, religion, sex, small world, the city, the mission, venn diagram
Our alternative subculture is our religion, and the neighborhood we live in is our place of worship. We are sponges that soak up the same mess, clean the same grit, and polish the same surface. Our circulation patterns overlap again and again; sometimes we say hello, sometimes we don’t, sometimes we wish we had, sometimes we regret we had. Sometimes I imagine that he is sitting in a cafe, sipping on Turkish coffee, and staring at the blank abyss of his writer’s block, waiting for me to be the inspiration for the heroine in his greatest novel. I go to the cafe to see if I can spot him; he is never there; we cannot seem to get the timing right yet.
I zigzag through the city with the people I know and the people they know. These are commonalities that allow me to have sex with people that are friends with people that know people I’ve had sex with before. It’s such a small world. These encounters could have happened a plethora of ways. We have mutual acquaintances from various cliques we associate with. He lives a block away from my old roommate, and he grew up with the boyfriend of a friend of mine, and he is friends with my ex-coworker’s roommate, and I met him at a bar that I’ve never been to. In the morning, we were complete strangers; at the end of the nite, we are naked in bed together. Our degrees of separation seem to melt away. Our chance encounter is like the intersection in a Venn diagram.
Filed under: casual sex, love, metro, Paris, sex, true love | Tags: Christmas, City of Love, Doisneau, Eiffel Tower, France, French, French boys, love, luv, ménage à trois, metro, moleskine, New Years, one night stands, Paris, party, subway
My keys are all attached to one key chain: it is a gold Eiffel Tower. They sell them for four for two Euros at every hot tourist spot in Paris. “I like your key chain.” There is a new yoga instructor at the studio with a French accent. She took my keys and swiped me in today. “Have you been to Pahree before?” A few times. I told her I had just been for Christmas and New Years. Couples holding each other tight through thick woolen coats and gloves, stealing kisses from each other while waiting in museum lines, “A snowy, icy Paris is very romantic, but I was with my family,” unfortunately I was a mere voyeur in the City of Love. I can’t deny that her suggestion didn’t cross my mind: “You should have found yourself a French boy.” Well, I wasn’t fighting them off with a stick. I spent New Years Eve in a hotel bathtub reading Candy, a depressing story about a junkie couple and their demise.
We met at a party. I remember we were smoking cigarettes outside, and then he kissed me. I said goodbye to my friends, and I went home with him. The details are holes in my memory. I do remember it was a below-mediocre one-nite stand. There was a third wheel–his unattractive slimy friend from France that was visiting him. At some point in the middle of the nite, slimypants had the notion he was invited to join us for a ménage à trois. Needless to say, I freaked out. I’m sleeping with your friend, not with you; get out! I couldn’t wait to see the sun come out so I could go home. Months later, I got a new job, and I saw the one I slept with on my subway route regularly, and we avoided eye contact. Today at the end of yoga class, as I was making my way to the locker room, the French yoga instructor left me with a final note: “And your name is Pahreesa; you were meant to be with a French boy.” He was meant to write about me in his Moleskine.
Filed under: BFFs4Eva, casual sex, dating, love, luv, sex | Tags: BFFs, BFFs4Eva, casual sex, cute boys, dating, double date, frivolity, sex, witty banter, youth
I have never met a boy that can make me laugh the way my BFF does. She is beautiful inside and out. Hanging out with her is as effortless as breathing. When I go out with a boy, I compare his witty banter with hers, and it is never as clever. There are things we find endearing about each other that no boy ever would. Sometimes when she snores, I wake her up, but sometimes I don’t, because I think it’s kind of cute. Our friends say we are gay for each other, but we know that unlike gay love our love is not sexual, and it will last forever. We are in platonic love; it is perfection.
We met two boys that are also BFFs, and that is the best part. We go home with them, split off into separate rooms for the nite, and in the morning we put our clothes back on, put on our sunglasses, we discuss how tore-up and beat we feel, and we make our way to the local breakfast joint without them. We discuss our favorite parts of the nite–at the bar, at the party, in the alley way, what he said, what he meant, what it means over coffee, eggs, toast, and a fruit cup. We are amused by the convenience of this sexual encounter. We see our love in their love; they mirror each other, and it is endearing. We are not smitten with these boys, but with the idea of them. They are not romantic; they are vulgar, and we like it. We are not looking for love or exclusive-significant others and neither are they.