strange musings of a distracted spunk

If I were a superhero, what would my power be?

I could smush villainous foes with my miracle-gro boobs. A tweak of the nipple and off they go, expanding outwards till they constrict the life out of my dastardly doer like a cobra.

I could be the eternal dancer, leaping over their heads and knocking them out with an appropriately placed tour de jete square to their chest. My toe shoes would require constant buffing as they’d need to shine in the glow of the moonlight.

I could whip words from my pen, the lexicon of my tongue snaking towards them in a slither, wrapping themselves around their ankles as I leave them with a scribed notation dictating my assured authority.

I could recite Shakespeare’s soliloquies, my ears deaf to their cries of too much of thee, thou, and thine.

If I were a superhero, what would my cover be?

Would I be a cubicle monkey by day? Excel spreadsheets, copy machine-itis, catwalking down the hallway in heels when I think no one’s looking, surreptitiously grabbing post-its and index cards to sneak home to document my adventures at night?

I could be a librarian, but that’s so trite. Besides, Catwoman’s already got that covered.

There’s always the sordid profession of development and fundraising, with eclectic hours, gala affairs, gleaming dresses and pompous speeches. It shan’t be too difficult to explain an absence, with all the things that could go wrong in soliciting money from wealthy individuals.

Maybe I could be a perpetual student, learned in the ways of literature, arts administration, business, publishing, mythology, fairy tales and folk lore. Who would suspect the girl in jeans, a sweatshirt that begged, “Talk nerdy to me,” and a pair of old, faded, paint spattered Vans?

If I were a superhero, where would my allegiance lay?

Would my city of protection be that of skyscrapers, of King Kong’s old haunt, and a thinly veiled Gotham City?

Or perhaps mine would be a land where the earth quakes, shivers under my feet as hills roll behind me, the sea glistening out to forever (or at least Asia.)

It might just be a city of political wind and blustering shivers, home to Wrigley and his gum, field, and ville.

I could make do like the moon prowling the earth at night until I hear the call, casting shadows where I must, nomadic, restless by nature, discontent to settle until the sun rises again.

I always forget what color my eyes turn when I cry.

It’s this bright blue, almost turquoise color, with hints of green, a Caribbean Sea in my irises.

The first time I met him, we exchanged bespectacled glances. Black frames covered his green eyes, brown frames covered my blue. There was no way of detecting the instant comfort I would feel with him, as we rolled skeeballs or played air hockey. I couldn’t expect the circles he would draw on my skin that night or the kiss that would melt me before any of the clothes came off. I had no anticipation; I lived in the moment, savoring each touch, breath, our eyes meeting as his lips drew closer to mine.

We fought, about how he stopped treating me like a romantic prospect and instead as just a friend. I flashed anger, while he flashed humor and amusement, a smile quirking at the corner of his eyes. It was the first I had heard of his potential move back to Chicago, and I sat in his office, wearing a bathing suit, a mini skirt and a t-shirt, having just gotten back from the beach. He wore a blue shirt, jeans, and blue converses. To this day, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to buy or see a pair of blue converses without thinking of the holes that patched through his shoes. With a few boops and thumb wars, the anger dissolved; only the intensity and passion remained. I’m pretty sure we could be heard over the cacophony that is 14th and 1st.

One of our last days together before he moved back to Chicago, I sat on his bed, laughing with him. He looked at me, suddenly serious. “You have the most beautiful eyes,” he told me. “I can’t tell if they’re green or blue in this light.” I told him they were blue. He said, “They’re beautiful either way.” His white comforter absorbed our last memories in his apartment. When we would say goodbye, for the third time, having tried it twice before he left, the words unable to scribe themselves into our hearts.

He picked me up in a red station wagon, nerves tremoring through his body. We hadn’t seen each other in a few months, our conversations relegated to text, and when I could, IM and Skype. We drove around, finally stopping in the parking lot of the school he teaches at. I couldn’t see the pale green of his eyes anymore; I could only feel his lips, querulously pressed against mine, unsure, as though he had forgotten how I tasted. Once he absorbed the flavor, it was as though we had never been apart. His eyes watched mine shut as he rocked my hips against his, in the back of his wagon, a satisfied smirk at his lips.

We talked again. It had been a few weeks since he said he couldn’t do it anymore. We both said hurtful, spiteful things, after months of feeling as though we were floating on clouds. I asked him a pointed question, and saw a tear roll out of his eye. He watched the tears stream from mine. He always did love when I cried after I came, but not when it was like this. We said we’d give it another go.

I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t be made to feel like he wanted everything and he wanted it now, even after he gave me an ultimatum, after he told me we had to end if I couldn’t do what he wanted. I couldn’t be his friend and his girlfriend when he could be so little of either to me. The burnt lightbulb gave me dark in which to cry, to compose my thoughts, to realize it was time to etch him out of my heart and say goodbye. I couldn’t be friends, let alone a lover to someone whose eyes I could no longer read. The last I saw of them last night, they were tired; appreciative; wanting. Always wanting.

I always forget what color my eyes turn when I cry.

I wonder what he would say if he saw their color now.

Dear Taye Diggs (and Andrew Palermo - see dre.dance),

Thank you for somehow making it impossible for me to sit on my butt. Whatever muscles I had between the bone and the skin (because I have the boniest butt ever) feels like someone’s been yanking my ass cheeks and putting them back in place via extenders. On the bright side, I do think this is the biggest my butt’s ever been. Shake that booty thang!

Oh, and by the way, excellent dancing. Really. I might have given up approximately eight minutes before the hip hop class ended, because my body was in severe danger of becoming like one of my sister’s old Barbie dolls - (I was just trying to comb her hair, okay? I didn’t mean for her head to pop off every time!), but the contemporary jazz class more than made up for the sheer tenacity required to do some of that pop and locking. So for every time I cringe when I have to get up off a chair, I will remember the random feelings of glee I felt during the entire three or four hour process. McGee can confirm.

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Dear Tampax,

I know I’ve wrote you once, but it seems you didn’t get the memo. When my uterus starts bleeding, I’m not looking for something that looks like a penis to stick up my vagina. Seriously, there have been a few small boys thrown in there, and your product, my vagina-happy friend, is much bigger than those boys who were more about the wiggling than the dicking. Perhaps you might want to reconsider your product image. Just a thought.

Also. Why are you the brand of choice for bathroom dispensers?

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Dear GDB,

If I’m sugartits, does that make you candydick?

But really. It kills me to know that you still want me, that you still want to be with me, and we just can’t. I shouldn’t have signed onto Skype tonight, because it was too easy to see how much you still want it to be us, and even when I said no to your flirtations, I still felt rejected anyway.

I hate that the one girl who managed to make me feel insecure about you and your feelings for me is flying out to see you this weekend. Even though we’re over, I still want you to be wishing it were me and not someone else. That said, I realize nothing might happen and everything might happen. I know it’s a double standard, as I’ve been making an effort to get out there again, but is it wrong of me to want you to miss me and think about how much we had before you freaked out and gave me an ultimatum?

I hate that it’s not right and it’s not us anymore.  It reminds me of Jessica Darling and the postcards Marcus sent her, cryptic, each one a tantalizing word to a longer sentence. I. Wish. Our. Love. Was. Right. Now.

Truer words had never been spoken.

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Dear David’s Bridal,

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

So I drive over, forgetting that if I wear a tank top under a partially zipped hoodie, my boobs overwhelm the tank top to the point that I look like I’m just wearing a bra and a hoodie (explains all the curious looks) to try on the dress for L & J’s wedding this summer. I try a dress on, different dress but right color just to see how it looks in a size six. The waist fits perfectly. The top? Hell no if my zipper’s going to remotely reach the small of my back. As it is, the sweater bunnies are ready to pop out of the shiny blue fabric. I was worried that the dress would be of the sort that would somehow fade me out because I am that pale, and all the photographer would get is a flash of red hair, but now, I know it will be red hair and just boobies everywhere. Excellent.

So I try a size eight, right dress, wrong color. Waist is a bit big. Zipper? Refuses. It took a stance, along the guys at the Alamo, and said it just wasn’t going to allow the dress to cover my boobs. What the hell. So we zoom up to the 10. Now I’m watching the dress sag somewhere around my rib cage, bypassing the boobs that have plans to take over the world. I’ll just be dragged along for the ride, somewhere between my skin and the muscles that connect the boobs of death to me. And the waist? Forget it. Somewhere in there, is my actual waist line. So I buy the 10, well aware that I will most likely be spending double the cost of the dress in alterations alone. Excellent.

Boobs? You can stop growing now. What the hell am I going to do with you two if I ever get pregnant!?

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Dear random girl at David’s Bridal who happened to be wearing the exact dress I needed to get in the exact color:

Thank you for not staring at me like a freak when I asked you what your size was so I could maybe try your dress on to see what it will look like in the right style and color. Even more so for offering to take a picture of me with my camera cell phone so I could show off the lovely blue goodness to Jack of All Trades and Pea in a Pod.

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Dear girl scout cookies,

I discovered your shortbread today. Mind you, for the first 14 years of my life, I thought girl scouts was fictional. I don’t think parents are willing to let their kids go knocking on random doors in Brooklyn. At least not in the neighborhood I grew up, and that was one of the nicer ones. I like your business very much. I imagine it’s the cookies that keep you in business. Incidentally. Is the cookie aspect of girl scouts in your mission statement? If not, it should be.

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Dear watchers of America’s Best Dance Crew,

*stands on soapbox*

What in the hell were you thinking when you voted Break Sk8 through to the next round? Just because you can gyrate on skates DOES NOT MAKE YOU A DANCER! Oh, and also? Iconic? Left far too soon. I’ve had enough of Live in Color’s booty popping, Break Sk8’s “look at me, I can skate” diddyness, and Status Quo is good at the show business, but not so much on the technicality.

If those stupid skating boys are at the top again, I’ll find some skates and throw them at your head so you all can’t vote anymore.

*sits back down*

P.S. See Princess Pointful? I can watch TV like a normal person. Sort of.

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Dear U.S. Government,

Thank you for the random money you keep sending my way. As the checks continue to show up in my mailbox without any explanation, I’ll be sure to fortify my travel expenses with your dollars.

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Dear irate girl (or guy),

I don’t actually know what the story is. But when I came home and found the street lined with broken records, I’m going to guess there was a messy break up, and the poor records were the victim. Conveniently, I looked up and saw an open window, but there were no records whizzing out of the window. I was a bit disappointed, as I had always wanted to experience a dumping of someone else’s material possessions onto the front lawn. Or in our case, the sidewalk.

At any rate, it was pretty fun guessing which vinyl I might find next, smashed into pieces as I walked from the corner to my apartment. You must have been on quite a spree; as far as I could tell, the devastation went around my block and onto the main street in town.

I hope he or she deserved it!

Sometimes I get frustrated with having to process thought on three separate levels. Unlike most individuals, I can’t just listen and process and translate in a snap second, a response on the tip of my tongue. I feel sharper in the written world than I do in the verbal, mostly because it’s too easy for me to miss a crucial line of a joke or statement. Nothing ruins a joke faster than someone asking you to repeat it, after everyone else has laughed.

I suppose that was one of the things I loved about D. No matter where we were, what we did, he would always make me feel part of it, even when he was teasing me about my fake deafness. If there was something going on and I couldn’t understand, he wouldn’t tell me never mind, or brush it off. He’d just enunciate carefully, having learned at the stern hand of my need to make it easier on me. We could be at a loud concert, and he’d text me instead of trying to scream at me across the crowd. Or he’d stand on the opposite side of a crowded room, lip reading to me and telling me jokes to make me laugh, to the point where I didn’t care for anyone’s attention. There was a sense of a secret world that only we shared, and that might be part of why it took me so long to give up on the hope that it would be us.

On post secret the other day, someone wrote, I’m scared that because I’m minoring in American Sign Language in college my kids will be deaf one day. Immediately, I wanted to find the person who wrote that, shake them up, tell them that deafness is not the end of the world. That I think it’s made me work harder to prove that not only was I as good as everyone else, but I could be better. That I could be the best dancer, the best writer, the best basketball player, the best student, etc. I don’t doubt there’s a modicum of overachievement drizzled through my blood, but I think the disability forces me to push myself even harder to be someone. I don’t want to be the deaf girl. I want to be the girl who gets up at graduation and gives a speech, her slight lisp the only indication that she might be something out of the ordinary.

I should perhaps clarify. I wasn’t born deaf. Deaf is something that came to me shortly before my eighteenth birthday. For the fifteen or so years prior to that, I was simply hearing impaired. A beige compact device snug against my ear, the mold often a clear color, shielded by long hair and extravagant earrings. I’ve never learned to sign more than the alphabet and a few words, and that was my decision. I chose to be part of the oral world, knowing full well that my role in the oral world would be a much different one than most. For starters, the mouth would be accompanied by the body language and the most minute gestures others easily miss. When I say fake deaf, it’s because I don’t exist on the realm of true deaf individuals, fingers flashing and lips moving in a mimicry of what sound must look like. But I don’t entirely fall easily onto the hearing realm either - when my boss pronounces a name I’m unfamiliar with, I must ask her to write it down because certain letters get lost between the vowels and consonants I do recognize. Instead, I float somewhere in between, where I dictate the rules of how my language both communicates and interprets.

I’ve never wanted to be the stereotype, something a boss of mine once ascribed to me when I worked at Nordstrom for three summers. She would repeat things over and over, slowly, as though my brain were at fault, and not just the nerves inside my cochlear. I secretly relished all the times she would get flustered and annoyed at my ability to pick up on things quickly, because I was supposed to be the dumb deaf girl. In a way, the hearing, processing, and translating functions of my false ears only serve to speed the efficiency at which my mind works. It flows from subject to thought without a single glance, only to return back to the same subject hours later, having traveled to Jupiter and back in the same time it takes to twist off a bottle cap.

Granted, there are just some things I can’t do. I can’t play team sports that involve coordination and collaboration, because I won’t ever hear someone call my name. I can’t follow in my parents’ footsteps and be a lifeguard. I can’t go whitewater rafting and actively participate because my movements won’t be in sync with the others. But when there’s a can’t, I make a can. My grand jete is always going to be more graceful and to the leap of the bass, and I am one heck of a ping pong player, if I do say so myself.

If I weren’t deaf, I might just be average. And then I’d be boring. Instead, I get to watch the way words spark off someone’s tongue, how their lip rolls give their emotions away before they even say their thoughts. I can play voyeur to an unwitting conversation on the bus or train. I can think more about the words and their meaning, see through the false layers and to the flickering jumps from their vocal chords to the outward world. It may not be something I’d necessarily wish on someone else, but it seems to me I’m doing just fine with it. We cope. We learn. We live. There are always sidesteps. But my deafness doesn’t need to be mine.

Ever stand on a subway platform, waiting for a train, and think, “What would happen if someone took a flying leap just as the train pulled into the station?” Or better yet, “What would happen if I jumped in? Could I get back onto the platform easily enough?” I’m not suicidal. I’ve never been suicidal. But sometimes, I think I have the absence of the fear drug in my veins. I would swing on a trapeze, yards above the ground, a safety net and harness my security zone, and yet, if I happened to miss the trapeze and free fall through the air, I was okay with that too.

Maybe I think I’m invincible, because I’ve managed to pull myself from the emotional wreckage that would overwhelm me and still come out standing, as though I just climbed my own personal Mount Everest. I look at the things I’ve experienced, done, learned, and sometimes I think I’ve been dealt a hard hand. Other times, I think I’ve been given tests to prove what I can do, because so many around me are convinced that I’ll pull out of it, just because that’s who I am. I deal with it in my own way, as long as it may take necessarily, and then I eventually move on. Sometimes, I wish people didn’t have so much faith in me.

In the throes of adrenaline fueled split second daydreams, I’ve found myself contemplating, what would happen if I didn’t turn the wheel as I drive this roundabout? Would I crash? Would I simply have a fender bender? Would I live in a hospital, a breathing tube the only remainder of who I am? Or if I just happened to walk out into the street anyway, regardless of the cars speeding past me. Would the hand that’s been played for me surpass my momentary lapse of judgment?

My most self-destructive acts lend themselves to men and vacuum cleaners. But that’s a whole series of stories with no place here; the main point is there are little to no emotions involved. Sometimes, I think the wall I shield myself with is the same wall that keeps life from hurting me physically. I wouldn’t down pills with alcohol, or jump off a bridge, or typically cliche acts of self-mutilation. No, my inclination would be to jump off a moving ferry, just to see how deep the water is when I break the surface. Would I get sucked in the undertow? Or am I strong enough to move away from the boat?

The adrenaline rush of actually fighting for my life thrills me, but only when I willingly put myself in the face of danger. I doubt I’d fare well at the hands of a stranger or unintentional accident. It’s morbid, but maybe I feel as though my life has come too easy for me, that the only scars on me are the ones I have from riding my bike into a chain link fence, covered with thorny roses and the like. That my scars are criss crossing my arteries, my veins, the ligaments and fibers that hold my body together, but to look at me, there are just the clear blue eyes, the pale skin that’s almost translucent, the light freckles, and the chapped lips of winter.

Perhaps I wish for the emotional scorns to adorn my body, as though to say, “Look at me. I’ve been broken. I’ve been reshaped into something I never expected to be. I’ve been damaged, torn, shredded, patched together only to be ripped apart again. And I’m still here.” Perhaps I want nothing more than to wear my heart on my sleeve for a change; its pulse beating to the tempo of my miscadence; the scars visible at the ready, adrenaline a recreational drug in the sense of roller coasters and love.

He asked me if I wanted to take a shower with him. The third guy I had ever kissed; the first an unnamed stranger at a teen night, and the second, a boy I met two nights later and greatly resembled Justin Timberlake in his N’ Sync days. I had just started volunteering at the local first aid squad, and he immediately took a liking to me, seeing right through the baggy gray sweats and the oversized blue Billabong shirt, my red corkscrews in a pony tail down to my waist. There was mild flirtation, and a day later, Thailand told me he had been asked for my number.

It had only been about three months since I had met him, and already he had managed to circumvent the beginning of our relationship with the beginning of another - that of a friend named Kim (thus began the Kim complex). Partially bored, partially curious, and partially spiteful, I agreed to shower with him after having made out with him, the newest Scott Bakula Star Trek playing in the background (his interest, not mine.) There was no great passion with him - just mild curiosity.

I’m pretty sure I had my period, but he wasn’t all too worried. The blood could run into the bathtub as we fucked, I gathered. There was no pretension of love or romance - though he did light a few candles, including one memorable Hershey’s flavored candle. I always thought it smelled more like shit than chocolate. Three years older than me, and much more experienced, though how, I don’t know. He had a charm that could woo any girl, despite his pathological lies and his unconventional looks - somewhat resemblant of a squashed fly with beautiful blue eyes and blond hair. A weakness of mine, as had already been foretold.

We tried it standing up, but even at sixteen, I was already three inches taller than him, a full three years older than me. His penis just would not reach my vagina, no matter how hard he tried. I laid down in the bathtub, only to find laying in the bathtub against the cold ceramic tile, my spine pressed against the tub awkwardly and uncomfortably, was not exactly where I wanted to lose my virginity. It seemed I had some conventions after all. I suggested we move to his bed, and after he laid a towel and moved the candles to his room, we tried again.

I don’t remember the kisses, or him entering me. I recall it being slightly pressured, as it is with any guy after a long drought, and then it being easy. He asked me if I was truly a virgin, because it seemed too easy, not painful enough. (Why is it that women are supposed to take on all the pain during sex and pregnancy? Just every once in a while, I’d like to see a boy with a bruised penis or waddling down the street after crazy sex.) Knowing the kind of boy he is now, for he will never be anything but a boy, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gossiped to others that I was a slut because of my ease of entrance - I’m pretty sure I heard stories after I dumped him about my wild wanton ways.

It wasn’t anything cataclysmic or special. It wasn’t until I met GDB that I knew how amazing sex could be - I was aware it could be enjoyable, yes, but never to the point where I couldn’t even pronounce GDB’s name, which is all of one syllable and ends in “oh!” My lovers in the past were quite satisfactory, but I never allowed myself to get emotionally involved to the point where sex could be blissful in its passion. So I lay there, not entirely sure of what I was supposed to do, but having read enough Cosmo magazines and seen enough porn, I figured I should try the whole arched back, bucked hips, legs spread thing. My years of dance and flexibility may have assisted me in the movements.

The whole thing may have lasted minutes or an hour. I don’t actually know. It was more a rite of passage. Once I entered through the archway, I could say, “All right, well that’s taken care of now. What’s next?” I knew early on that my first wouldn’t be my only, and that hopefully, the passion would come later. He pulled out of me, slid the condom off. I sat up, went to the bathroom, and put another tampon in. There were no regrets.

Scene: Picture a sick, sniffly, and coughing DS, who was looking forward to a night with her bed and DVR now at the Apple Store at Emeryville when Sophia (her mac) froze and came back with a blue screen of death. The apple icon was switched for a blinking suitcase with a question mark, as though the hard drive had gone on vacation and left a suitcase in place of the hard drive.

DS:

Well, that’s only the fifth hard drive in six years, and the first one for this computer. I guess it’s a record, because when I had the Dell, within a month, the hard drive crashed and I lost everything. Hm, maybe I should read the book I brought with me? I hope this guy doesn’t mind that I just took over this stool by one of the free computers, but there’s another thirty or so computers, he can find another one. Hey, did I put underwear on? I don’t remember if I did or not today.

Ooh, my book - how long did the girl say it would be again? *reads* *looks up* Oh, that boy is kinda cute. And so’s his friend. Should I eye flirt with him? That’s pretty cool if I’m getting eye flirted with in my purple NYU sweatshirt and scrubbiest jeans. I don’t even think I washed my face or put concealer on before I left (hi, period, can you make this upcoming visit a short one? and take the stress breakout with you? okay, thanks, great!) *reads*

Man, they get a lot of people in this store. I’m not sure how they have this whole system down - it seems like a lot of people stand around and in no particular order get called forth. Oh neeaaaaatttttt. They have videos of tricks of the Apple trade! Oh, I want to see my name up on the mac board! Are there really twelve people in front of me? *reads*

They called my name! Whoo! Only 42 minutes after they put me on the list! Gooooooo standby! That girl was really sweet, she could have told me to go home and come back another day, but she made sure I would get in tonight. Also, I really like that she referred to me as the redhead. I don’t know why, but I do. And this kid who is helping me should maybe…take some customer service lessons because he appears fake fake fake.

Yeah, five hard drives in six years, but this is the first Apple. Yes, I know I have bad luck, I don’t need you to remind me of it. Oh, really? These hard drives rarely go to crap? How lovely. I wonder if Apple corporation fired you or relocated you to retail because you don’t know a small thing called tact.

What? You can’t recover my old hard drive? Well…I guess that’s okay. *gasp* I just lost all those (naked) photos of GDB! *starts to tear up* Oh hey! Gmail! Savior! *smiles like an idiot* Oh I’m so awesome! I have all my stuff backed up on my iPod. Whooo! I’mma do a happy dance!

Hm. I wonder if the porn I downloaded a few nights ago might have killed my hard drive? Oh, okay, it was just a faulty device. What? I’m not enrolled for the warranty I bought last year when I had no money? Huh. I wonder how that happened. Well, the warranty is probably back in New Jersey at mom’s house - what? The box the laptop came in? Who the hell keeps the box the laptop came in? I need it to register my warranty? What bullshit. Apple, you and I are not friends anymore.

Did you really just tell me you don’t think I’m very organized based on the fact that I don’t know where my paperwork is or a computer I bought over a year ago? Dude. I’ve moved between three states and at least six apartments between the last year, I’m lucky I even know where I am anymore. Though I am pretty sure the warranty and other papers are in the bottom of my closet at mom’s house in the blue bin. Take that, you corporate Apple wannabe employee!

*cough* Aw crap. I forgot I was sick. *cough cough sniffle* This better be gone by Sunday, cause I’m dancing with Taye Diggs, no matter what. Hey, why is the computer installing Italian? I don’t speak Italian. Oh. It’s also installing Indian. And traditional Mandarin. And Swedish. Okay, that works. I wonder if I can start setting it up the way I like? Dude, I’m going to be up all night downloading and installing and putting things together, aren’t I?

So I’m never getting my old hard drive back? Ever? I guess…that’s okay. In a way, it’s sort of like getting a new computer. Oh shoot, I wonder if I know where the password is to get onto the network. I’m glad I remembered to tape America’s Next Top Model tonight.

Done? Really? I just have to install 491 programs tonight? Sweet. Hm. I really kinda have to pee.

My shirt was hooked instead of buttons; easy access, low cut with a black lace bra plunging out of it. I think I was still in the low C’s at that time. He wore a stained wife beater with jeans hanging somewhere around his ass line, a red hat with a messy black wig under it. My skirt barely skimmed my thigh, and I’m pretty sure I was wobbling in my heels.

Somehow, we found each other amidst the flaming gays and oversexed (or undersexed?) girls. K and I had only just ended weeks before, and Thailand had been begging me to come up and visit him at Vassar for months now. Finally, I relented and grabbed a blue overnight bag, hopped on the train, and showed up in Poughkeepsie.

I’m not really sure how I ended up in his lap only hours after stepping off the train. I saw him in the hallway as we preened and delighted in other people’s costumes, before somehow, our eye paths crossed and inevitably, did the rest of us. He had a name I loved to roll off my tongue, exotic, reminiscent of blue skies with nary a cloud in sight. When the wig came off, I saw the blond moptop, the sparkling blue eyes, and I fell sideways into wow.

We talked. And laughed. And flirted gently, him brushing my arm, me leaning against him. We were both shy, a rarity for me. A friend teased me for showing up for a weekend and snagging one of the few single straight guys at Vassar. Our attempt at dancing went by the wayside as we found ourselves laughing and pointing out all the absurd costumes at the school-wide Halloween party. My personal favorite was the boy who wore a party hat over his dick; I wondered how he managed to get the string over his butt without snapping it, a talent we both admired.

The scene grew old fast, and after returning a pen to the security guard whom I had borrowed it from hours earlier to further complete my look as a sexy secretary, we returned back to his dorm. I changed into jeans and a t-shirt, and met him, the real him, freshly scrubbed, blond and blue. He was a cross-country runner, so basically, he was 100% my type. We walked around Vassar, he took me to the Shakespeare gardens. A night that was typically cold, being the end of October, was surprisingly warm, and our hands brushed against each other, doing the i like you dance, leaping synapses and nerves between our fingertips.

I don’t remember the first time he kissed me, nor the second. I remember falling asleep against him that night, amazed at how intense of a connection I could have with someone, so shortly after what felt like the most devastating non-breakup I had ever experienced. I remember waking up early in the morning and sneaking back outside with him, to sit on a park bench as we watched the sun rise, before we went back to bed. I remember how easily I fell against his chest, how easily we matched up, how his height didn’t overwhelm me, but even though he was skinnier than I, he still made me feel safe and secure.

He had made plans for the day previously, not anticipating the chance meeting that would introduce me to him. So off he went, and off I went, with promises to meet up again that night. Thailand berated me for disappearing on him when I was supposed to be there to see him, but secretly he was thrilled, after how unhappy I had been with the K breakup. We were invited to my new paramour’s dinner, but unexpectedly, he had to drive a friend to the hospital after she almost sliced her finger off.

We were losing time, I was leaving the next day. I said sure, okay, when I really wanted to say stay. Hours later, he surprised me at one of the school’s haunted houses, taking my hand as we walked through the house. When I jumped at more or less everything, and lost my shoe, he snuck in a quick kiss, sending light and buoyancy searing through me despite the dark and red house. The air was warm, humid, enveloping us in its languidness, as though this is how it was meant to be, always.

One more time, we spent the night in his room, kissing, talking, touching, cuddling. His twin size XL fit us both comfortably, but my hours of non-sleep from the week before and now the weekend caught up to me. We slept, our bodies aligned in sleep as comfortably as we were in consciousness. Sunday came, with my return home, with promises of we’d see each other again soon. Nothing lasts, because everything must change, as did we. But for one perfect weekend, I had everything I could ever want.

We spoke tonight, and though it’s been years since we met, that initial twinge was still there. For a brief moment in time, I was his and he was mine, and that will always still be there. I guess no matter what happens, your heart will always beat a certain chime when someone who knew the tune plays the right chords.

(It seems I’m on Indie Bloggers again today. You might have seen this one the first time around.)

“I’m bringing my inner sexy back,” I told my friend over dinner tonight, as we talked about the emotional consequences of a relationship or break up.

He laughed at my unintentional pop culture reference, which had come up based on his new sense of presence. He was bright eyed and cheery, his confidence and self-esteem leveled up to the nth power, now that he’s been seeing a new girl regularly. I told him as much, and he noted that most of his friends and coworkers had said the same. It only served to reinforce my theories about inner sexy.

One thing that becomes a staple of any relationship is the security and confidence that comes from knowing that at the end of the night, no matter what happened that day, there’s still someone you can talk to and exchange praise and compliments, building up your inner happiness. It’s the invisible hand that allows you to step out of your comfort zone because the one person you want to impress already adores you, so who cares about the rest?

With the ending of my relationship with GDB, the invisible hand at my back has slipped away. And that’s fine. But what surprises me is how much I am now realizing we have to function at a subconscious level to just even float through the day without that invisible hand. I found myself caught between two cute boys on the subway over the weekend. I realized as I read my book that my expressions became more exaggerated, possibly for the effect of those two or any of the other males on the train. I wasn’t content to just sit and read. I had to now put myself out there again, whereas before, I would have whizzed through the pages between stops, knowing that a brief subway flirtation was nothing compared to what I had waiting for me at home.

When I talked to a friend about this sudden lack of inner sexy, she immediately understood, having just broken up with her own boyfriend recently. “It’s like I have to start being in the “On the prowl” mindset, and it’s not natural to me. I have to think about how to have eye sex, and scope out the situations I’m in now,” she said. When you’re used to only having eye sex with one person (or text sex, or webcam sex, or net sex), it can be overwhelming having to readapt to how to flirt with someone whose buttons you don’t already know how to push.

I’ve been craving that sense of familiarity and comfort, that invisible hand that made me feel even more confident and sexy as I walked through the days. Where I would think, “Man. GDB would be all over me right now if he were here.” It’s not the same when you look in the mirror and say, “Hey left boob! You’re looking mighty good today! And you, right thigh, I’m mighty impressed with you, especially with the way you squeezed those machines today!” As strong as I might be, and as confident I might be, it never hurts to have someone who I am so intrinsically attracted to reflect their own attraction to me.

My self-confidence isn’t damaged; it’s just not at the same level it was before. I’ve come to learn that I can always find someone to spoil me with attention and flirtatious jokes; indeed, this is the first time I’m not turning to a line of suitors waiting for me to declare it their turn today. Mostly because I’m not in New York anymore, and the few that have offered to fly out intimidate me due to their expectations. I’m sure I could easily find a one-night stand out here, but I don’t want that. I want the same level of respect and care and concern I found with GDB, but I also want my inner sexy back.

Without realizing it, I did several things working towards reclaiming her. I bought my vibrator on Friday night. I browsed through various lingerie websites, noting that I feel sexier in cute lingerie than I do in just torn underwear and one of my regular bras. I put up an account on an online dating site, just because even getting a few messages and hits can insta-boost my self-esteem. I’m not sure that I’m ready to start dating yet, but I don’t think it will hurt to meet more testosterone-based individuals on this side of the country.

It’s not the same as having GDB back in my life, not even close, but I realize, I need to move on. I need to experience my life here, and it can’t just be with my sparkly vibrator. As much as I love my friends here (mostly female), I can only be around so much estrogen, and for a girl who has more male friends than female friends normally, I need that sense of camaraderie and potential flirtation to put me back in my element. I’m not really sure what I’m trying to say at this point, or if it even makes sense. I just know that I don’t mind if my inner sexy goes into hibernation for a bit. But eventually, I’ll have to drag her out because I know what I have working for me, and I know that I am worthy of finding someone who will treat me the way I deserve. I might have a few slow days, and a few days where I absolutely feel completely scrubby and unconfident at all. But then I’ll put on my Ralph Lauren “Ralph” body lotion, which makes me sparkle all over, slip on lacy boyshorts and a bra that makes my boobs truly look epic, flirt with a few male friends online, and forge out into the unknown.

A girl can only be a pumpkin for so long.

Friday afternoon found me at the Pirate Store for a little while, where I’ve decided to start volunteering in the hopes of making sense of my degree, my life, and remembering my passions, because I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing anymore. Consequently, I ended up in Good Vibrations shortly after – basically, THE sex shop in San Francisco and the East Bay. Because apparently Good Vibrations has all the answers to my life. Or maybe that’s just the Beach Boys.

I wandered in, and while I had looked at vibrators online, I had never actually handled them before. It was a bit disorienting to actually pick them up and feel them pulsing and vibrating and turning in my hand. A girl stood next to me looking at vibrators, and we both ended up asking each other for advice, being first-timers. How do you know what you want from a vibrator? It’s not like you can just stick ‘em in and say, oh yes, this is the one. Is there a turn-on test? After feeling it in your hand, if the heat starts shooting out of your va-jay-jay, you know it’s the one? The proverbial glass slipper to your Cinderella? How do you know?

We both perused the sex toy book that offered advice on picking the best vibrator. But there was no checklist to ask questions like: Do you prefer clitoral stimulation? Yes? Okay, check out the bullet type vibrators. See:

A) Butterfly.
B) Bee.
C) Bullet (That was a given. Is there a reason all of them start with a B?)

Do you want perineum and anal and vaginal? See the G spot vibrator that has this little funny looking thing attached to the end of it. There’s approximately 17 vibrators for this, and they all look the same, just in different colors.

If you just want straight on sex with testicles and veins and coloring of an actual human, head for the dildos. They even had make your own dildo, which GDB and I had discussed but never actually found or done. I saw one that was the width of basically my calves, which are quite solid due to nineteen years of dancing. How does that fit up anyone’s hoo-ha? And how on earth is that possibly pleasurable? I mean, I guess if you’re into the whole S&M thing, but wouldn’t that make any sex with a small(er) penis more or less useless?

I wandered around, observing the various bondage supplies they had (doorhanging sex? Let’s do it!), the harnesses, the ropes, the whips, the riding crops, and the porn videos. I considered looking through the videos to see if they had my alter ego’s videos (There is actually a porn star who shares my name which is the least utterly porn-ish sounding name ever), but I opted against it. Insert story here about how K and I went into several sex shops in the summer of 2003 to find her videos to compare my alter ego with me.

Finally, I ended up standing in front of the four Rabbits they had on display. Now, I’ve heard good things about the Rabbit. We’ve ALL heard good things about the Rabbit. Hell, anyone who has ever seen Charlotte abandoning reality for nights with her snuggly bunny knows about the Rabbit. So there’s this sparkly purple one. And a sparkly pink one. And a less sparkly blue one. (I am not a sparkly anything one.) If I were totally honest, I’d tell you the bunny ears that’s about the same size of the bunny itself freaked me out a bit. Especially when they started twitching. I’m supposed to do what with that now?

After a good half hour of looking through and rotating them and letting them gyrate against my hand, I decided on the Rabbit. I figured if I’m not getting real peni, then I might as well get one that’s going to serve well in the adventures of single DS and has lots and lots of good recommendations. The book recommended lube, and I said, “Okay,” and almost a hundred dollars later, I walked out of the store with three triple A batteries, lube, and my sparkly purple vibrator.

“I feel like I just made my first grownup purchase,” I told the store lady before I left. “In a way, you kinda did,” she replied.

Several hours later, I’ve opened up my box and examined my very own Rabbit. The bunny ears still freak me out. And now I’m wondering how exactly this works. See, I’m used to the very minimum of introduction before I let anyone go wandering around down there. “Oh hey, you’re drunk? Me too! Okay, let’s fool around!” Do you just stick it in there and say, “Okay, do your thing!” Should there be some fondling? Like…I’ll grope the shaft end of it, and then you can…well, we know what you can do? Should I take it out to dinner? What do Rabbits like anyway? Lube?

How does one introduce one’s self to a new vibrator?

Me: Well…I’m DS. I like dancing, reading, and long walks on the beach.
Bunny: silence
Me: I moved out here in August, how about you?
Bunny: silence
Me: Well maybe we should you know…try this.
Bunny: whirrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Me: Aha!

Just like a man.

After a successful round with my new friend, I had several thoughts as I am still not yet sure if this is the right one for me. Such as:

A) Vibrators should come with a manual. How to properly hold vibrator for maximum effect. Aka, how do I get you to make me screaming in orgiastic frenzy? Cross-reference with sex books at Good Vibrations. This may require more experimentation.

B) If you have a poor imagination or are easily distracted, a vibrator may not be for you. Note: Must find naked pictures of sexy man (or print ones of GDB - we’ve given each other allowances to fantasize about the other even though we’re not together anymore) and put on ceiling.

C) I do believe there should be a test designed to determine if you and the vibrator are the right fit, assuredly. Some concerns I didn’t know I had: Yes, I do want this to hit my g spot! How do you make this go faster? and I’m not sure this is long enough. I have high standards, and I tend to find boys who are well…well-endowed. True story. It’s not like I walk around looking at men’s penises to judge what it’s going to look like when the clothes come off. It just sort of…happens.

D) Lube makes things slippery. I forgot about this aspect. (Can you tell how long it’s been since I’ve had sex?) Similarly, why don’t vibrators have an ergonomically designed handle or at least an easy-grip one?

E) Just how deep is this thing supposed to go? I can’t exactly be sure if I’ve gotten it right or if there’s more leeway cause well, I’m kinda busy getting busy. It’s purple for a while, but do you use all of the purple? Some of the purple?

I was worried I’d become dependent on my new vibrator, but I realized I don’t want to have to do all the work in sex, including manhandling a bunny. It’s a lot more work to be the pleasurer and pleasuree simultaneously than it is to just be mutually pleasured. Also, the whirring noise isn’t as much of a turn on as, “Oh god yes, fuck yeah, c’mon baby, do it,” and all those other sundry statements.  I think it’s safe to say that as enjoyable as a vibrator might be, it will never compare to being with a real penis. And maybe the guy attached to it.