Semen Achieved

Martin Shkreli is the philanthropist who keeps on giving. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, let’s harness humility and say grace for the substance I am most thankful for: semen. Not his.

Below is a conversation I had with The Man Writer featured in Keepsake nearly a year and a half before Martin became wayyy more famous than him. (Debatably, than he.) For those of you who patiently pined to know what dating/fucking The Most Hated Man In America was like, here is your bread and manbutter.

The style is in the substance. The style is in the substance. Chant with me, my friends and frenemies and straight up enemies. And ex lovers who fear me, and ex lovers who wanna be me.

Semen Achieved

(August 24th, 2014)

In which I fuck and suck a preacher’s son for his glorious bounty.

Red Semen Achieved 1

Red Semen Achieved 2

So bizarre. Before Martin, I always assumed shower meant automatic cleanup. And presumptive discretion.

Martin Business Week Article.jpg

Red Semen Achieved 3

Always figured he bought the rights to oxytocin nasal spray, Novartis’ Syntocinon, so when he failed to please women he could placate them instead.

Trouble breastfeeding. Trouble sucking women dry.

Hashtag settling.

Red Semen Achieved 4

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The novice Peter North I’m referring to is The Minnesotan from BJ Haterz Need Not Apply.

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**my college boyfriend

This refers to the guy I dated senior year of college. I talk about him in The Series of One-Oh-Eight and  Hippies Think Bodies are Beautiful and The Inevitable Downfall of a Sexual Narcissist.

Wonderfully weird eyeball vagina youtube video.

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Only someone who has watched a lot of porn would specify such time intervals.

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Hashtag nosedrugs.

We just say sex.

How divorced are we from animal instinct that we have to specify cream pie. I weeeeep for society. Civilization and its motherfucking discontents.

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Hashtag younglove.

Brains Out

(May 17th, 2014)

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Red Brains Out 2

Hashtag blessed.





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The Champagne and Cocaine Crowd

We are to meet up at the 6 stop on 86th and Lex, focal point of my adolescence. Spence, my snobfest all-girls elementary thru high school, located just a few blocks away off Museum Mile. Every time I come back, I get all sorts of feels. Memories. Hormones. Emotions. A momentary relapse into being pimple-faced and metal-mouthed, perhaps, or maybe it’s the sensation of my instincts welling up behind my internalized surveillance. Pressure. Suppression. The entire act of being among them is one of self-monitoring, sucking in one’s stomach, literally, figuratively. I never belonged there, arrived via ERB scores, no blue blood coursing through my veins. My parents, impervious to the power of connections and influence, harbored a haughty disdain for those with social aspirations, never ventured to meet the Right People; ergo, like Odysseus, I was Nobody. Stood no chance at a social standing. Sink swim or ride, it’s a forced choice proposition if you don’t have a Hamptons or Connecticut house; if you summer in the city and live East of Park Avenue year-round; if your parents haven’t hired personal shoppers to dress you, tutors to do your homework, and drivers to usher you from appointment to appointment; if they haven’t started a lifestyle company in your name to pad your college apps. What are you to make of yourself, if you haven’t come packaged?

Nodding, manners, smiles, silence, sliding in where an opening clears: survival skills I assimilated early on. My existence in their social sphere so tenuous, I misspent my youth quaking in fear of being reprimanded for a petty faux pas, nevermind channeling the precocious sophistication to know what “faux pas” meant. Two years ago, emerging from illness, I staggered into a Spence Young Almuni Event reflexively. Reminding myself of who I was, once, and never wanted to be. Planted firmly on my traction biker boots, I assumed the defensive mental posture of subway stance, one foot in front of the other, knees slightly bent for instant transition. Staring steely-eyed from the rim of my basin-bellied wine glass, insulating myself against trips and spills. This time, instead of fading into a wallflower corner, paralyzed at the sidelines of popularity, simultaneously hoping and not hoping that someone would ask me to dance at Goddard Gaieties, I found myself in the whirlwind of a receiving line with nary a firm handshake rehearsed. Gracefully greeting young women in tidy yuppie costumes, the grown-up iteration of pleated uniforms and pennied pleather loafers. Once record-breaking rebellious, jeering the authorities with their back talking bravado and brash refusal to comply with the school dress code, The OG Preppy Handbook, now they were muted. Understated black silhouettes flanked by men’s last names. From holding convictions, to part of the system.

Medically quarantined, I had become a source of intrigue. Chronic disease disaffect beckoning with understated mystery. You look great, they said and meant it. They, who worked in marketing and fashion merchandising, repping lifestyle brands by way of Harvard Business School—the PR-pitch friendly, modern-day Mrs. Degree. They wanted to know how I had lost the weight. About the curly hair. The clean skin. Pesky bacteria be damned, eradicated with every last trace of my homely existence. Except for my impetus to appear before the High Court for the brutalist of judgment. The girl who would not fail to show up, the girl who would not shut the fuck up.

That conquest impulse zipped me into my Betsey Johnson dress and paraded me down to the elite underground. Whether they lacked the taste or social acuity eludes me. Either way, they lavished me with praise for my inexplicable weight loss, knowing full well about the glamorous eating disorder I had struggled with as a shy, skittish adolescent. Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. Swallowing a bite of food, an act of political defiance more powerful than exercising one’s right to vote, in our closed circles. “Chemo drugs,” I deadpanned. “Saying goodbye to my colon,” more specific. My panacea punchline. My dirty little secret. My swath of lucky bitchdom. Mine.

Sincere enough, were their condolences and well wishes. Once they realized the faux pas they had committed—judging a bookish girl by her cover, caught without the right platitudes, no ad copy to cover nuance. Perhaps I would have reveled in the influx of attention, perhaps I should have, except for being plagued with wonder: Would they have been equally apologetic if I had emerged before my time? Dared to look disheveled in public? Only a year before I had dropped out of our ten-year high school reunion, pregnant with steroids, tethered to a toilet, unrecognizable in face and demeanor even to myself. It wasn’t the fat, per se. I wasn’t cute chubby like a tween anticipating a growth spurt, unbuttoning my low-rise jeans for burger and milkshake breathing room. The weight had distributed unevenly and cruelly: depositing in my cheeks, chin, and stomach; skipping my chicken limbs entirely. Triple chin, unsightly folds, I was packed to the brim like Mama June in Here Comes Honey Boo. A slouchy kangaroo pouch strapped to my middle portion where a minimalist belly used to reside. Its defiant squatter rights foreshadowing the installation of my sloppy ileostomy bag, swinging pendulous, uniboobed down with tube top spandex.

If I hadn’t felt bad enough about the utter defilement of my form and function, I was doubly guilty for caring, having internalized the toxic social norms for which I derided the compulsory perfectionists of the UES. The double bind of being a woman: valueless if you’re fat or ugly; frivolous, even unfeminist, if you take pains to attend to your appearance. It wasn’t vanity, exactly, that kept me indoors, under covers, solitary; it was the visible manifestation of a body slipping away from itself, it’s impertinent refusal to cooperate. The conventionally attractive privilege I had been born into no match for the capricious sac of skin, bones, and flesh I was becoming.

Just a year after my courageous comeback, I marched through TriBeCa clunking down with confidence, on my way to the annual Young Alumnae Party at a “seasonably inspired” restaurant featuring “hand-crafted” cocktails. Only to discover spring collection 2013 had been rotated out of style, washed up with last year’s news cycle, acid-washed jeans, ankle boots. Arriving at the unmarked entrance fashionably late, a pack of girls I hadn’t seen in over a decade, sprinkled with a few who fawned over me last year, passed me by with purpose, barely a whiff of acknowledgment. Like the pretty pony with blinders attitude you’re instructed to emulate in those Stranger Danger school-wide assemblies everyone sleeps through, backpacks as pillows, light as a feather stiff as a board. No longer a source of thinspiration for them, miraculous transformation debunked, once again, I had become inert. Will never be Tai from Clueless, not even some rich girl’s “project.”

Approaching various groups, angling to break in. My wine glass tipped toward their laughter and language, my noise muffled by the bad acoustics. The awkwardness of being ignored as an adult in a room full of people you know, on the outskirts of eye contact. I reverted three decades to an out-of-touch parent in a sitcom, tin can telephone pressed up against child’s door, shut off from communication. Pretending to loaf into an amorphous group, an emphatic gesture of impression management, I scrolled through my phone and checked my texts, repeatedly, as if to indicate I had someplace better to be, I knew people who enjoyed my company, even requested it. I knew people. Welp! Deflated, yet somehow still taking up too much space, I resigned to give up and move on. Turning toward the exit, tracing the flight of stairs up and out, I was met by a familiar and friendly pair of eyes: Lana nodded me over. After the wave of relief settled my shoulders, stature rising like a turtle’s head popping out of its shell, my first thought: What was her transgression? Being black, no doubt. No other explanation for her sitting alone, barstool balancing. Also searching. Or maybe she just hated those bitches as much as I did.

We commiserated about the glaring lack of food at all Spence events. Miniature cornbread with a dollop of cream cheese, the skimpy appetizer du jour circling ironclad cliques. “Artisanal” what rich people call food they appropriate, to justify its consumption, make it quaint, those adorable poors and their staples. Put a toothpick flag in it.

“Next time I come, Ima shove a sandwich in my purse,” she joked.

“Don’t even be discreet about it. Flaunt that shit. Something needs to be done.”

“Seriously, with all this free booze. They’re tryna get us drunk. So we donate.”

“As if I have anything to donate. Contribute to these people,” I chortle out of my noise, more respiratory depression than postnasal drip. “What. Tha. Fuck. Let’s bring a meat platter,” I up the ante. Raise you a baloney to their BS!

Meat platter, “charcuterie,” as the champagne and cocaine crowd designates it, dignifying grass-fed Oscar Meyer cold cuts apportioned into infinitesimal bits. For placement on gluten-free crackers enriched with flax. For those who are “sensitive.” Those who didn’t need to attend high school, because they had magazine internships that turned into real estate jobs, because they had buildings named after them before they were legally old enough to change their own name. Who needs sustenance, anyway, when everyone knows rich people harvest their energy from Soul Cycle. Shovel refined powders up their nostrils with Quinn Morgendorffer really cute pores, but hold the bread, eating paleo is like eating consciousness.

Forget about cornbread. That’s for savages. Coarse, unrefined.

“Might as well serve crumbs, and call it caviar,” we both laugh. Like we are old chums. Though we first connected at an event a few years ago. When we felt left out.

Cocaine. Crumbs. Cocaine. Crumbs. Let us have cake. (But not in public.)

The best part of being an outsider: some people make you feel like you belong. To a secret society of underdogs with our own outreach handshake, a strict admissions policy: Don’t be an asshole. Acknowledge others, as if they exist. As if they know what faux pas means. Even if they opted out of taking the language of educated young ladies, even though they don’t have any hired “help” to direct in Español.

“All that tuition money and they give us a side to Kraft mac ‘n cheese. Beg for our continued ‘support’ and frown upon panhandlers, obviously. I never even graduated from high school,” I paused. Punctuated with a hearty laugh. Raised my puppy eyes toward her for approval.

“Do they even know?” she asked, intuitive.

Just nod if you can hear me…

To be noticed for the wrong thing, not to be noticed, to stand out, to be invisible. Worse than being reprimanded or eliciting a glare is to be shunned. The codified behavior that Upper East Siders adopt to connote “not me.” Traveling in packs, standing in tight circles, backs blockading the masses of plebes, pretending those who fail to stay in the subtly suggested lines aren’t worth acknowledging. Always poised, always polite, always proper, they simply look right through you. Eyes fixed, nose up, hair flip. Dismiss.

To go back to the Upper East Side is to be under constant surveillance. Simultaneously invisible. The paradox of scrutiny. Pressure. Suppression.

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10k Q & A: Part 1


This is like hearing a sample of a sound bite of a conversation and coming to a conclusion. We do not know what lead up to this exchange or what followed… this could very well have been a contentious exchange between the two that she instigated and he turned it into a sarcastic sexual thing.

Oldnewbie on reddit

Yes, for the sake of brevity and relevance, I only included one chuck of our most recent correspondence. If you must know, the rest of our faceboook exchanges consisted of his persistent and unrequited attempts to see me, his requesting a “three-way” between his cats and my cat, his claiming I like to pretend I’m different since getting a new boyfriend but he knows I’m still just a slut, and his refusing to acknowledge my new boyfriend as legitimate impediment to my fucking other people. Still think I’m selectively editing to my advantage and his detriment? If you read the rest of my blog, you’d realize it’s curated, as any distillation of a large body of information must be, yet not especially flattering. Deliberately not so.

“Note the ‘I know you’ve got nothing better to do’ part which is him indicating she has no life.”

Oldnewbie on reddit

LOL. If the archives of my blog are any indication, I beg to differ. Assuming having bountiful reserves of men at my disposal constitutes a life. “I know you’ve got nothing better to do” is a figure of speech, a weak and transparent attempt at persuasion. A gentle neg.



 “Buying counterfeit bags is illegal.”

 —Broad City

As much as I want to join in on the circle-jerk and grab my pitchfork, keep in mind that Business Insider only said: ‘A woman claiming to be Shkreli’s ex-girlfriend said he sent her a series of Facebook messages…’ So this entire conversation is still unverified and can very easily be faked. Don’t rule out the possibility that this “Katie” person is just trying to get her blog numbers up. All because Business Insider ‘reported’ on it does not mean it is a verified source.

naxypoo on reddit

Of course you wouldn’t believe a woman. Especially a slutty one. Girls who like to fuck can’t be trusted. Are pathological. How many women had to speak up and how many men needed to be vocal in their support before anyone believed Bill Cosby, wholesome-as-pie sitcom dad, is a serial rapist… Oh hey, got you to look: feminist agenda forwarded! And my boobs are real too.

FYI, Business Insider is not Perez Hilton. While screenshots were the bulk of the materials I sent them, I also forwarded an email from Martin’s old work account in which he begs for my continued acquaintance. Can one fake a forwarded email? Maybe. Doubtful. I definitely don’t have those kinda skillz. Got my high school equivalency diploma from the NY State skool of hard knocks, after all.

I will henceforth only respond to “The Woman Who Would Give Her Name Only As ‘Katie.’”



Oh god. Does she know what a defamation suit is?

hip_hop_opotimus on reddit

Yeah, bro. It’s when you tarnish someone’s reputation by spreading lies. I’m insulated against such a charge because truth. Ya know, freedom of press. ‘Murica, fuck yeah.



“What I’m having right now is an inappropriate physical reaction to my total joy for you…”

–Hannah Horvath, Girls

As with the other accusations against him, Shkreli dismissed Katie’s claims about his behavior. He told Business Insider “we don’t know the context” of their conversation. Shkreli also suggested the screenshots posted by Katie could have been “fabricated.”

“You can see it, but perhaps there’s some, you know, back and forth that you don’t have on an email address or something,” Shkreli said of the screenshots posted by Katie. “Maybe I’m referring to something else. You know, it’s possible that it’s not what you think. It’s also possible it’s fabricated. I don’t know. I don’t have them. It’s from 2009. It’s a jilted lover or vice versa. It just doesn’t seem that meaningful.”

—Business Insider, The Hedge Funder at the Center of the Drug-Increase Controversy has a Long History of Alleged Bad Behavior

I’ll defer to wise reddit commenters for this one:

That reaction, and the details from her blog post make me pretty comfortable believing that this is a genuine exchange between the two.

Is it possible that it’s faked? Sure. But think about the verified, true things that you know about his behavior and demeanor. Does it seem likely to you that this is faked?

Now, I feel it’s poor taste to blog about such an exchange. I mean, I think most people have had conversations with [ex]significant others that would be interpreted as wildly inappropriate if presented to someone… who wasn’t familiar with the relationship…

Still, I feel like the exchange itself is real, and it’s her life (and blog) to post about, and she pretty clearly feels like he’s a scumbag, which is hard to argue.

James_Bolivar_DiGriz on reddit

I appreciate his point that, though he believes sharing details about a past partner to be distasteful, (every non-fiction writer’s plight,) it is my story to tell. Too often someone who has interacted with a famous or would-be famous person gets shafted into the opportunistic “proximity to fame” category, when they are compelling in their own right. Forever after they are recognized as an accessory to another’s story, instead of the subject of their own. Is it sleazy to bask in someone else’s spotlight? It takes hustling and thriftiness to get one’s material together on another’s news-cycle clock, that’s for sure.

Yeah, I think the normal person’s reaction to a false accusation that they tried to pay 10k to lick someone’s genitals would be to laugh in the face of the person confronting you and just say, you know, obviously something so insane could only be fake.

The fact that he can’t just deny it like a normal person is a pretty big flag that, yeah it happened.

hithazel on reddit

Nailed it. Sorta like how when my Lit-Theater college boyfriend reacted with rage, instead of amusement, when I solemnly inquired as to whether he miiight be gay, I interpreted it as a confirmation rather than a denial.



She’s clearly a class act as well.

RedeemingVices on reddit

If you believe that sex—or recreational sex—is trashy, then I’m as trashy as they come, gladly. Thankfully I don’t believe in the illusory correlation between sex and social class. Check your self-righteousness.



Probably has an immaculate box.

—hambonejackson on Barstool Sports

Nope, not if we’re going by porno standards of attractiveness. To be a traditional (mainstream?) porn star, I’d be required to book a date at the salon for a labia trim, since sexual desirability for women is typified by minimalism, coyness, hush hush. Then again, Playboy is no longer hosting nudes of women so altered with plastic surgery, airbrushing and artifice they no longer resemble living breathing human beings. Awaiting the headline: Humans Prefer to Wank to Life Forms Immediately Recognizable as Human Beings than those Styled as Real Sex Dolls. All of this is to say, I have big, flappy lips that make smacking sounds when happy. If you wanna be “vagina swallowed” as Ilana from Broad City would phrase it, I’m your gal. Messy pussy as a boutique sex act, mmmm. If you wanna get high fived for scoring a perfect ten, nice ‘n tidy, not so much.

You sound like a gem, referring to a woman’s interactive body parts in the most objectifying language possible. Box: a receptive object used to stuff stuff into things. Snoochie boochies!

I need a visual. Is she hot?

oldschoolfl on reddit

Not 10k worth. Average for an attractive person. Won’t turn heads. Rarely gets turned down. Know how to get what I want. Amateur is sorta trending right now, tho? Solid GFE.

I need pics of this “Katie.” Can’t put this dude on blast and refuse to show your face.

—oberyn on Barstool Sports

Hold up, so I should suffer for his bad behavior? My sex life may be prolific, but my misdeeds pale in comparison to his, will never have a devastating, nevertheless potentially deadly, impact on thousands of vulnerable people. More mischief than misconduct, that’s meee. And do you understand the disproportionate repercussions women face professionally on account of their personal lives? Anyone remember Monica? That intelligent woman who became a public punching bag and eternal punchline for opening her orifices to a man in power. But let’s crucify witches, lady adulterers, and those who a long time ago in a galaxy far far away had sex with an inconspicuous white-collar criminal in-training. Let’s fucking blow whistles in whistleblowers’ ears REAL LOUD. That’ll teach ‘em. For opening their slut traps, and their mouths.



If I were rich I would definitely pay exes for sex, then proceed to call them dumb whores as I came in their eye. Power moves only.

—tcsewell3 on Barstool Sports

Ha! Exactly the tone he was going for. Pitch perfect.

“I wonder if it’s a power thing for guys like him. For ten thousand dollars he could probably find girls far hotter than his ex that would do wayyy more but for some reason he feels the need to harass her. Maybe it’s some sort of fetish I just don’t get but it’s rude as hell.”

KakaKrabbyPatties on reddit

Yup, he could get way hotter than me. And more willing to put on a show for money. For $10k even the most repulsive loser could find a decent woman to feign enthusiasm and tolerate his company. When we were dating and still in touch, he was all about checking things off an imaginary list, whittling notches in the belt holding up his UFOs (as long as his hands didn’t get dirty!)—nevermind pleasure. The more extreme or hard-to-come-by the more points, I suppose. Sex points, scene points. Justification of effort dictates levels of satisfaction with one’s accomplishment? Figured it was just a phase, that adolescent acquisitive thing. Mostly I was game. Until I objected. Until he became too objectionable.

“It’s all about getting his ex to do something she doesn’t want. It’s all about the power and his money status. Dude is weird. If it were about sex he’d do what you said n find a different chick.”

mostdope28 on reddit

You nailed it. It’s about humiliation, hegemony, and maybe a lil’ bit o’ revenge served stale on a silver platter. I doubt paying for sex is ever really about the sex unless it’s a really boutique sex act. Or one finds themself compelled to explore explicit sexual transactions by an idle curiosity, a journalistic sense of duty to extract EXPERIENCE and TRUTH. More curiosity than compulsion. (Though I’m open to suggestion otherwise.)

Just like rape is not about the sex. (Not that I’m equating rape and non-coercive financial exchanges in the slightest.) Because nobody CAN’T get laid. Martin isn’t THAT prima facie repugnant and red flaggy. A decade+ ago he didn’t have enough institutional power to be that punchable.

Posted in 10k q&a: part 1 | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

10k Addendum

Remember how I said I couldn’t post uncensored screenshots of Martin Shkreli and my facebook correspondence because facebook was holding them prisoner? Well, lucky for me, facebook has released his account from investigation and restored access to the incriminating messages he once tossed off into the gaping void. See what I did there?

A few of you have suggested the shots I previously posted couldn’t possibly be real, must be a shoddy Photoshop job, as Facebook Chat never appeared in that format. One of those three allegations is true. These conversations were NOT from Facebook Chat, which was introduced but not yet mandatory in 2008, according to this press release. Notice the boldface of “statistics” and “vday” below? That indicates they are the subject lines of what were once classified as Private Messages, before Chat and Inbox were merged.

A few of you do not remember, or are too young to remember, how the internet worked in the Golden Age of Anarchy and Innovation, back when people revealed their innermost goth on livejournal, lavished their friends with inside joke-ladden praise in Friendster’s “testimonials,” shared their liberal arts school projects on DeviantArt, posed for SuicideGirls in front of graffiti walls, pirated Belle and Sebastian from Kazaa and Limewire, connected to other political activist types via IndyMedia, called each other from-dorm-room-to-door-room using landlines with 4-digit extensions, wrote facebook updates in the third person, life updates on white boards gum-tacked to their unlocked doors, and carried their key cards in their Vicky Secret water bras. Ahh, that was fun reminiscing from my lumbar spine-supporting rolly chair and geriatric slippers.

Alas, Martin Uncensored:

Redacted MS1

Redacted MS2

Redacted MS3

Redacted MS4

Stay tuned for a Q and A (or comment and critique) where I attempt to respond to your feedback and coverage of this news story en masse.

Posted in 10k addendum, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments


Before I moved across the big pond, I made sure to do lots of New Yorky things: eat everything bagels, go to the new Whitney, ride on the handlebars of a hipster’s fixie, steal something of no monetary value from a self-promoter, kiss Lit Lounge and the lingering traces of East Village grit goodbye, tie up frayed threads of partners past and prospective. Characters I met at shows, on tinder, transferring subways, through friends and friends-of-friends and the claustrophobic scene that is NYC when you were raised a private school brat and your world in infinitely insular. But by far the New Yorkiest thing I’ve done is dating a fist-pumping hedge fund bro who is now tabloid-trashy infamous.

That’s right, kids. Freshman year of college I dated Martin Shkreli: unrepentant capitalist, quoter of Eminem lyrics, embodiment of douchebaggery. The most reviled man in America during this New-York-minute news cycle, which opportunistic politicians have played to their advantage. Martin and I dated long-distance when I was 18 and he was 19. He was working as a junior analyst at Jim Cramer’s Cramer Berkowitz, around the corner from parents’ Midtown apartment in the tenuous post-911 landscape, and attending Baruch College sporadically. His favorite bands were Thursday and Taking Back Sunday, his favorite word austere. We met on the bus home from a Green Day/Blink-182/Saves The Day show at Jones Beach the summer before I frolicked off to hippie dippy liberal arts college. Charming right? A teenage dream. Except it soon became obvious that Martin was a pathological liar, would pretend to cheat on me and brag about it to raise his value in my eyes, so I’d always feel like I was hanging on by a thread, could be replaced, would vie for his approval and forgiveness. Except it backfired, made me think he was pathetic, not desirable.

When we broke up for good, we kept in touch for a while. Had copious bouts of post-break up sex, as per indulgent college-aged kid protocol. I stayed with him for a day or two on the UES after he moved out of an apartment in the Olympic Tower that he had rented from a high school classmate who didn’t know what to do with his inheritance. And then I moved on, like a reasonably well-adjusted emerging adult human. Except when facebook became a thing, in November 2004, Martin began contacting me. First friendly, then increasingly inappropriate and desperate. Unwanted. In April 2008, a full 5-years after we had broken up, he sent me a facebook message alleging, “95% of the time i get off i’m thinking about you.” “ick,” I responded. And it didn’t end there and then.

Because he couldn’t summon my company with his alternately mopey emo boy and manic money-thirsty persona, he began begging me with obscene amount of cash. We’ll never know whether he was serious or bluffing. Either way a fist-pumping exercise in eighties-style douchebag bravado, an emaciated mouse of a man trying to beef himself up with an impressive portfolio, classically conditioned to the sound of the NYSE’s Closing Bell. Funny considering when we were together he never spent money on me unless his friends were standing by the sidelines waving him on, green with envy or antipathy.

See screenshots of relevant conversations below. The first set I copied and pasted from fb to gmail about a year ago, before this whole biotech big pharma price gouging scandal blew up. The next set I took directly from facebook earlier today to prove our correspondence is authentic. Unfortunately you can’t see his side because facebook has made his account, or at least the messages that were sent from it way back when, inaccessible. The third is a message he sent to me from his work email while running the hedge fund Elea Capital Management, further proof that I did in fact know this guy and have rebuffed his continued advances. Obviously I have redacted my last name from the screenshots; otherwise they are undoctored.

Martin Shkreli Facebook 1 Redacted

Martin Shkreli Facebook 2 Redacted

Martin Shkreli Screenshot 1 Redacted

Martin Shkreli Screenshot 2 Redacted

Martin Shkreli Screenshot 3 Redacted

Martin Shkreli Email Redacted

Martin Shkreli Email Response Redacted

The final point of contact, which sadly I didn’t capture, was his attempt to refriend me on facebook this summer. (Never bothered to delete the request; facebook won’t allow me to access it now that his account is under investigation or whatever). I had unfriended him after he solicited me for prostitution and wouldn’t stop pestering me. Unbeknownst to me, his latest attempt came at around the same time he became CEO of Turing Pharmaceuticals. A friend in finance speculated the surprise contact could be explained by Martin’s sudden acquisition of cash to spend… on women.

Stay classy, baby.

Posted in 10k | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 83 Comments



MAY 2014

“That’s backwards of how the whole author thing works,” Andrew condescends, upon my suggesting I might read his book if we meet in-person and I don’t hate his guts. “If we meet and you hate me you can still hate-read my book,” he presses. And we move on from there, except a few weeks later he’s back at it, assigning reading as a tinder date entry-level prereq when he was the one who messaged me; I did not sign up for his private tutorial. “I just find it unattractively arrogant that you think I wanna read your book, or that I should read it, or whatever,” I attempt to deflate Andrew’s sense of entitlement. But he dismisses me with an adolescent “Meh. I don’t care,” as if he’s literally plugging up his ears and humming over me. “It’s like in college when the guy who didn’t do the reading still wants to be involved in the class discussion.” Incensed, I interject, “Wtf! Do I have to praise your work to talk to you? Are you gonna read stuff that’s important to me, or is that not relevant because I’m not a published author??” And I knock him down a notch: “I’m pretty sure I know people who have made much more significant contributions to society than a memoir about cocaine use.”

Andrew, arbiter of appropriateness, puts a yellow flag on our dispute, determining it has gone “off the rails.” The next day, allowed to speak, I reiterate: I will not subject myself to being quizzed on your life, an area in which you are indisputably an erudite scholar; I will not be a fan girl in a one-sided, worship-based relationship; I didn’t fucking consent to this rigged student-teacher social hierarchy. I allow him to apologize, if insincerely. When I ask what exactly he is apologizing for, he does a decent job paraphrasing my grievances. So I am willing to put it behind me, pretend to ignore my misgivings in the spirit of sex. Aren’t we all?

Shifting from foot to foot, waiting for our order at the pick-up window of the chili pepper red food truck, parked inside Habana Outpost’s outdoor enclosure, I spot him out of the corner of my jumpy eye, which is darting around for signs of the water, plasticware, untaken seats. Corn, is what he ordered, and a smile breaks across his sparsely freckled complexion, as I turn toward him with our dinner tray jutting out from beneath my overhang of tits. Andrew limps toward me, more gimp than gangsta, and I think he is juuust my make: long and lanky, slightly damaged, ladylike legs naturally spindly and now mismatched from a break sustained toppling over himself, subway steps deceptively slick after a nighttime scrub down. We sweep down under the canopy of a picnic table and face each other head-on for the first time, after over a month of unrealized suggestion—racy, fantastical, immaterial.

He reaches across the wood planks to hand me a sweater, as promised, attending to my complaint about the chilly summer breeze as he headed out the door to meet me. Soft and pleasantly unwashed, like bedsheets that have been slept in for weeks, comforting, his everyday pinpoint polka dot hoodie. I sniff it, covertly, as I flip it over my head and wrap it around my shivering shoulders, one swift motion is what I’m going for. With his offering comes a sailor hat and Hawaiian lei, party favors from the nautical-themed birthday party that he invited me to then silently uninvited me from just last night, on our joint birthday. Sensing the miffed expression creeping across my face, my lips thinning, he hands me more sweet nothings, dresses excuses as compliments, “I wouldn’t have been able to focus on the other guests if you were there.” I raise one corner of my mouth, unconvinced. “It’s best we met this way. So I wouldn’t be so distracted trying to get them to go home so I could be alone with you. The second I saw you in your floral dress… I was like ‘yes!’” I think back to five-minutes ago at the food truck, my eye catching the glimmer his. Our conversation has already elapsed a little stilted and awkward, not audacious and alluring like our previous correspondence. Better in print, I suppose.

Subtly, I try to shift the topic from backgrounds and upbringings to something that authentically animates me: lawn flamingos, kitsch… gay porn, we somehow land on. And you can’t talk about gay porn without buttsex, my colorectal surgery, lack of internal butt, his obsession with great butts, doing yoga to ogle them… “I’m into butts but not… ‘butt stuff’” he blushes, fair skin tinting to approximate the graphic cherries on his scarf. Still sheepish, “This is like, I don’t know about saying this on a first date.” His voice falters. “It’s cool,” I urge him to go on. “This is like, our 5th date, basically. We know so much about each other already.” He tells me about his ex girlfriend from nearly five years ago, the one from The Book, her interest in poking around “back there,” his eyes opening wide and teeth gritting in restraint as he tells me the horror, the craaayziness. It’s small potatoes to me, after all I’ve done and seen—bland, almost.

Presenting as a peacock, he’s deliberately adorned himself in two items of flair—grey fitted vest over pink button-down, loudly patterned scarf he insists is an “ascot.” And I suppose that is the conversation piece, this a page ripped straight from Neil Strauss’ The Game, a pick-up manual for men without natural charisma. I’m starting to wonder whether he’s the real deal or carefully curated, a concoction. Feel as if I’ve pulled back the curtain on The Wizard of Oz, himself. Flamboyant image overcompensating for timidity, introspection, bookishness. Dorkiness, even. Quotations for every occasion or character flaw like a walking hallmark card or alibi—recited, rehearsed. Had I not invested a month in him already, I would have brushed off the situation as an intellectual connection with no physical chemistry. But I let him dilate time, lead me to the next location, extending bum leg all the way out, then rolling up on the front pad of his foot, with me following in tow. “Topple-over tits” is the phrase that comes to mind when I think of how he was walking. His demeanor, his disproportionate body. Underneath his puffed-up plumage is a sparrow teetering on teeny legs—mild-mannered, shy, sweet.

At the threshold of his brownstone, I take in our surroundings: his stroller-brigade Boerum Hill block does not resemble the pre-gentrification Fort Greene backdrop of the fantasies in which he casts himself as a legendary Downtown “scenester,” who nightlifed in Manhattan before it became a glorified B&T suburb. Creaking open his double door, he leads me into a collector’s cave of memorabilia. Not kitschy like David Cassidy or hardcore like Agnostic Front. But narcissistic like a shrine dedicated to his own microfame. His foyer greets me with a prominent magazine display, more mantelpiece painting than doctor’s office rack, only one item balancing on the moulding. Inquiring about the significance, he lifts it off the lip of the wall, flips it over, and there it is, on the back cover, a miniscule photograph of him, head poking out behind the important people. A hanger-on, he is, like Woody Allen’s Zelig, seeking to camouflage with celebrities, assume an identity of having “made it,” solidify fleeting acquaintances in photo ops, become part of any cultural zeitgeist that will have him, then relive it as a historian. All I can hope is that he’s a brilliant self-satirist, in on his own joke. This is a mockumentary, the soundstage walls set to come down. “This is Spinal Tap.”

On his bedside table, merch is spread out garishly—pins with his signature selfie. Meant for the days of jean jackets, backpacks. “May I have one?” I demure, estimating megalomania memorabilia to be the most hilarious sex souvenir this side of the East River. It’s sort of a test, how seriously does he take his craft. “No, I give those to people who have paid for my book.” My nose scrunches up at his denial. “Would it be weird if I showed up at one of your readings?” I ask. “Not at all, but I only do readings at indie bookstores,” he reminds me of his cred, emphatic, as if that were even the question I asked. Or maybe he’s reminding himself. “You should hand them out to girls you fuck and hope they bump into one another, knowingly. Like that Degrassi episode where Jay gives Emma gonorrhea of the mouth and brands her with the bracelet he gives all the girls. ‘Every Player Gets a Prize,’ it says.” “Ha! How ridiculous would that be?” Soo ridiculous. So ridiculous. That, shit, suddenly I covet a stupid trinket.

Before we met, I knew exactly how he wanted to be described. I had read it in a bad review of his book, a damning indictment if ever there were one. According to the reviewer, on his boundless quest for self-validation and cultural relevance—amidst his peers assuring him his work is brilliant and marveling at how a skinny literary nerd manages to land so many hot chicks—his biggest transgression is bragging about his girth. By way of another character, of course. Social proof! He had slipped it into one of our text message convos, as well, apropos of nothing—that he and his college girlfriend dated for three whole years even though he was “too thick” for her. Yeah right.

I didn’t mean to say it, exactly. I hadn’t rehearsed it in my bathroom mirror, or anything. And I wasn’t even sure we were having sex, penis-in-vagina style, until I hovered over him patiently waiting for consent, encouragement, enthusiasm, and he over-pronounced all the vowels, “Soo inappropriate for a first date. Preeemartial sax.” Yet, when the opportunity presents, somehow I can’t resist—testing to see if he will recognize my mimicry and implicit mockery. On my hands and knees, he pummeling me from behind, I peek over my shoulder and coo, “Mmm, you are really thick.” “Is it too much?” he hopes and dreams, his starry eyes sparkling in self-adulation. Nearly breaking character, I have to brace myself from collapsing into giggles. Struggling to one-up myself with a retort, I manage to deliver, “No… it’s purrrfect. I feel so tight around you.” My muscles clench around him and my timbre wavers.

MAY 2015

Once he commences ignoring me, I decide that I no longer need to have any principles about him. So I purchase his book, send him the receipt, and mock him mercilessly, “I read your book. Twice. Now what do I have to do to get you to fuck me again? I would get down on my knees and suck you while reading your book aloud if it were physically possible.” Shockingly, he doesn’t bite my bait. Whatever, I’m not sure the degradation is worth the sex anyway, sweetheart this, honey that. Except the sex is reallly good. So who cares if he’s a profesh narcissist who uses dating as a platform for self-promo. My vag doesn’t know the diff. Anyway, I’m not sure if he’s more damaged than most or if he just flaunts his flaws. It’s the prob people have assessing me, I guess, so I feel a certain kinship.

A year later he reinserts himself into my frame. Bidding me a happy birthday. And I can’t help but reduce him to an object, a passing fad. Collect them all!

commemorative pin

A week or so later he reemerges, and I check his social media to see to what I owe the pleasure. Apparently he broke up with his “girlfriend” and was looking for attention, to pick a fight, who knows. I put that word in quotes because it seemed superficial and tenuous, like he felt compelled to announce his relationship continually all over social media, told her publicly how pretty she was, literally tagged anything she commented on #girlfriend, as in “my #girlfriend is funny.” The most insecure in their standing are always the showiest. “Well thanks for thinking of me when you needed someone to lick your wounds,” I brushed him off. “But I’m not some fucking volunteer tending to lost souls. Just like I’m not a hospital volunteer. You already used me enough during your overwrought recovery for a broken leg and ignored me when I had cadaver placed in my spine. You know how it is.” And then I remembered I was a ghost, with unfinished business. “Oh… wait… one critical thing I forgot…” I pleaded before he slipped out of my grasp forever. “On our first date you asked to see a picture of my shit.”

green poop map of america

So juvenile. So satisfying.

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The Whir-Grind

The Whir-Grind


March 16th, 2015

“You have to start taking responsibility for yourself, start acting like a 30-year-old,” my mom scolds over some petty infraction. “First you won’t go to J. Crew with me to return the suits, suits we ordered for you, then you won’t even order food for yourself…” Either she trails off or I walk away mid-sentence on my way to slamming the door dramatically. “The reason I didn’t go with you is because I’m exhausted, I’ve been through a lot,” my voice wavers. And I’m determined to nail the dagger in, crookedly, before it gives way completely, “You fucking insensitive cunt!” Not quite making it to the door-slam climax I envisioned, my eyes churn ablur, like a washing machine stirring into the sudsy cycle; I toss into tears, high-pitched heaving. In the vacant hallway between our side-by-side apartments, I fiddle frantically with my dangling keys, holding on by the string of a lanyard, shaking them into the slit of a hole with the dexterity of a three-year-old pushing a hexagon through a shape sorter. Just quick enough to deny our mutual neighbors the time to trickle out and gawk, at the commotion, my lack of hand-eye coordination.

Her bitchy accusations trigger a cascade of emotions. “You have to act like a 30-year-old,” the cruelest thing you could say to your daughter who has long been incapacitated due to illness, dependent on you like a newborn child, sometimes contained to a person-powered wheelchair and sometimes in diapers, stuck in her body and unable to move on with her life, barely able to move in the literal sense. If only I could meet the facebook-ready milestones people my age famously achieve, if only I could be healthy consistently enough to hold down a full-time job, move out of my parents’ apartment, be independent.

The most serendipitous of life opportunities doomed before launching, shopping for suits for med school interviews was a production, an ordeal. Boxes and boxes of merchandise rejected, packages piled up like shoddily stacked bricks waiting to collapse.

Most colossal was the inauspicious timing. Lying in bed groggy on prescription painkillers, 2 weeks into my 4-6 weeks of projected recovery for spinal fusion surgery, I swiped my phone open to an e-mail informing me I’d been selected to interview for a seat in the 2015 entering class of a prestigious Irish medical school. Which I had applied to on a whim, supposing what is another 400 dollars and extra essay shipped off into a sea of hopelessness, only to sink spectacularly with the rest of the lot. I should choose one of two interview dates, the email instructed, one right after the other, both three weeks from then, when I still would not be permitted to BLT. You see, post-surgery, I was unable to Bend over to put on my own socks or feed my little kitty, could not Lift more than three pounds, must not have Twisted my torso when rolling over and out of bed. With so many movement restrictions in place, even if stores stocked suits in my size, I wouldn’t have been able to travel on my own to try them on.

Everything about the interview process became an onerous challenge, many hours of logistical and physical effort put into perfecting a conservative costume that would ornament me for one-half hour, while gauged in caliber and gait. There is the issue of my being petite, sizes “P.” With no business-formal clothing for truncated bodies available in corporeal stores, I’m relegated to the realm of slow-acquisition internet purchases followed by requisite tailoring. Inconvenient considering my limited time frame for finding. The bigger issue, har har, is my boobs. Structured jackets unintentionally repurposed as straight jackets, how do I button while remaining free to gesticulate my arms? If only suits came in deep-plunge v-neck style, giving my ample babies room to breathe. So frustrated and flustered I became with the stiffness and misplaced darts, my mom grabbed hold of the reigns and ordered extra options behind my unbendy back.

One night she admitted, “I know you said absolutely no Talbots. But I ordered you two suits from Brooks Brothers. Very classic pinstripe in summer navy, skirt and pants version. Shipping was free, you can always return if you hate.” “Echh, okay.” I resigned. “Stuffy central. But it’s doubtful a Brooks Brothers suit will fit me, anyway, forgetting the uptightness factor. They’re cut for boobless gentiles from Connecticut.” “No, not the Classic Cut. I specifically avoided ordering the style with that in the description.” “It said ‘For Boobless Gentiles’?” I jested. “Pretty much.” Perusing the website, I exclaimed, “’Trim Bust’!” “That’s it.” “Well, I don’t want to trim them before my interview!… though I did shadow that plastic surgeon.”

Fit problems, so man wrong ways to fit and only one right one. Minor sartorial crime a boob-hugging jacket it tempted to commit: the fabric gapes, blouse peeks out between buttons. Crime against humanity, fear-provoking possibility: the top-button hangs on by a thread, flies off mid-interview. Since the inception of this high-stakes Dressing The Part game show, me, the bumbling contestant, I’ve had recurrent nightmares aping the plotline of a Friends episode. The one where Ross got hit in the head with a hockey puck and went to the hospital for stitches. Sitting impatiently in the waiting room, the compact culprit jumped out of his clasped hands and knocked out the nasty intake nurse, had it coming, har har. Only, in my version, I lean forward innocently over the perfectly polished stained-oak round table, answer a question passionately, taking special care to sustain direct and animated eye-contact. So engaged I am in my interaction, I fail to notice what is coming to pass inches below my virgin eyes. The boob-button rips from my chest thread-by-thread and cuts the air sideways like a Frisbee aimed bullseye at the Olde Irish Man’s pert nose. Dumbfounded, he is struck.

After my post-interview blowout with my mom, wherein she implied how useless I am for fucking failing to meet expectations, I stay up all night weeping hysterical, feeling fucking useless like all my effort has been for naught. Each memory recalling the next, they snowball upon each other, I tumble under the slip-slide of their avalanche, crushed by the current of weight and chill. The following morning at 2 p.m., nights dragged on and days truncated by depression, I wake up bleary-eyed, puffy, drained. Strain to bloat my sleep for as long as I can pretend I don’t exist—until my head beats as if I’m banging it against the wall over-and-over, when is this life gonna be fucking over, and summons me out of bed toward my kitchen.

I plod through the swampland of drudgery that is my beige living room, dragging my baggy pajama pants as if they’re weighted down with a dip of mud. Arriving at my kitchen with my earplugs still in, I assess the daunting array of equipment, plop all my morning smoothie ingredients into my trusty all-tasks-in-one blender, and mentally prepare for the utilitarian whir-grind, a noxious noise dissonant to my head beat.

Pound Pound, a loud thud at the door startles me from my smoothie preparation. “Go away,” I Oscar The Grouch, assuming it is my mom to nag me some more. “It’s important,” my dad says shortly, with urgency or annoyance, I don’t know. Money matters, must have been sent as an intermediary to intimidate me. To recoup tuition money from NYU, for a class I had to drop because my surgery was postponed and the recovery time seeped into the semester, couldn’t even lift my textbook, surely greater than 3 lbs. Because my parents refused to pay for my surgery, my body too much of a burden, and I became reliant on insurance, the endless paperwork and bureaucracy of it all, one more application submitted into a sea of hopelessness, a cubicle cubby, somewhere.

Last night begins flooding back into my washed-up head, my parents, their indifference, their demands. “What!?” I yell back, suspicious. “I have a Fed Ex envelope. It came for you.” Blocking my runaway cat with my foot, I creak the door open ever-so slightly, propping it with the dead bolt. And there it is, a thick envelope. Another package. I rip it open as he waits, irritated by my dismissal.

“What is it?” he asks, impatient.

“An acceptance letter.”

“I just got into med school?” I mumble into my shirt, unsure or embarrassed, perhaps.

“I got into med school,” I affirm, looking up at him and locking eyes.

We hug, perfunctory, then leave my apartment, a clamoring procession on our way to tell my mom. Down my hallway we stride, a few paces closer to independence. This package, not for the reject pile.

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Dream Big, Baby: Part 6







Niall visited me a few weeks after my surgery, knowing full well that I was capable of no more than consuming dinner and codeine, limping around my apartment lamely, and reclining to watch movies. I entered the platonic hang under suspicion that our communication troubles were a shield for fundamental physiological incompatibility. One can talk about sexual “differences” all his precious, idealistic heart desires; either the boning works or it doesn’t.

Pressed up next to him on my loveseat devoid of expectations, he smelled like sex; his pheromones already imprinted upon me. Whereas our first time together may have been a little bit rushed, there was something so tantalizing about smelling and not getting to touch. Suppose my nose can spot and summon a sexual partner past, but knows not how to discriminate a good fuck from a comical disaster waiting to happen. Maybe it knows what I don’t: that sexytimes aren’t monolithic and static; they’re both context-dependent and subject to practice. It’s sort of silly to presume otherwise considering how varied even masturbating can be, and it isn’t as if at certain times I’m more compatible with myself, nor have I improved steadily as I’ve learned my preferences. Of course, the last time I ignored history, took Toucan Sam’s advice and followed my nose, it resulted in my current crippledom. “JUST THE TIP!” I had whispered, intrepidly, into my own ear. Often times we can trail a whiff, chase a whim, take flight; other times reason must reign supreme, or so I remind myself, not convincingly enough.

Historically speaking, sex hasn’t always been instant-gratification button-pushing amazing. But this year I have luxuriated in a few experiences that were immaculate immediately. And I’ve fetishized the effortlessness, adhering to its superiority almost superstitiously. As if sex is a polarizing sphere in which people are compatible or clash, oil and water immiscible, any misstep means it wasn’t meant to be. Bodies are supposed to fit together naturally. Sex is so deeply embedded it can’t be dislodged. Compromise ultimately results in dissatisfaction for both parties. Are the axioms with which I cast off imperfect partners. And yes, all of these platitudes have some truth: There are some things that are dealbreakers to me, e.g., semen phobia. I could never be satisfied in a relationship if the sex wasn’t copacetic, consuming, and consistent. But where I’m fooling myself is in accepting society’s story that first times with new people are diagnostic and deterministic, as if we’re automatically able to intuit how to please each other, pre-programmed. How Harlequin of me. Think of all the fumbles.

A previous sexual partner (Neil) posted this year’s pre-Valentine’s Day Modern Love column on facebook. I explain how I came across it to highlight in pink ink and squiggly hearts that I do not, on my own accord, seek out trite meet-cute stories. Daniel Jones’ summative insights on finding and sustaining love apply to my superstitions about sex.

In writing about love, the story of how we met looms large because a lot of us believe, validly or not, that a good meeting story bodes well for the relationship.

What do we consider to be a good meeting story? When it involves chance more than effort. You get bonus points if the chance encounter suggests compatibility, like mistakenly wheeling off with each other’s shopping carts at Whole Foods because your items had so much overlap, you got the carts mixed up… It seems the harder we work at finding love, the more prone we are to second-guessing the results… The fear is we may force things or compromise after pushing so hard for so long. We may admire hard work in most endeavors, but we admire laziness when it comes to finding love. (If you manage to stay together over the long haul, however, it will be because of effort, not chance.)

—Daniel Jones, Modern Love, February 5th 2015: How We Write About Love

Totally true that continuing anything on a long-term basis requires effort—if not to improve the sex itself, then to prevent yourselves from annoying each other such that you grow too weary to fuck. I’ve been in sad situations where stellar sex stopped working because the guy was incapable of communicating about basic, logistical things, like timing and location, that aren’t pertinent to sexual satisfaction if worked out but become unnecessary obstacles if not attended to. For example, “Can we try to reschedule things so next time we have sex before we go out, instead of once we’re back home and exhausted?” once elicited an outburst of, “You can’t complain about the sex; I’m not your boyfriend.” Ummm, I didn’t claim that you were. I would like to be a little less horny and impatient when we socialize. I would like to be a little more lively when we fuck. It’s Dan Savage’s #fuckfirst campaign. A shame some people cannot handle even the most fortunate of confrontations, ones about how to make the fucking work even better.

So here we are, Niall and I, loading effort into the front end. After all, I was ‘asking for it’ with all that ‘second time’s the charm’ business. His suggestion that we try again despite initial failure is almost verbatim what I proposed on December 23rd, two days before our initial okcupid conversation.

 I want so badly to say to the next guy: Even if it isn’t that good and even if nothing will come of this, I want to continue having sex with you. For the constancy. Which is not nothing. In a sexual landscape where I’ve gone missing—suspended in space between guys—it is the narrative thread that will hold my broken body together.

I’m going to defer to Clarisse Thorne on her discussion of building chemistry and managing incentives so you aren’t distracted by fleeting romance or put off by the effort it can take to build something with long-term potential. Once upon a time in college I dated someone I now fully believe to be gay. In spite of our best efforts, mine at least, we never gained chemistry or comfort; everything was a pained intellectual exposition. Almost a meta-relationship, like we related about the relationship we didn’t quite have. With Niall it’s weird: the personality chemistry and physical attraction are both solid, they galvanize me and buzz in the air between us. What is lacking is the telepathy about the mechanics, stimulation and response. Seems like that is an issue of building common vocabulary, practicing, and not getting discouraged. Low-hanging fruit.

I have dated men where the chemistry was so intense, so obvious, that it hung in the air between us like smoke. I’ve had sex that felt like telepathy. It’s pretty awesome when it works…

And then I’ve dated guys where the learning curve — both sexually and temperamentally — was much longer. It was less instinctive. But it was not impossible. So I know for a fact that people can build chemistry. Sometimes it’s just there, but sometimes you can create it.

My relationship with Mr. Ambition… I decided I was really into him … and I started managing my incentives. There was another guy I saw occasionally, with whom I had stronger instinctive chemistry. This other guy agreed with me that we didn’t want a Big Important Relationship. This other guy will screw up my incentives if I hang out with him too much, I thought, and I limited my time with him.

—Clarisse Thorn, [Storytime] Chemistry

I also resonate with SnowdropExplodes‘s comments on Clarisse’s post.

On OkCupid in one of my question explanations, I said that dedication is more important than passion in a relationship, because while passion [can] wax and wane, dedication will get you through the patches where the passion has faded.

I tend to agree that dedication is a stronger foundation than passion for a relationship. Sex is a fleeting and flighty sensation, cheap and expendable, while commitment provides the thread to string it together, the impetus to make it work even if you don’t always want the sex and could dispense with the person in an individual instance. Stability is ultimately what we are looking for in our old age, isn’t it, instead of a collection of disparate experiences? I mean, once you’ve accumulated enough experiences you realize most of them are shit, and my toilet overfloweth. For sure I’ve shaken much of my FOMO instinct because thus far I’ve been so greedy. And it hasn’t left me with much that is lasting. Not even any good diseases!

Mostly my urge to experience it all has given me only shallow experiences, barren stretches intermittent with explosion, not much nuance or gradation. Passion flares sizzling down to scorched earth in the wink of a session or two. Now, built up again, I’m ready for a slow burn. Seems like we as a society have internalized the dichotomy that a man is either sweet and available or exhilarating and self-absorbed. But in this regard I think we can have it all. Someone doesn’t have to be inconsistent and ambiguous about where you stand and what they are willing to offer you to keep it fresh and exciting; they can be dedicated to pushing boundaries and taking risks with you.

Except I have my reservations about no sexual chemistry immediately. Clarisse makes a point in the comments of I’m Not Sure Why I Want To Have Children, But I Do, in response to a thoughtful suggestions that she might consider a polyamorous situation where she raises kids with a platonic friend and has sex with separate partners.

I’ve thought before that I’d be fine with straightforwardly treating a marriage like an LLC for kids. Yet chemistry seems to be one of the aspects that helps people have patience with each other and through the tough times.

True, sex is integral to maintaining a complicated relationship because it can be used as a tool to iron out the kinks. Stay together for the sex: an unpopular but realistic incentive. And I think this is why I’ve always asserted that sex is The Most important thing to me. Not because I’m some dolt who cares more about my fleeting pleasure than how someone treats me, but because without satisfying and steady sex, I’m not convinced the other stuff can work. In relationships where I haven’t been sexually satisfied, resentments have built quickly. Make-up sex might be no more than a chemical bandaid, downing a Tylenol to treat symptoms, but it alleviates a headache for long enough for you to work around it and focus on fortifying other aspects of your relationship.

Which brings us to the final point: It’s easier to work on sex than liking one another. Physical routines are subject to revision but character flaws are pretty much forever. The flipside is that positive, relationship-building traits also tend to persist. Niall has already been patient and infinitely understanding with me. He entered into the situation knowing that I’d be somewhat physically incapacitated for a while and would need rehab thereafter, that my illness has persisted to wear on me emotionally. Nevertheless, he was intrigued and remained engaged in the face of setbacks.

So much less crash and burn than all the situations I’ve been in recently: despite our initial sexual debacle, I feel calm, not keyed up about him. After his post-surgery visit, I didn’t hear from him for over two weeks and I didn’t freak out even one bit. Rightfully so; he turned up. Wonder whether my lack of anxiety or angst is because I’m in a good place for once, every little slight isn’t one more piece of shit piled up in a toilet about to overflow. Or whether it’s because he has little physical claim over me thus far, I cannot yet feel him in my body. At least insofar as his disappearance would not register as a built-in being snatched away violently.

I’ve already done the hard work of pitching myself as repulsive in every way, giving Niall every opportunity out. Attempting to cast him off. If we can recover from “I just wanted you to unfib or consistently fib to make your nose-peen stop growing then shrinking,” we aren’t in such bad shape,” right? I almost wonder: What did I do right?

Then I posit: Maybe Niall is exactly the resilience I need. Reliance. Resilience.

 Working on sex. I guess this is growing up?

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Dream Big, Baby: Part 5




Dream on.


Two days later, I’m thawed out on drugs, restless from too much sleep and too little movement, looking for a getaway vehicle to take me away to the morphine peach fuzz life of slumber. Unable to discard my shaky shell of a body, I must inhabit the hollow, my mantra the only way out is in. Reaching under my bed for my slimmest toy, vibratey and insertable, without bending my spine, I roll over onto my right side and resume spine-straight fetal position, pajamas around knees, knees pointed toward tits. Minutes later, I’m coming restrained, buckling and clenching, arms bracing self on side, support stakes tethering me to the mattress like back screws buttressing my vertebrate alignment.

Drifting off to sleep, I stroll into a panoramic dream about Andrew in some multiplex architectural wonder situated in a hotel housing a restaurant-slash-ballroom, among other hideouts, everything in high-res Technicolor.


He, sprawled out on the contiguous stage of a dancefloor with some girl who appears to be a composite of two girls he’s slept with in real life, one hot one not. This one, objectively pretty though not my type: blonde, leggy, shapeless, the girl-next-door glitzed up, glam. I lie down across from them on the waxy woodpanels, observing. Their bodies both oil-slicked, to capture the bounce of the stagelights? To glean like a sidewalk sprinkled in water on a high-budget movie shoot, accentuating the background-foreground contrast? To sharpen his reflection when he admires himself passing in each and every freshly squeegeed shoppe window? Aggressively stylized, he appears even in the buff, almost airbrushed. The roll-on Smells Like Teen Spirit body glitter of adulthood, just my scent. All the phoniness beaded up on the surface. Unless it was meant to serve a purpose? As a purse, is how he wears the woman, slung across his slender body, draped and undressed. A status symbol and social currency, an accessory to mask his insecurity. Propped up by the implicit social proof of his conversation piece, the expansive sea of stage provides an apt setting, as his entire life seems to be a staged production, his bright-lights social media presence deliberately divergent from the mild-mannered man. Frail and lackluster in real life, meeting him for the first time I felt as if I had pulled back the curtain on the Wizard Of Oz. Though I had bargained for a pompous peacock, gratefully I accepted a sparrow small and sweet, preferring the person to the persona.

He began groping her, a superficial window display of an act. Appalled by his insensitivity in expressing physical affection in front of me when clearly he knew I still wanted him, I scowl-scoffed. Then shifted my weight to get up and extricate myself from the situation. Sensing my agitation, he forbade me, wait, it’s not what you think. Then preceded to get up from her, drape himself over me, and grope me the same. Oh, I was being canvassed for a threesome. Why of course! I could not be any more tickled by the prospect. Overjoyed! She was no Emily, this one, but she’d do. Reconciliation, at last! Like when my college boyfriend bought me lady porn as a getting-back-together slash sorry-for-accusing-you-of-cheating-with-a-girl gift.

I was a little surprised Andrew wasn’t disgusted by my enthusiastic reception, considering he puffs up at the prospect of women fighting over him. Sharing is soo much sexier, and even the most pathological of narcissists realizes this. I excuse myself to the bathroom to go “freshen up,” the proverbial pre-sex pee or in my case bowel purge: evacuate shit to make room for peen. I step over the girl on my way there, and see her mouth words snappily across the woodpanels, “Waaait, wherrre is she going,” scolding Andrew for what she presumes is a failed conquest. He tells her not to worry I’m just going to the bathroom, and she invigorates with the idea, instructing within ear-shot, “Get the camera out NOW, let’s start filming while she is in there.” So I speed things up, wanting to shoot the shit before film is rolling. Some things are private! Others are not.

Concerned by this creepy, predatory set-up, I should be, you say?

All I’ve ever wanted is for someone to affirm my desire to be watched, that exhibitionism is attractive and not the narcissistic nadir of desperation. From a woman, it’s the ultimate acceptance, confirmation that I’m not a piteous, past-my-prime slut.


Approaching the sink to wash up, I detect rumbling behind the mirror ornamenting the overhead cabinet just left of the doorway. Pivoting on my tippie toes, I turn ninety degrees, slide the glass door along its track frame and see up the pinhole of a ceiling shaft that there is an attic, like in an old abandoned house. An elusive thing just an arm’s length out of reach, he’s up there fumbling with a camera, trying to play subtle and camouflage his flamboyant feathers against the grain of the cupboard. I part primp for him—them, part prep myself, and part play to the camera. First plumping my lips with gloss, dragging the gooey tip of my index finger over my poised pucker, sleek and velvety on application. Next drawing a line down my chin, through the valley of my tits, past the speed bump of my belly button, and into the tense waistband of my underpants, which have magically appeared for the affectation of resistance—provocation theater! Given my vehement refusal at self-restraint, my panties bluff coy, mostly to entice me. Swollen and goopy, I give in and give up the charade only when my breath thickens husky, rasping for him. I reach up errant into the overhead void, push the camera aside with a swipe of sloppy fingers; jumping back a bit, he startles, astonished that his ruse is up. “I know you’re up there,” the adult version of ready-or-not-here-I-come. He doesn’t budge. “You can come down now,” I say, sweetly sinister, as he pokes his over-sized head out, bashfully. “I’m Into It,” I assure, all caps and smirk. Bashful, befriend Dopey.

Climbing down through the unlikely cabinet portal, he approaches me from behind, wrapping his arms around my tits, sliding them down slowly, seductively. Me, all smiles. He bends my top-heavy torso over to one thirty analog clock, pads of my hands propping me against the wall. Rolling spit on the head of his cock, he draws his body into mine, pressing gently until my pussy parts, and we pick up momentum. First thrust send shivers up and down my spine like a mallet running over a xylophone key-by-key then in reverse. Recovering, I look clear and straight ahead, noticing myself noticing myself in the camera lens. Self-conscious, I smile, laughing at my own joke. Not a shy, blushing, demure self-consciousness; rather one of being jolted back into the recurring reality of vision clouding sensation, the overcoming aura of recognizing my face and reconnecting. And I exhilarate, What a thrill it would be to own my own body. What a thrill it would be to come into myself, as someone fucks me senseless—defenseless.

Air pulling in and sucking out of my thorax, my eyes squint and glisten slipperily, watching my bottom lip quiver and ripple in the perpetuity of reflection, as the rumble between my legs builds upon itself… picks up steam and plows forward into profusion until the put-put of the tea pot teems and turns into a whistle. Fading in and out of focus, mine, his, peering over my shoulder, my head cocked back, mine, his, with every thrust we contort in sync. He cups the undercurrent of my tits and slides down my torso, wrapping his long limber fingers around my inner thighs to brace me, as if hoisting me up by my own breeches. Sensing the imminence with which the clock will strike twelve, I will melt into jello and forget my own legs, he holds me in place, enabling me to dissolve and receive, assemble into a rippling pool of pleasure. Ceding to my rebel yell, released throaty and conjured from deep inside my chest cavity, he thrusts his pelvis even further into my butt crevice as I tense around him. Halfway between levitation and physical restraint, I lose track of whether I’m spread and spread again or tense, approaching or retreating; he’s supporting me entirely, slip-sliding down his cock, my fanned-out lady lips slapping against his full, flappy balls.

Our euphoria reaches a critical mass of weightlessness, he carrying my load before he shoots his. Except we settle down slowly, he swings the bathroom door open and leads me by the pinkie as if I’m the effeminate one and he is about to twirl me off to our next adventure.


We crawl up the cast-iron spiral staircase paved with plush red carpeting—the luxe version of the rickety tin cans he has strung together in his apartment, leading at a sharp angle from basement kitchen to ground floor bedroom, a firepole of footholds condensing square footage. Clawing our way to conquer our prize, we stop at the second landing. And there she is, gleaming and fully clothed in cocktail attire. In a booth—sipping on a swizzle-sticked classic martini across the table from a blurry-faced, identity-interchangeable, exquisitely dressed suit—obviously on a date. For romance or “business” it is unclear.

She asks Andrew how it’s going and he asks her the same, all the while ignoring The Other Man, face a blur. In front of me it unfolds, the kind of interaction reserved for when you are at a bar with friends and one breaks away from the group to land a guy. Before leaving with Him, giddy and teetering on too-tall heels, she checks in with you and you inform her you’re going to stay put and mingle, chase the night into morning. On her way out, over the clanking of glasses and rustling of outerwear, you bid her, “Have Fun (Wink, Wink).” Use condoms. Text me tomorrow to let me know you’re still alive. Divulge all the dirtiest deets. It’s a sorority girl handshake, two girlfriends pre-gossiping before shit goes down.

Andrew nods at Composite Girl in dutiful acknowledgment, Have a great night, and we continue the climb without our precious cargo in tow. Confused by whatever he knows that I don’t, I stalk his lanky length up the stairs, following him reflexively around the gentle cast-iron curves. And I’m distracted by the corporeal reality for a bit, crawling behind in Jungle Book succession, nose and tail in air, lusting after his long lean lady legs. All I can think of is leg worship, Raylene the drag queen who hostessed my queerest of the queer 18th Birthday party at Lips, how he could fulfill at the wet and wanking gender bending dreams I had in high school. Bet I could even get him into the infamous flamingo pink ass floss thong. A preacher’s son, he told me he doesn’t have limits. Sooo tempting to test. Rearing to continue, I am, hindquarters as red as a baboon’s are blue. Roses are red, balls are blue, Genie is such a romantic…

jungle book

We ascend steadily, and just before Composite Girl and Blurry Man are out of sight, I tug on his extended leg slightly, sputtering perplexed. I ask what the situation with that girl could possible be, why hadn’t we collected her, what is the deal with that guy. And the whole thing makes little sense to me considering in real life he seems psychotically jealous, projecting his insecurities by pretending the women are the jealous, needy ones. He admits it, matter-of-fact: “She is my patron.” And I know exactly what he means, this patron-prostitute relationship. Because the previous evening, in real life, I had read an article in Salon about the importance of writers being transparent about the source of their funding, whether it is being born into money, marrying into it, or more unadulterated forms of whoring. Not to discredit anyone’s talent or effort, but to admit to the leisure life that allows them to exercise it with more facility than their financially burdened or otherwise responsible peers. Reading this expose on creative “arrangements,” I gloated roguishly, How I Would Love To Own That Boy. Keep him well, I would. Not sufficiently convinced that I’m a piece of shit person?

Before I grew impatient with his ignoring me, we had this conversation:

Andrew: I hate to say this but I think I need to get a job.

Me: Besides fucking me?

Me: Let’s hang out tomorrow.

Obviously I was joking.

Andrew: If I fuck you better can you pay for the sessions? I have too many [travel plans] next month and I haven’t worked since April.

He was too.

But once he started ignoring me I got so turned on by the prospect of payment. What it would be to purchase a man. He couldn’t fuck me better, it was practically perfect as is, but I could pay for him to be mine. Whether it would be more degrading for him or me, who knows. Who cares? For both of us, it would be sex.

Back in my dream, Composite Girl is his sponsor, almost, and I admire that he owned up to the origins of his success, his ability to accrue experiences and catalog them. Apparently he sexually favors her sometimes as a courtesy but it isn’t primarily a sexual exchange. She dates, goes to events, sleeps up herself. Mostly he is a plus one for hire, and I always saw him as the epitome of that. Since my idea of a good time is attending an upscale event, preferably one including “ladies” who tormented me as a child, and seeing how socially inappropriate I can get away with being without chancing ostracism. He’s just gauche and unrefined enough for that job: just new money, name droppy, and opportunistic enough to be trashy; just self-conscious enough to be self-promotional; just pretty boy emaciated enough to scarf down unpronounceable appetizers with abandon. Though if someone wanted to do some serious Society Seeing, he would have to be groomed and vetted as to avoid committing a conspicuous and unforgivable faux pas, like bragging that his second-tier liberal arts college is more impressive than his high school girl friend’s top-three or like insinuating that well-to-do teenagers start having sex younger than their low-SES counterparts. Tonight his de facto employer is on a date, negotiating her own social ascent, and he is off the clock, available for my enjoyment—at my service!

We tunnel through a series of corridors, a plexiglass sleeve of a train car, and surface at the next open landing: a glass-roofed spa resembling an indoor arboretum, walls lined with signature hotel robes and slippers. Looking past the 80’s peach reception desk, wafting the chlorine on the other side of the revolving door, it is time for us to get down to business. Except he’s resistant, suddenly aloof and alarmist.


He blows me off, anxiously eyeing the out-of-date waiting room mags, distraction props, like fixating on the duration of the 50-minute hour in a tense therapy session. I ask him what’s up, and he’s not into it. The sex.

“You must be kidding me,” I say, exacerbated.

“Seriously?” he winces, as if sharp from sucking on something sour.

“YES, seriously,” I escalate emotion quickly. Hot and bothered!

“I don’t know why you bothered teasing me, got me all worked up. What you thought would happen. But if you’re not gonna help…” echoes the sentiment of the summer, of his ignoring me and my growing increasingly flustered. (Now I’m twice as horny and four times as stressed out, someone put me out of my fucking misery!)

“No, it’s not that. I want to,” he explains, feebly, “Just not here.”

I nod, forehead furrowed, rolling my right hand toward myself in the universal ‘get on with it’ motion.

“Let’s go someplace more private,” he offers, finally, and gestures past the reception desk.

“There are people in there.”

“So?” what’s your point?

“Well, what if they see us?” questions Captain Obvious. Siggh. Yawn.

“So what if they do?” I fondle his cock and it jumps in my hand. I’m ready. Want him to be too.

“Don’t.” He restrains my arms at my side, toy soldier style. As if he were about to bust and wanted to stop me before he jumped out of his skin.

“What do you mean, don’t?” this again, “Why not?”

“I’m, uh,” he hesitates, “I’m shy.” His final word. My question meant to be rhetorical.

Disgusted, I sneer, “Okay, well then you don’t have to be involved. Directly. Just watch me.” Lowering my eyes suggestively, “I’ll touch myself… instead.”

“Please don’t.”

“WUT!” I exclaim, accusatory. “Am I not allowed to touch myself?”

“You are…” he trails off.

Clipping his thought, “I need to get off.”


I’m, uh… I’m shy. His words ring true reverberating in my head because he behaved as such in real life, much to my surprise and disappointment. Also a funny thing to petition me with because so am I, shy, given my characteristic inclination to sink into myself. Unbridled, I had been relying on him as my self-monitor, my sexual custodian. He, self-consciousness embodied.

Surely we can compromise, I decide to accommodate. I want him to lunge into me, not cower. We walk in reverse, this time me leading him, back through the plexiglass sleeve of a train car. He pulls down the Murphy bench propped against the wall and sits confidently on the sliver of ledge, gesturing for me to hop on his solid stick shift of a cock, also gesturing for me. I ride him in the hum-hum gallop of the train, knees pressing his hips together, rocking back and forth, my pointy chin pressed up against his freckly forehead, jubilant tits cradling his neck.

Between my fleshy thighs, my whole body rumples and wilts, his rooted thrust propping me back up. My glove-tight grip stiffens, torso propelling itself, sucking him all the way inside me up to the flared-base of his body, and I lean back on him, elastic suspension, like a slingshot loaded to launch. Squealing, flailing even further back, I’m a spooked horse rearing on hind legs—unpredictable, untamed. (The same configuration as I came with The Dutch Man, only titled back 90s degrees. More “pounding the spot” than “dominant goddess,” as featured in the top pic, except with knees bent and feet pinned behind butt.) Only I don’t fall over backwards off his lap, because there is no gravity in dreams!!! Convenient! Well, there’s just enough to hold him down on the sliver seat and attach me peg-in-hole. Yet, not quite enough to slap me silly, flipping me feet-over-head as if I’m leaning back too liberally in a computer chair.

Pounding the Spot

Pounding the Spot

Dominant Goddess

Dominant Goddess

Thirty seconds of recovery later, beaming, both of us, he pulls his plump knob out, smoothly and methodically, scaling my endless internal walls. His incremental retreat, me still aflutter in post-orgasmic butterfly wing quiver inciting quiver, it feel like vagina for days. Our fantastic finger-and-fuck not over yet, he pumps his pretty cock along my stomach, his jumpy balls jostling against my gushy, galvanized lips. Spurt after spurt, sparkly streamers of semen shoot out. Our eyes aglow, glistening in glory, as we bathe and bask in the delight of fluids we produced. Slathered, a mobius strip of shimmer and shiver, reflecting pools collecting between our tummies, connecting us. Sighing in joy and relief, it is so simple, he who cums inside me owns me, and he already did, our relationship cemented in semen. I pet him, adoringly, brush a loose curl behind his ear, and whisper, “You are so beautiful.”

We are back to where we were before, the last time he fingered me. When I smiled so sweepingly that his instinctual eyes grinned back reflexively, in mimicry. And I laughed at myself, sheepishly, recognizing my face reflected in his inlaid mirror, a flash of euphoria externalized.


Grateful and glowing, I wake up in real life with my stomach trembling in a tangle of smiles originating in the soft spot between my legs. I reach down through the elastic band of my panties, swipe through the valley of my lips, and feel contented by the pulse and wetness of the wank I went to sleep on. Now fused with him. Splendid and sweet, it was, as was the sex with him in real life. Unlike the escalating violent fantasies I had after he cut me loose.

And for once I feel unified with myself. Like now that my back is finally screwed together the spell he cast on me is broken. I have a brighter future, even if it only consists of my reconstituted ability to acquire experiences through which to publicly embarrass myself. Every time I get cut open, I feel like a virgin—shiny and new. Propofol and penis: the secret agents of welcomed memory erasure.

That’s all I ever wanted to think of him, that he was so beautiful—lovely, really. I never wanted to follow in his footsteps, to become one of those people who vilifies sexual or romantic partners when things go to shit, who belittles them to bolster themselves. I didn’t mean to transmogrify saucy sexual fantasies into deranged, violent provocation—though those got me off, too. I only wanted my life to be improved by semen. SELF-CARE! And he had become my de facto rubrik of all things fuckworthy. In any incantation, making me come.

I’ve been haunted by it this whole time: That hypocritical bitterness thing. The shame of resentment eating away at me, knowing full well how horrified and turned off I was by Andrew’s bent on harboring grudges and seeking revenge against those who let him go and those who aided and abetted. Not to mention the words The Minnesotan said to me, foreshadowing his disappearance. About how he was concerned that I talked so poorly about past partners, he didn’t want to someday turn into one of them. As if I spun gold into shit, broke everything I touched, in my head at least.

My residual hatred for Andrew: mostly good ol’ fashioned SEXUAL FRUSTRATION! He rubbed me really wrong weeks before I insisted on some conclusion but never touched my trigger points. Trouble yes, psychological warfare no. Until he refused to render his services. Then I wanted him to rub me and run me into the ground.

There were a lot of serious objections I had to him all along. His demand for undeserved adulation and refusal to engage with my accomplishments and aspirations. The air of arrogance and retribution inflected into his hero/victim self-narrative. His insistence on communicating with the condescending sweetie this, honey that. But with sex he got everything right. More right than I even knew was possible. Why couldn’t we just have that? Why did he have to take it away from me? He provided me with the impetus to be unscrupulous and I’m not sure how to reproduce that urge and replace him. He was that good. The way he drugged me with bucketsful of semen. I can’t even image anyone else I’d WANT to have unprotected sex with.

Each and every time I have shitty, standard sex—auxiliary affirmation of my status as a human carcass—it only serves to amplify my fury. At Andrew for showing me the ropes and then abandoning me mid-course with no safety harness. For leaving me longing for that prelapsarian period before submitting to the temptation to pull back the curtain on tidy sex. When the tension between exposure and circumspection still remained. Before I felt the relief and humanity in being fucked raw.

Posted in dream big baby: part 5 | Leave a comment

Dream Big, Baby: Part 4



Civilized conversations about bodily misfortunes.


bionic woman

bionic woman

Mom: You just have to tell me what button to press.

Me: The icon that looks exactly like a camera. Do you remember what cameras used to look like?

Mom: Okay, found it.

Me: What IS this? Why is it so blurry?

Mom: It looks blurry to me even when I’m not looking at it through the camera.

Me: Are you saying that your daughter has a blurry back? I can’t even photoshop that!

Mom: But I did such a great job accentuating the contours of your waist. What a figure!

Me: This was supposed to be a surgical wound photo session, not a fashion shoot! Oy vey, I think you need glasses or I need my cat to take these pictures. She already knows how to press ALL the buttons.

Following my surgery, Niall checks in periodically to see how it went, wish me a speedy recovery, and offer a visit if I’m up for it. Nine days later, he texts THIS. Which is half-joking half-serious, I believe. Way to up the ante.

Niall: How’s things? Getting better? Need a visitor? Lox? Books? Oral?

Me: Ha ha, oral. If only you knew yesterday was the first time I showered in 9 days.


Niall: Perfect. How about you let me know the next day you plan to shower and I’ll come hang out?

Me: Aw, I hate to dash your hopes and dreams. I really enjoyed hanging out with you, felt like we were on the same wavelength, and would make good activity buddies. But I thought the sex was kind of a disaster. Not the stuff of stories or anything just nothing worth repeating.

Me: Which isn’t to say I don’t want to hang out just that I assume you don’t want to hang out if it doesn’t involve nudity.

I was sort of tentative about the rejection; didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Accordingly, I was sooo relieved when he agreed the sex was terrible. Best-case scenario! Either that or a new low. The same but different.

Niall: Yeah the quick pre Girls watching with parents, pre surgery sex did not go well at all! I assumed we just both knew that and wanted to give it another try based on the aforementioned shared wavelength.

Ohhh, huh. That wasn’t what I was expecting. At all. In retrospect, it’s exactly what I had asked for: second time, same guy. I wasn’t sold yet. But I was willing to entertain the notion. For now, an emphatic phewww. Finally something has gone well. Mutual feelings, of disappointment!

Me: Yeah, the circumstances were not ideal. Glad you aren’t offended. I don’t know, while I’m not totally opposed to the idea once I’m grossed out I’m sort of grossed out. The part I found most objectionable was the fingering.

Niall: Well I have know idea what you like so please explain!

Good, he’s amenable to constructive criticism. The problem: things were so bad I’m not even sure where to start. Shaping someone works only if there is some foundation to build from.

Niall: I’m not used to bad sex, and I feel a pretty decent attraction to you, so I assumed it was a fluke.

Me: I’m very accustomed to bad sex. I expect most of it to go in the discard container.

Wow, I’m brutal.

Niall: Also, let me precede the rest of this conversation with the statement that I don’t need to sleep with you to want to hang out with you again.

He’s sweet. Good thing at least one of us isn’t an arsehole. I give him as detailed and colorful a list of complaints as I’ve given you, lecherous readers. Keep in mind that throughout this whole conversation I’m on post-surgery narcotics. So if I’m already blaringly blunt, I have no filter whatsoever on them. He apologizes for my troubles even though they aren’t any more his fault than mine.

Niall: Wow I’m sorry you had such a bad experience!

Niall: So I think despite our intellectual wavelength we were on a very different sexual one. Bummer!!

Me: No need to apologize it wasn’t aggressively bad, like you weren’t mean to me.

Me: I’ve seriously never been fingered like you’ve fingered me in all my years of slutitude. I did like the position you fingered me from torward the end. The oral was okay but not award worthy. Maybe it would have been if I weren’t so distracted by having to protect myself from your fingers.

Niall: Hahahaha I like the openness of this conversation despite its unfortunate topic.

Totally, that’s the most important part. Being able to talk about it without getting defensive.

Me: I delight in civilized convos about body misfortune.

No kidding, do I ever! What follows is the most hilarious and cruelest part of my commentary. One more special message to go. And then I’m done and I can go home.

Me: So here is the last open thing I will say before I have to go do other stuff like maybe nap. I hate that your bike tattoo hand is your jerking off hand. The wheels look like swirly eyes and I felt like I had a surrealist nose protruding towards then retreating away from me menacingly. Like some fucked up Pinocchio shit and I just wanted you to unfib or consistently fib to make your nose-peen stop growing then shrinking.

Oh my!

Niall: Usually my left hand is my jerking off hand because my more dexterous right hand is a waste in that application.

Hahaha, that made me laugh ten thousand! Something about the matter-of-factness. The shrewdness. I like a man who can be practical about his penis! Conservative, almost. Reminds me of a guy who claims in his okcup profile that his ordering deodorant and coffee filters online isn’t lazy; it’s efficient. Totally. Don’t work harder; work smarter. Niall ends the conversation by labeling what happened “a rushed struggle void of communication” and reiterating that he is open to whatever: “If you want to share and try what is right I’m down! And if not, that’s fine too.” Except he adds a bizarre condition to a simple proposition.

Niall: And, in a rare personal request, (I don’t like to ask people for things) I’d appreciate you letting me know which direction you’d like to go sooner rather than later so I can tailor subsequent conversation appropriately!🙂

Niall: Like if you just want to be buds I don’t want to continue cute offers to lick your disabled and unshowered vagina. If otherwise, I will!!

I half pondered what he meant by it. And fully passed the fuck out on painkillers for the next six days. Six days later I got back to him to let him know that I intended to respond eventually. And then I grew curious about my vagina, that thing down there between my legs. I wondered how long it would take to revive. Good thing I keep a vagina diary! No seriously. After my series of digestive surgeries, since there was a dearth of information on the internet about what to expect post-surgically, I attempted to fill this struggle void by keeping track of how frequently I was getting off and how (like, with what equipment). Doctors know nothing, and I guess for patients it’s either too taboo or depressing a topic to broach. Or else others think of sex less systematically and consciously than I do. The verdict was that after my second digestive surgery—which was purely abdominal and thus did not encroach on reproductive real estate—it took me close to three weeks to start up and another three to be back on pace. For the first few weeks it felt like I was being punched in the stomach every time I orgasmed—but whatevs! Still totally worth it. Except, with spinal surgery I had an additional concern. Orgasms are a spinal reflex. What that meant I was unsure. Seemed scary. Like, are my orgasms gonna ping off the screws in my back like a ball bouncing off targets in a pinball machine? Are my fingers equivalent to action flippers keeping the ball in play? How long can I hold off for, anyway? Two days after my placeholder text, I send Niall a message that contains actual content.


I guess the oblique and rather unsatisfying answer to your request is that I can’t even wrap my mind around the concept of sex or anything sexual right now. Though I like the idea of not explicitly sexual physical affection. It has been two and a half weeks since my surgery… Because pain and pain killers and mvmt restrictions and other physical stuff it will just take a while for my body to get back on track so it feels silly to make any kind of commitment or statement of intention in the abstract…

Pertaining to what went wrong btw us, yes, it was rushed and I’m sorry for that. Obvs I wanted some kind of encounter before my surgery and maybe that wasn’t fair to you. That said, I am physically attracted to you and enjoyed spending time with you and was planning on eventually sleeping with you anyway… What I think we might disagree on is the following: I tend to think communication as an excuse or explanation is the folly of the intellectually enlightened. Often there are differences in sexual compatibility that can’t be fixed through verbally or physically demonstrating preferences and no matter how hard both of you try and how sincerely both of you want it to work, it’s just never gonna be super pleasing to both people. I’m not sure we are at that point…

The communication problem, if we are going to refer to it as that, is what you were doing was so far from my preferences and what I’ve experienced with other men that I didn’t know how to express how to fix the situation or if it was even fixable. I’m not unwilling to try to get naked with you again once I’m feeling up to it physically. But perhaps it would help if we set up the expectation that if either of us isn’t enjoying it we can just say so and stop so we don’t feel obligated to persist in doing something to please the other person when they aren’t going to be pleased anyway…

In a way I think [our first encounter] is a textbook example of “pluralistic ignorance.” Anyway, if you wanna hang out soon and just watch movies or listen to music and maybe even snuggle let me know. It will prob be a few weeks before I can really leave my apartment and roam the streets.

He responds favorably and reasonably.


I totally understand your views on sexual communication and agree that sometimes people just aren’t sexually compatible. This can be true even despite good connection in various other areas or strong sexual attraction at first…

I’m also attracted to you physically and intellectually and of course also wanted to sleep with you (else I wouldn’t have). I did make the assumption that sex before surgery would be nice for you so went with the little bit of rush because the attraction was already there. It did affect me some during though despite feeling comfortable with you.

Also I don’t need any abstract statements and understand you aren’t really in a place to…be anywhere besides your apartment🙂 I just never want to be the annoying person on the wrong page…as I’ve been the annoyed one plenty of times when I didn’t want the type of attention I was getting. All that said, hanging out with a movie or music soon sounds fun to me!

Oh, I get it: he doesn’t want to be a sex pest. That’s admirable. As if I am competing against myself in an absurdity pageant, I am stupidly relieved when he concurs that he wanted to sleep with me or else he wouldn’t have. Not because I doubted his interest. But because it settled a dispute I was having with myself. I had been wondering whether the attempted sex even counted as sex, and was hesitant to think of it as anything more than alleged. Because women are taught not to trust their own accounts. My brain kept doing that dumb heteronormative thing: “Did we, or didn’t we?” I mean, does it even matter?


Breaking news.


February 1st

After almost three weeks I thought it would be rushed release. Instead, pure pleasure. The kind you want to last forever and ever, and take pains to prolong to infinity in spite of your body’s elastic resistance to permanence. Inside me, it felt a bit stabby at first, my double-headed dildo poking the amorphous area that swelled and radiated red like ET’s heart, backing up against the dim dead-end drive of my Frankenpelvis. Until I tilted back, opened wide, and swallowed around it—sliding further and further in with each contraction, gulping it down, glub glub glub, my breath quickening gaspy and gapey in my ear, clicking and popping to my pressure chamber beat. The shower soothing, I got distracted from how fast I was coming, gripping the handle hook hard with my deadbolt pussy, like clamping down on a stress ball or squeezing my mom’s conscience while watching me get an injection. So tight and knuckle-white I had to shake it out afterwards, my cramped hand and legs, my taut butt hammocking my pc muscles. Shaking it all about, doing the hokey pokey sitting, only slightly less silly. My nerve-tension twitching and my pussy continuing to chug chug past the finish line, summoning the next dildo to suck dry and swallow whole. Three weeks parched, it was already thirsty for more, ravished in peachy glow and spellbound by possibility. Saying fuck off to disability. Spent and awash, I issued a news flash to myself. Here it is, verbatim.

Breaking news:

Orgasms feel better than heroin!

Let’s all take solace in that fact.

Last time I had surgery it literally felt like I was punched in the gut every time I orgasmed for like weeks after. Which proves that people will do anything to orgasm. I mean Genie will do anything to orgasm. I mean it felt great before and after. Just had to bite my tongue—but not literally—during. This time around I was scareder though because it wasn’t only about the pain. Orgasms are a spinal reflex and I had spinal surgery. So it’s like I hope all the screws are firmly in place while I screw myself!

Seriously, now I feel 500 percent better, not simply because I know everything works (game on!) but because I’m filled with happy chemicals. Today is world happiness day. Namaste. Two weeks and five days is a long time to go. Horny or not, here I come!

Of course, the fallacy being that an orgasm after two weeks and 5 days is not synonymous with an orgasm on average. And I bet heroin is ofttimes superior to the latter, if my week on morphine was any indication. At least drugs fuck you up too bad to remember about sex and the delightful automaticity of guzzling peristalsis, your body filling itself with exactly the sustenance it needs. Post-orgasm, I felt stiff but floaty. Unable to bend, twist, or lift, I levitated on adrenaline and oxytocin—sprawled out and numb, staring into the full-spectrum lamp sun and feeling forever anew. Two months later, the orgasmic bliss sizzled, I feel sunny still. And I’m waiting for a man or woman to give me a gut-crunching, dildo-crushing orgasm that will lace itself through my mind and multiply into gushing gulps that reverberate off the walls. Sex, more sustainable than drugs. Take that, morphine!

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