strange musings of a distracted spunk

What do you do when your vibrator breaks?

A. E-mail the following?

Hello!

This might be a bit of a strange e-mail, but my rabbit habit vibrator broke. Not because of overuse (perhaps from underuse?) but simply, because the battery pack fell off. The shaft no longer works, though the bunny ears twitch quite well, but there is something to be said about trying to use a vibrator when it has wires sticking out and a battery pack hanging off. A vibrator in general is not nearly as appealing as a genuine cock, and sadly, a vibrator with wires (and somewhat reminiscent of a floppy dick) is even less so. And yes, I am quite aware that this is slightly absurd; I should really just go out and find another penis, but I just broke up with the one I really liked best.

Is there any way I can get an exchange for my vibrator? I only bought it in mid-February, and it broke in the beginning of May, but I was unable to do anything about it as I was traveling for the next month and half. Now that I’m back in one place, I’d like to see what can be done about getting my Rabbit Habit fixed. Thank you!

B. Research vibrator repair shops? I feel like the people who work in a vibrator repair shop would be akin to the kind of guy who puts on a used condom. Ick.

C. Suck it up and shell out money for a new one, even though I currently have to hide the old one behind my bed, where I fear my cats may find it and use it like a toy for their amusement. Kitten + twitching bunny ears = hours of entertainment/mortification.

In which case, I need recommendations. The Rabbit Habit’s clitoral part works well enough for me, but I’d like a bit more stimulation vaginally. Suggestions?

The youngest sexual fantasy I remember having is being dressed as Jasmine, but in the red outfit, and seducing men to get myself out of ugly situations, such as kidnappings or attempted rapes. I imagined myself witty, clever, and cunning; all things that would capably render them useless as putty in my hands. I can’t tell you why this was my youngest sexual fantasy as I don’t think the Disney company set out to give young girls new ideas on redefining the sexual norm.

I always thought I’d be sly, my hips rolling in red pants that showed off every curve I had (this of course assumed I had curves and not the stick straight boyish body I had up until I hit puberty right before college.) I never had pretensions of just who those men would be; they tend to be of the faceless sort, but as long as they had nice bodies, it didn’t matter. Steve, from Full House, who voiced Aladdin would do quite nicely, but there was something about the slightly nerdy and thin yet muscular look to Aladdin that I loved. Prince Eric was always a bit too muscular for me, but I did love his blue eyes. Slightly ironic, seeing as you know, the boy I loved for the last year is all muscle and no fat. (Jerk.) I even imagined that I’d have my own Rajah and Abu to hang out with, a carpet to lay on when I grew tired of my current scene and wanted to float elsewhere. I would have everything I needed, and my sexuality would be just one of my many charms.

I’ve never been overtly sexual, or perhaps I have, but I can’t recall ever thinking about being sexual until I saw Jasmine seducing Jafar. (I still can’t believe she kissed him!) When I watched Aladdin today, I groaned when she did. I guess we block out the parts of our minds that disturb us most. Also, I never actually pictured myself having to kiss the bad guys. I’d just trip them up with how cleverly spectacular I was.

I used to look at Victoria’s Secret catalogues and imagine myself as having one of those bodies, with large, luscious breasts and flat abs and while I knew the perfect tan was just not in the cards for me because I’m pale as sin, I thought I could decently rock a teddy or a negligee. Even the sound of the word negligee rolling off my tongue still evokes a bit of that twelve year old me who knew that one day, she would be a sex goddess. Even then, it was clear that one could use one’s femininity to get whatever one wanted from a man.

I don’t exactly know why sex became such an important factor to me; I don’t think I really truly understood what it meant until I was older, in my teens, when I held my first penis and was told, “Just pull on it, and tug it back and forth. If you keep your hand wrapped around it tight, it’ll feel really good.” So I did. I tugged. And I pulled. And at the end of it, there was a little surprise which I knew about from health class, but you never really see it in the movies. I became an expert semen-cleaner then; napkins quickly swiping at their stomach, their balls, my stomach, my breasts, wherever it happened to land really. And from that moment on, I knew that the penis was my friend.

I’ve lured boys in with my subtle maneuvers, my simple flirtations, and sometimes, my flat-out honesty. I’m sure I’ve said on at least one occasion, “Want to touch my boobs?” It helps that by now, I do have those large, luscious breasts that one does see in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. Granted, my bras range in sizes because my breasts have more mood swings than I do. I’m not ashamed to say that when I’m annoyed with something or bored, I have pulled out the bombs as a weapon to distract the male of the moment and lure them into bed. I have a 99.9% success rate.

But I’ve never had that chance to so completely and utterly seduce someone, to play the wily female of the night. I want to put it on as a costume, slip my skin into her languorous whispers in clandestine coat rooms or in a stately ballroom, wearing clothes unfamiliar to my body with the intent to have the man I want to control submit completely. (This makes me sound like I want to be a dominatrix, doesn’t it?) I want to do something so out of the norm for me, that the guy can barely speak, and he’s completely overturned by lust. I want to know that in a time where I can’t predict anything more than what I’m doing in the next minute, there is a scene I can portray that will play out much more erotically than it ever would in a Disney movie, where kisses last no more than a few seconds.

And maybe it will even involve a red outfit.

Every Saturday night of our senior year in college, one of my closest friends and I would get dressed up. Or at least she would. For me, it was a black top of some sort, with my tightest pair of jeans which weren’t very tight at all, and a pair of black boots that pushed me up to about 5′9. We would arrive before 10, so as to take advantage of the free entrance for girls, and while we would always find something to talk about, inevitably, she would attract attention and find a man (or three) to talk to. I never minded, because a few minutes later, an amaretto sour would come rolling down the pike, as I sipped on my straw and she chattered away. Having lived in Spain for the last year, she would get especially excited when she found a native Spanish speaker with whom she could practice the fluid rolling r’s of the language she loved.

The music would start, and we’d grab hands and make our way to the dance floor, regardless of how many people were dancing. If there was one thing we both knew how to do, it was dance. She moved her body with a spanish flair, the rhythm of the samba and flamenco rolling her hips to the music, a native Spaniard despite her New Jersey roots. As for me? It was always the beat pulsing, vibrating from my foot to my ears, making me part of the music rather than someone dancing to it. My body instinctively would reach out to the notes, the bass the unspoken language of its movement and it was on the dance floor we’d unleash our inner goddesses and let them follow our curves to the music.

It was no surprise that guys gravitated to us, when we were dancing so freely and without abandon. However, while she would dance with anyone because for her, it was about having a good time and dancing, for me, it was purely the movement that appealed to me. Guys would sidle up to me, their bodies pressed against my back, their hands on the lowest points of my hips, sliding down my thighs as they sought to tame the beat that resided within. Very few could move their bodies the way I needed them to for me to feel comfortable with them. There always needed to be a level of attraction for me to feel so close, so comfortable with them, and then they needed to quite simply, be able to move. Only a few guys were able to follow my body as it gyrated; most would rotate to the left while I veered off to the right, or their legs were uncomfortably close to mine, hindering my ability to dance freely, and I would always end up walking away.

I don’t mean to say she was loose or undiscerning, but I do mean to say that much like how I pick the men I dance with, I am also incredibly selective about those I date. For almost a year, I was a one-guy girl, a phenomenon so new and rare to me, it took me several months to acknowledge the fact I was in a relationship. It is rare to find a man who can keep my rhythm, one who won’t stumble a few beats into the music when the note pitches and my body shifts. As I can only dance alone for so long, I’ve made do with those who could dance along with me for a few notes, their feet tapping to the count of unh, unh, unh, yeah as we slid into a night of sloppy kisses or debonair tongues, bodies pressed against one another with hands in those most private of privates, a lick here and a lap there, but not to be repeated more than a few times. My standards for one-night stand type boys were considerably less than they were for the boys I’d date. A dash of nerdiness, a pint of intelligence, occasionally a measure of good wit and banter, and ideally, an appreciation for me. Alcohol sometimes smoothed these deals over.

But the ones that would stay with me, even beyond the messy breakups and tears, were the ones that could keep up with my dance, in every pitch and change of note. I may not be high-maintenance, but I am high-energy. To date me requires challenging me intellectually, mentally, emotionally, physically, and ways that I couldn’t possibly think of, simply put. My standards remain quite high, because so few people can successfully press their bodies to mine and make me want to stay connected through the vibrations of our fingertips and our mouths, or when the music slows down and there’s a brief respite to talk.

This last dance I had? Is probably the most exhausting one I’ve undertaken yet. So I’ve taken a small break, sipping on the wine of restoration, before tentatively making my way onto the floor again. It’s about time for a partner who won’t stay with me for more than a few beats, perhaps a single song, because while he may be able to keep my gyrations in tune with his for now, it can’t go much further. And for the nights he may spend in my bed, or leave small reminders of his presence in my life; a frisbee here, some nuts there, and finally, a shirt, it’s only for a few songs. Giving myself some time where I let it flow through me and into someone else, as we combine our bodies to create a new, shorter movement is just fine with me.

I know someday, the club will pitch, the lights will roll, and someone will slide up and as his hands reach down my waist, my hips, the fabric of my jeans will melt underneath his tips as we begin the new dance, one that will leave me breathless again, and in fervent movements that remind me of how good it can be when someone else knows the song.

Surprisingly, round two of the roommate hunt went much more smoothly than round one. Perhaps round one was sort of a decoy, as though I should feel as though Berkeley’s residents were hopeless? With the lovely help of my friend Skylar Blue from the old AmeriCorps days, we set on today’s mission of “Find DS a roommate!”

The first girl arrived a bit after two, which I didn’t mind as I was still reeling from the game-on atmosphere of the last few days. Yes, ladies and gents, I am back in business. GDB and his lovely body are a thing of the past because I have moved on, and quite officially too. Three times in one morning methinks qualifies as good moving on behavior. Though my vagina may be a bit stunned, because it forgot what that was like. Something along the lines of, *penis enters* “Um…what are you doing here? I’m busy doing my nails…and I have to wash my hair. I’m not ready for this yet. Can you come back another time?”

We’ll see how I fare tomorrow.

So anyhow, the first girl arrived and while I knew I liked her e-mail, I didn’t expect to like her as much as I did. She reminded me a great deal of my old roommate in Manhattan, and she also has a cat! (This is a big selling point, folks.) She was more quiet than outgoing, and she seemed as though she’d be super relaxed and easy to live with. Her e-mail said she’d be down for someone she could talk to, but not have to talk all the time. A bit more introverted, she seemed like someone I could easily get along with. There was also the fact that she had super cute style which reminded me of some of my friends and made me feel instantly comfortable. After some basic chit-chat, she went on her merry way, and I felt slightly resolved in the fact that heeyyyy! There might be some normal folk after all!

Not long after, the phone rings again, and it’s Sailor Boy. I took one look at him and knew there was no way in hell I could live with him without wanting to jump him. He was cute, smart, funny, and from the East Coast! Hallelujah! So we went through the usual rounds of questions and answers and viewing the apartment and Skylar Blue smirked because she caught the look on my face. He left, but not after we talked about how I’ve yet to visit Tahoe and Yosemite and wine country, and he offered to go with me if I ever wanted. I will say there was some slight flirtation. Very slight. I may have been out of the game for a while, but it seems my ability to casually flirt remains intact. Score!

I pondered what I could possibly say to him about why I’m turning him down. “Hi. You’re way too cute and I’d want to jump you all the time, so I can’t live with you, unless you want to do the jumping thing all the time too, but then it’d just be bad, so no. I can’t live with you.” Doctor Long Island suggested saying, “Hey, I don’t think we’d work out as roommates, but want to grab some coffee/dinner/boobs soon?” Admittedly, I have been a bit more forward about the male sex lately; just last night, I left my number for a guy I chatted with while volunteering at a comedy show and he facebooked me before I even got home. But methinks offering my boobs to Sailor Boy (as cute as he is) may have been a bit too forward. Just a bit. Though I have offered my boobs before in the past, before I knew the suave movements of romance and subtle sex. (This would be sarcasm. For the most part.)

Roommate option #3 showed up, with his father, which I thought was a sweet touch. He kicked ass in being awesome. Where were all these normal people on Monday? They should have been spaced out more, gah! We laughed a lot, but he was super extroverted, and I hadn’t decided if I wanted to live with a guy or a girl, an introvert, or an extrovert. He also complimented my shirt (which said “Break dance, not hearts!”) while wearing a spiffy shirt himself (”Way old school,” featuring a print of the original Nintendo console.) It was clear I’d get along with him big time, but I was a bit concerned that we’d end up hanging out all the time, since we were so on the same page.

Roommate option #4 showed up while #3 was finishing up, so Skylar Blue took over the tour. (I’m telling you, these people showed up like clockwork almost; it was a beautiful thing.) I think the hardest part of roommate hunting is being the one making the decision and feeling bad because some of these people are in dire situations. Option #4 had been mugged twice in his neighborhood (cause once wasn’t enough apparently), while his roommate liked to bring random men home. All the time. Strange men, wearing no socks and cooking in your kitchen: just a bit creepy. He was sweet, and easily someone I could live with, but I liked Cat Girl and Awesome Shirt Guy better.

Spectacularly, option #5 showed up and happened to be a Long Island girl. How I knew? I saw the 516 area code. Somehow, she got misdirected downtown, showed up with two friends, and before we even really started talking, she had redesigned the entire layout of the apartment. “Oh, you could put drywall up here, rather than have these doors here, and then it really would be two separate bedrooms, and also, I have a lot of furniture, and I think your room is too small, plus I do have my cat to consider, and oh, I love to cook, and I’m here with my friends but I don’t entertain, not often at least. The hebrew letter Chai on my foot? I think it means like…peace or something.”

1) No renovations necessary.
2) You showed up with two friends to apartment-hunt? Yet you don’t “entertain?” Yeah, okay.
3) Chai? Seriously? How the fuck are you jewish and never heard the expression “L’chaim?” I can’t even hear the fucking “ch” and yet I still know what it means.
4) Hell-to-the-fuck-no.

The last girl showed up, bearing a t-shirt labeled Chicago pizza, and while she was perfectly nice, Chicago is a place I’d like to leave behind for a bit, at least without daily reminders, which I’d have to see every single day. Again, she was nice, but I want someone who I felt super comfortable with. Also, if you wear cool shirts that make me laugh, or at least have a sense of style I envy, I will probably pick you. I am lame like this.

The hardest part of making decisions is knowing that you’re going to disappoint people. I mean…who wouldn’t want to have an apartment with skylights, clawfoot bathtub, a stove from the 1940’s (maybe even the 1920’s) and all these other kooky, quirky, charming things? So many individuals expressed interest, and I was legitimately shocked because I didn’t anticipate such a turnout from people, considering I live in a college town and would be renting for the summer months while tons of other apartments were available.

After much debating and back and forth, and arguing the merits of Cat Girl and Awesome Shirt Guy (introvert vs. extrovert? Guy vs. girl? Cat vs. no cat?), I called up Cat Girl and offered her the room. Pending a few paperwork and other details, I may now have a new roommate!

I was a bit disappointed that this round wasn’t as story-worthy as the other, but at the very least, Awesome Shirt Guy recognized it as a super cool social experiment. Also, methinks if I ever get bored of the boys I know, I’m just going to do a “room for rent!” ad on Craigslist and demand pictures or facebook accounts. Ta-da! Dating made easy.

Now if only I’d hear back from Sailor Boy…

I’m pretty sure I’m fucked.

And not just in the literal sense. Though sometimes I wish I were as it’s now been far too long since I’ve had a good old fashioned fuck-a-thon. But in the sense that no matter what I do, if it’s in the bathtub with the water streaming down, or my hand in my bed, or my sparkly purple vibrator (we’ve worked things out now), I’m apparently the easiest thing to set off. I spent years (YEARS!) not being able to orgasm. I would get hot and bothered, and then some good ol’ fashioned grinding would get me going. There’d be a sense of build-up and then suddenly a release. Sort of like a puff of happiness. And that was it. Climb off, roll over, lay down, watch some TV, maybe pee, and then start all over again if I felt like it.

Sex without love was something I did easily. I didn’t need an overwhelming emotional connection, so long as there was enough of a physical connection. It helped, of course to have the mental connection, but as I spent so much time ignoring or repressing my emotions, it was only logical that sex without love came easily to me. It’s why I spent so much of my college years enjoying friends with benefits, or one-night-stands, rather than dealing with the emotional heart damage that came with a relationship.

Then he of the muscle-packed arms and twelve pack abs (and also, the humor that matched mine and made me smile before the stupid ultimatums and anger) came along. And my world as I knew it? Changed. All of a sudden there was this whole thumper action thing going on. You know - legs involuntarily twitching, my body rocking back and forth, my mouth unable to keep shut with all the ohhhh, and OH MY GOD and WHAT are you DOING to ME?! and don’t stop, or I’ll die, really, I mean it.

I never knew it could be like that. It was sort of Charlotte with her self-exploratory mirror - “Really? We can do that? Us? Wow! We’re awesome!” I felt like I had only just discovered my vagina, and its mystical powers. (Ever think about that? Of what a super-powered vagina could do? All those Kegel exercises would come in handy, methinks.)

Then one day, it just happened. I cried. It was a delayed reaction; appropriate as most things are a delayed reaction when it comes to me. It took me approximately 25 minutes after the sexing occurred to break down and cry. I don’t recommend driving back on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway in the heat of summer, shaking and heaving. New York has some pretty shittastic drivers. Driving through tears doesn’t do much for weaving in and out of traffic like I’m prone to doing on my way out of the city. I chalked it up to my sadness, to knowing that he and I were both separating because of the distance. (Oh how little I knew then.)

A few months later, as we webcam-sexed, I found myself overwhelmed. Tears poured out of my eyes, and he watched me, a bit startled. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Yeah…I think so,” I replied. And so we left it at that. Until it happened again. And again. And we both realized, I was crying because for the first time in my life, I cared about someone so much, my body was overwhelmed with emotion. Either that or orgasms are a great way to resolve all the issues you’ve still yet to get out in therapy. Which doesn’t bode well for me, if that is the case.

He began to look forward to it, when I would cry, because he could smile and with shining eyes tell me how much it meant to him to know how much he meant to me. That he loved that I cared about him as much as he cared about me. Granted, it was also just that good. But still. I cried, even after we ended, because my body is just that in tuned to him.

But it’s now been more than a month. And there’s no explicable reason for why I still cry. Just because I’m diddling around with a vibrating bunny doesn’t mean I should spend the next five minutes sobbing in bed afterwards. My emotions are playing a heady game with me, where I can’t tell if it’s just all the emotions I hide on a regular basis releasing themselves through hormones or if it’s just that we’ve set a precedent and my body refuses to ignore it, associating orgasms with him, thereby culling out all those emotions I’m trying to move beyond.

I blame him, for making me this way. Okay, not really, but come on! I was perfectly fine with my little puffs of happiness. I didn’t know what I was missing out on, and that was okay; they say ignorance is bliss, right? Then he came along, and my body apparently conspired with him to make me do things I don’t normally do. Namely, cry! After orgasming! Another thing I didn’t do!

Sometimes, I imagine myself as the hunter of my orgasm crying. I see myself wielding some tears-be-gone, sniffle-remover, and a book to read when the cries are in hiding, waiting for them to sneak out from behind a lung or vocal chord. I don’t have much patience, you see, so I need the book to preoccupy me until the cries attack, in which case I can jump right into the action. But I will wear kick-ass clothes, because I am just that awesome.

But really, I can’t imagine trying to get involved with someone new, knowing that if he so much as succeeds in getting me off (because hey! Now I get off like it’s nothing!), I’ll start sobbing.

“Mm, baby, you taste so good.”

*sob*

“Baby, you okay?

*sob*

*backs away, putting clothes back on*

*sniffle* “No really, I’m okay! Whip that thing back out!” *sniffle/stifled sob*

This will clearly do wonders for any hope of a future sex life I might have. Granted, now that I’ve experienced sex with love, I’m not sure sure I can go back to where I was before, but it’d be nice to still have the option!

Finally, after the third or fourth time it happened in a week, I sought out to seek answers from the master of it all. Google. Typing “Crying after orgasm” into the white search box yielded a series of search results, some of which centered around rape and sexual trauma (nope, none of that here!), and others which centered around ideas like “You’ll only cry with your true love.” (And a big fuck you to whomever wrote that.) For some people this is a life-long occurrence. For others, it just happens when you’re with someone you really care about.

So I got to thinking. I like my rabbit, and my hand. Don’t get me wrong, I’d probably be sad if they left or disappeared somehow. (Why am I channeling Captain Hook?) But I just can’t see me being that broken up about it, that I would have to cry, because I just don’t care about them enough. Besides, they’ve got all sorts of new inventions out there to easily replace a missing hand or vibrator. So…really, this crying after I orgasm thing? Makes no damn sense. Sure, I could blame him for showing me how good it could be, or for somehow inducing my body to think that any physical stimulation is associated with him, but unless I’m subconsciously thinking about him when I get myself off, it doesn’t quite work.

And then I thought, how perfectly like me. I finally figure out how to have an orgasm and my body takes it one step further. Creating melodrama in the absence of drama. 5,476 body, 3 me.

100. I’ve been a dancer for probably longer than I could walk.
99. My parents lost me one night and found me break dancing in a night club on vacation.
98. I was two and a half.
97. I used to do gymnastics too, as well as tennis, until my parents made me pick one activity. I chose dance.
96. Several years later, I ended up doing circus stunts at my sleepaway camp. See: aerial lyra, swinging trapeze, static trapeze, and spanish web.
95. I miss it. Sometimes I look up classes and contemplate running away with the circus.
94. I was a Mr. Rogers girl through and through. Sesame Street was kinda bull, though I did enjoy Big Bird goes to China. Relatively.
93. My childhood room was covered in Rainbow Brite memorabilia. I even have a t-shirt still that says “Sharing is caring.”
92. I also loved My Little Pony and the Smurfs. There used to be a show with animals who had the body of one and the head of another, and I can’t for the life remember the name of them, but I loved that one too.
91. I lost my virginity when I was 16.
90. It was more a sort of…I wonder what this is all about than it was wanting to be with someone I loved.
89. I’m a lefty.
88. I’m one of four lefties in both sides of my family.
87. Both of my grandfathers have red hair, blue eyes, and were born lefty. They both write recreationally, but were taught to write with their right hands. My mother is the only other lefty, but she’s brunette with hazel eyes. She didn’t write; she performed.
86. I wasn’t born deaf.
85. Neither was my sister.
84. But they at least have a strong suspicion why she lost her hearing. I’m just a medical anomaly.
83. We’re the only ones in our entire families.
82. I think my mom blames herself, while my dad blames some doctor he thinks misdiagnosed me.
81. I’m technically third generation American on one side, and first generation American on the other.
80. My dad was born in Israel. It’s made for interesting dynamics.
79. I tend to get bitten by the wanderlust bug often. I’ve traveled to Israel, Spain, Chicago, moved across country, and other places, all rather impulsively. I’ve also traveled to many other places, but those were less impulsive.
78. The first time I fully understood the Holocaust was when I was in fifth grade. It shocked me to realize that I would have been one of the first killed, for my coloring and for my poor vision and poor hearing.
77. It took me another year or two to realize almost all of my paternal grandparents’ relatives were killed in the Holocaust. Including my grandfather’s baby sister.
76. If there were ever one person I’d like to meet or bring back, I’d wish for her so my grandfather would have had her in the lonely years between her death and his next sibling. He might have had a childhood then.
75. I’ve only been in love once.
74. I still am.
73. My first best friend’s name was Ilana. She had a swimming pool in her backyard, and I wrote my first book about her.
72. She moved to Florida when I was five. I saw her again when I was sixteen, on a family trip.
71. Sometimes I think I’ve led a really easy life.
70. Other times, I think I’ve been put through more than most people have, and deserve a fine karmic break for the rest of my life.
69. It still destroys me every time my parents fight. It’s become easier now on this side of the country. I’m nervous to go home because I like not being in the middle anymore.
68. I was a commitment-phobe for the longest time, because I couldn’t imagine ever feeling passionate or interested enough in one person to want to be with them for the rest of my life. I also never wanted to inflict the kind of pain on my children, should I have them, that I experienced growing up.
67. I had a german shepherd named Gingi growing up. It means red in Hebrew.
66. My grandmother calls me gingi calavasa. I still don’t know what calavasa means.
65. My family stopped teaching me Hebrew when I lost my hearing.
64. Some doctor told my parents I’d be lucky if I ever spoke English, let alone Hebrew, and should be locked away so as to not burden my parents.
63. I’m glad they didn’t listen.
62. We used to go to special gala affairs at the New York Aquarium for the League of the Deaf and Hard of Hearing.
61. I will always have a special fondness for the aquarium, even if it is much smaller now than I remember it being.
60. I still sleep with the teddy bear my dad brought back from Boston when I was seven.
59. But only on nights when I feel lonely and cold.
58. I’ve known Thailand since before we were born. I didn’t get much of a choice with him in terms of our friendship.
57. Our moms were each others’ bridesmaids, and we were born a month and a half apart. We’ve been more or less stuck together since then.
56. I’ve managed to sprain at least one ankle once a year, up until I was about twenty one. I’m hoping my streak is broken.
55. Once, I hobbled all over New York City with K as we wandered around, having sprained an ankle the day before.
54. I’ve also managed to step on a kickball and go flying in the air, sprain both ankles days apart, and jam a finger. All in the same summer.
54. Sometimes, I still wonder if there will ever be anything again with D.
53. My mom thought we were going to do a When Harry Met Sally.
52. So did I. We didn’t. And we won’t. But I still wonder anyway.
51. I can find traits of myself in all four of my grandparents, but more presently, in my grandfathers.
50. My paternal grandfather and I could be identical twins if we were the same age and the same gender.
49. We aren’t. So we just argue a lot.
48. I’ve fainted two times.
47. The first was when I was ten, and got a Hepatitis B vaccine.
46. The doctor gave me pretzels and M&Ms with orange juice upon my reawakening.
45. I still remember the taste of all three in my mouth. It was surprisingly pleasant.
44. I don’t recommend blacking out. Everything shrinks, and surprisingly, my hearing was the last to go, even though I could no longer see anything anymore. It was strange relying on my hearing rather than my sight. Then I woke up on the floor.
43. On the bright side, both times I fainted happened to be in a doctor’s presence. The second time, I happened to be volunteering in the ER at the local hospital.
42. I’ve been to the ER several times. Most recently for pneumonia. In the past, it’s involved sprained ankles, jammed fingers, as a volunteer EMT, and lots of x-rays.
41. The first house I lived in was a small row house in Brooklyn, in the middle of the block. We had an alley behind our house.
40. At the end of the alley, a friend of mine lived. He had a treehouse. I would often scale the chainlink fence and hop to the other side to play with him and his brother in the treehouse.
39. While we lived in said house, my sister dropped a radiator on my right foot during a game of hide and seek.
38. It didn’t break, but it was badly bruised. It still hurts when it rains. I was nine.
37. The second place we lived was a two family house across the street from a small park.
36. I never knew how small it was - my mom did the best she could to give us a proper home, despite the recent divorce she had just undergone.
35. It had two bathrooms, adjacent to one another. One black and one blue.
34. I cut my bangs once in the black bathroom, after thinking my hairstylist cut them unevenly.
33. I spent the rest of the summer with the most godawful curly bangs bouncing in front of my eyes.
32. That might explain why I didn’t cut my hair for another five years after that disastrous cut.
31. In high school, the girls sitting behind me would pull my corkscrew curls, just because they liked to watch my hair bounce. Our teacher would yell at them for disrupting the class, or at least mildly berate them.
30. I met Avocado in high school. She wasn’t my biggest fan when we first met.
29. That’s since changed. But we usually have one big fight a year.
28. The only song that can effectively make me cry is “The Trouble with Love Is,” by Kelly Clarkson.
27. I can’t explain why I can understand or hear music in ways that don’t make sense to most doctors.
26. Then again, I tend to come across as a medical mystery in all shapes and forms. When they do my autopsy, they’ll find I have three misshapen hearts, one highway of a vein connecting my body, four overclogged arteries of memories and unspoken thoughts, and one brain that segments itself between my right pinky toe, left knee, left rib cage, right clavicle, and parts in my head where it properly belongs.
25. I’ve been on and off writing a novella/novel for the last four years.
24. I don’t know if it’s going to go anywhere.
23. If I were to be a Disney character, I’d be a mix between Ariel and Belle, with a healthy dash of Abu thrown in. And perhaps a little bit of Rafiki.
22. One of my cousins told me tonight that she loves how I don’t ever express emotion. I laughed and thought, if she only knew about this blog.
21. Neither sides of my family adequately understand me. But at least my mom’s side tries.
20. Sometimes, I feel like I’m living a teenage rebellion now, even though I went through my rebellion phase when I was 12.
19. I volunteered with a first aid squad for two years.
18. While I was there, the guys nicknamed me jailbait. I was a bit of a tease. I ended up tied up and tossed in an empty garbage can by one of the guys who was frustrated with me, because I wouldn’t go anywhere with him. Luckily, Techny Besty pulled me back out.
17. What most of them didn’t know was I was sleeping with a 20 year old and a 26 year old when I was only seventeen. Both of them were on the squad.
16. I don’t know what I want to do or where I want to live anymore. I used to think I did. Now I feel like this country is too small, and they need to build a new city that is the perfect blend of New York, San Francisco, and Chicago.
15. Sometimes I think I will never speak to GDB ever again. And then I realize that I talk to K and D, who hurt me in a way I never thought I’d recover from.
14. I taught myself how to use power point, illustrator, and photoshop in high school, because I was bored.
13. I like teaching myself how to do things. I feel a sense of accomplishment. I’d often rather learn from a book than have someone else tell me how to do it.
12. I don’t think I’m sexy outside of the framework of someone else telling me I’m sexy. I think I’m cute, but I never considered myself sexy until GDB.
11. I don’t struggle from low self-esteem. But I do struggle with overanalyzing everything to death.
10. I tend to feel like a walking contradiction most days.
9. I’m strangely attracted to nerds. My house’s motto senior year was, “I date nerds.”
8. For the longest time, I thought something would eventually happen with one of my old housemates because we had so many sparks. I don’t think it will anymore. His girlfriend was one of my good friends our last year in college. If it weren’t for her, I do sometimes wonder if things would have played out differently. He’s since become a close confidant.
7. I’ve only been high once. I spent the entire time giggling at the three people attempting to paint one girl’s room, all high, as I sat on the bed in the middle falling over with laughter.
6. I learned my harshest lessons about friendship at the camp I went to for seven years. I think it’s one of the main reasons I knew myself so well by the time I got to high school. I had already experienced heartbreak at the hands of those I believed to be my friends the summer before.
5. I won’t ever want to live in the suburbs. But I’m grateful to my mom for moving us out to New Jersey so I saw how much of a world was outside of New York. I wonder if I would have developed such wanderlust if I hadn’t been so bored with New Jersey, and would have missed out on seeing so much of the world. If I do have kids, I’ll probably move to the suburbs for that very reason.
4. GDB was the first person I ever felt like I wanted to marry and start a family with. It won’t be him. But I still want that now someday. I never thought I’d ever say that.
3. I still remember most of the guys I’ve had one night stands with. Mostly because they had some special meaning, or came at a point in my life where it was needed.
2. I don’t regret anything I’ve done up to this point in my life. But I do wish things had happened differently in some cases.
1. I truly believe everything happens for a reason. I just hope to find what my reasons are.

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.

“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.

This is probably a winner of a quote today. “You’d be surprised at the difference between my hands and my vagina.” I’m not even going to try to explain the context, other than it took me four minutes to figure out why my friend was laughing so hard at what I just said. Slow DS? Yes.

I’m waddling like a duck because I wore converses when hiking. For the record - I didn’t know we were going hiking. My calf muscles are now tight as well….really tight muscles right before they go into a Charlie Horse and in order to walk somewhat properly, my knees are bent to avoid straightening my legs. This was more amusing last night when my abs were hurting as well and I was bent-kneed, hunched over, and waddling. It occurred to me after a friend of mine laughed at me during lunch today that I could pass it off as having great sex. Granted, we all know I’m not having great sex anytime soon. But perhaps if people think it happened, it really did happen? Isn’t that how most of the major criminal trials get resolved anyway?

How does one end up with sore legs from great sex anyway? Pea in a Pod mentioned one guy who would always leave her sore because of his big hips. I asked her if they were childbearing. I remember being sore from sex sometimes, but I think it was usually good.

Similarly, I’ve decided to put a call out there a la Babes in Toyland. If you don’t get the reference, it’s probably better. If you do, recommendations please!

Does anyone else find guys who dress up in drag for a charity thing simultaneously sexy and unnerving when they look better than you? Just me? Okay.

Lately I’ve gotten into not defining my pronouns. I require special skills from my friends - those who can interpret what I say without me specifically referring to it. This is usually enhanced when I’m in a non-relationship with my “person.” Note: If I say boyfriend, that’s kinda…scary and heavy. Words that don’t have significant associations with them are so much friendlier.

I only just realized that I’m going to a ballet performance by myself on Saturday night. On what’s sure to be a fantabulous date night for most people who bought tickets as a belated Valentine’s gift. Oh the joy.

Speaking of Valentine’s Day, mine wasn’t absolutely terrible. I was afraid I was going to break down, but I found looking down at the sidewalk and fumbling for my keys while I walked pass the 13 or so restaurants between my gym and my apartment is a very effective method of not observing all the goo-ey-ness that takes place on Valentine’s Day. Note: In case this isn’t abundantly clear, I have never been much of a gooey person. Last year involved a dinner with over-frosted heart shaped cookies, and my contribution to the meal was flowers for Pea in a Pod, myself, and the girl we met and found had little in common with us, in celebration of our fabulously single selves. So yes, I went to the gym (which was surprisingly crowded given that people should be fucking like bunnies and cooing love) but had to modify my exercises because hi, I can’t walk because I’m awesome and pulled both calves and am waddling everywhere (duck? Yes, quack!) and then I came home and took a bubble bath by candlelight and read. Who needs a boy when you’ve got a bubble bath? Hm…Waterproof suggestions welcomed too for that matter.

Also, I’ve noticed I have a habit of wearing colors that are associated with a particular day without meaning to. I always wear green unintentionally on St. Patty’s Day, and red on Valentine’s Day. This morning, I woke up and caught myself putting on a red sweater, and promptly changed it to brown. I am committed to breaking the pattern, that devious bastard.

Boys who draw lines should stay on their side of the lines. Unless we approve the game as hopscotch. Then we can jump around as we may. (Also, note: We are not playing hopscotch.)

Jack of All Trades and I are committed to making this Hawaii trip happen. In the case we don’t, we are also accepting recommendations of the globe fell over and landed on blip. Constraints: Must be about $800 total, and preferably within the U.S. as the man does not have a freaking passport. *shakes head* I’d do a whole, “In this day and age,” spiel, but I think he’s already kicking himself enough as it is.

This message was brought to you by the letters F U <3, sponsored by the “Make More Sense” Foundation. We’d also like to thank “DS Needs Sex Now,” for all their help in putting together this fine message. Oh, and last but not least, Happy Birthday Mr. Dead Presidents. As of Monday.