Since our mediocre encounter, my need to get off increased astronomically. Half of me was like, I guess he sensitized me to sex and now I’m into it again. Makes sense considering I can’t really get into porn if I don’t have real life encounters to think about. My college boyfriend taught me that I was basically getting off to porn wrong, like I finished with it, while he started with it then let his imagination run. Gotta have some inspiration. Without it, sex is a stale body function. The other half of me was like, suddenly my body is in good enough shape so calories are being apportioned to my vagina, not being sucked away by wound healing, and this corresponds to the time at which I am going out seeking tail. It’s about health, not him.

I guess you are wondering why I chose him as my first in my new body. Part of it is incidental, logistical. Such a large part of decision making is about timing. I’ve been going out on dates for the past month and a half. At first I was well enough to feel safe leaving my apartment alone. Gradually I became well enough to take the subway by myself. It had been over a year. Not that I couldn’t meet someone and decide that they were an awesome person and explain to them my physical situation and that it could only get better. I mean, in the real world, not everyone has sex right away, right? He’s the only one I made any explicit attempt to hook up with, though, because he’s the only one who told me explicit things in writing that turned me on. That made me think he wasn’t just another dude. Mostly, it was something I felt I had to get over with. Because if you wait, it becomes a big deal, like you’ve waited so long that you want the first time to be special. When I was maybe 20, once my mom burst in on me while I was changing, and I was like, “Stop, I don’t want you to see me naked!” and my mom was like, “Why? Everyone else has.” Burrrn. Point being, I’m kinda a whore and I’d like to be able to maintain my sense of humor about sex.

Basically, I wanted to arrange an encounter that would be as insignificant as possible but in which I felt comfortable with the guy. Partially I felt comfortable with him, cautiously optimistic. Partially I could never tell what he was thinking. Without social feedback, it’s hard to gauge what to say. I felt like I would implode in front of him, but that that would be okay. He is used to vulnerable people; after all, he spends four days a week in group therapy for broken people. My biggest fear is sex crying. Like someone could fuck the pain out of me. Since I seem to manage to do that to myself sometimes, I think it’s a reasonable fear. The smart part of me knows there is a difference between emotional and physical safety, and demographically he is super high risk. I mean, who knows, maybe he’s as cautious as I am; I’d have no way to know. Anonymity and latex only go so far. Super gross, but you know how when they film porn, they do dick checks? When I hook up with someone I consider high risk, I make sure the lights are on at least long enough to check that there are no open sores, or closed ones. I used to make sure I didn’t brush (or floss!) before giving a blowjob. Crazy? Maybe, but I’m squeaky clean.

Giving my body a break turned into getting off once or twice a day. Not an unreasonable amount for a normal person, but a little high for me and an insane percentage increase. I felt like I couldn’t keep up with the demand, like I’d get off once and not be done. Like I couldn’t get anything done! Like I needed to get one orgasm out of the way before I ate my breakfast, before I started my work, before I left my apartment. I came up with a few alternate explanations. The most pathetic being that after my year plus of sex deprivation, the mediocre experience was just what I needed, in that triumphant way The Cars meant it as demonstrated via their cheesy guitar solos. The patheticness compounded exponentially after he disposed on me. On Saturday, one day after I became human waste, I was like, I need to stop this. At the same time, I was kinda filled with adrenaline, seething with anger, like I could hate-fuck myself. Wouldn’t be the first time getting off was full of shame. I mean, my entire year in the wilderness was essentially spent getting off to someone who teased me, passed out in my bed, told me he was an alcoholic and had no recollection of the conversation, and hooked up with my friend, then every undergrad ever, even the fatties. He smelled so intoxicating, though, and I was so alone in the woods. I mean, I lived on 1 Main Street, but still! The sexual tension was torturous; I think it was indistinguishable from the shame.

The second explanation was not much less embarrassing. It occurred to me that as a recidivist compulsive study masturbator, I was getting really horny as an excuse not to do work. Anxiety and excitement are pretty much the same thing. Then the horror set in: Was I this horny all the time and had I just become habituated to it before the starkness of sickness set in. I didn’t think I could take it. I was like, if I have to deal with this every single day of my life I should just throw myself out the fucking window. Is this why I have so much reckless and revolting sex? Can I be excused from years of poor, yet easily rationalized, decision making? I’m so balanced about everything but sex. And sleep—my other vice. I had an “Are You There God? It’s Me, Genie” moment (see: Judy Blume). But I don’t believe in God. So, instead, my vagina spoke to me. It said, “Hey there, pal, maybe you are ovulating.” And I was like, OMFGOMGZZZ, I didn’t take birth control this month because I wanted to see how my body worked itself out. That must be it! Last Sunday, it was confirmed. And I felt five thousand times better about myself. Because I knew I would not be this horny forever and because my body was working again, finally! It was so humiliating all those months when nurses would ask me the last time I got my period, and I was like, “I don’t even know: I’ve been on massive quantities of steroids for a long time.” Inevitably, they would try to convince me to take a pregnancy test before they exposed me to whatever or injected me with whatever, and I was like, “Trust me, if I were pregnant, I would “take care” of it, and also I haven’t gotten fucked in a billion years because of all the ass bleeding, and if I had a baby it would be JESUS, except I’m pretty sure Mary didn’t bleed out of her ass!” Except, I was a little more gracious about it at the doctor’s office, hospital, etc. Sorta think I know what it is like to be infertile, though. Traumatic.

If you were friends with me as a kid, you know, to me, slime is basically God. I loved worms, amphibians, and other slippery, slithery animals. Wanted so badly to get slimed at Nickelodeon Studios at Universal Studios in Orlando, Florida. Dreamed about swimming in gak (partially that’s a color thing). My cum obsession kinda makes sense, in retrospect; not that I think kinks can be any more than rationalized (i.e., they are not rational). Cervical mucus high in spinnbarkeit is the most fun body substance to play with, ever! Like stringy snot or that weird globby glue on some envelopes and magazines. Even better, my vag secretions resembled the Klutz toy Icky Poo. Like, I wanted to fling it on my ceiling to fall down on some unsuspecting visitor, along with fake vomit. I wanted to see if I could braid it with Play Doh and Silly Putty. Oh, childhood.

What would life be without empiricism? I got photos for you, kidz. Material proof. I present these to you, proudly. Like a proud parent—of vag goop. And if your body didn’t work properly for a year and a half, you would mist tears of joy with me. Consider these my homage to Ryan McGinley’s “Cum” (1999), only more immediate and less dreamlike.

Last Sunday night, I went on an okcupid date that restored my faith in humanity. He was attractive, charming, intelligent, had life prospects, and had red hair before it started graying prematurely (guys, shut up—he’s not a has-been). I shared more with him about my being sick than I had with any other stranger, and he seemed to get it. He was also receptive to somewhat wild stories, with disclaimers, and shared his own. When I went to the bathroom, I heard back from Chuck, with whom I had never followed up after his services were rendered unnecessary.

Chuck (via fb): im all curious now. what is the request

When I got back from the bathroom, I was wearing a hug smirk and wanted so badly to OVERSHARE. I liked my date a lot, though, and was reluctant to ruin it. After making him share his “sordid stories” of okcupid and Nerve, I was pretty sure he could handle mine. We both agreed, I might as well ask Chuck for pics, even if just for me. When I described the Hans debacle to him, I expressed how repulsed I was when he asked to kiss me, when he resigned and said he should go home soon. As we parted, my okcupid date kissed me like he meant it. I walked home past Macy’s and Radio City, stopped for a meal at a famous halal cart, and felt on top of the world. Reinvigorated. I drip, drip, dripped all the way home.

The e-mail I sent to Chuck, a few days later, makes me very pleased with myself—score or none.

BEST CASE SCENARIO: Receive pictures of his big, beautiful penis.

WORST CASE SCENARIO: Denies me the pleasure.

EVEN WORSE THAN THE WORST CASE SCENARIO (yes, I know superlatives don’t work like this): He denies me the pleasure, tells all his friends, and laughs. If anyone ever laughed at me for it, I would be like, “Pssshhh, whachoo lookin’ at? I like big, beautiful cocks—so sue me!”

VERDICT: Uh, yeah, I might as well ask. The worst that could happen is (distant) social judgment—bad, but totally inconsequential.

This Friday, when I still hadn’t heard from Chuck, I followed up (because I was supposed to meet up with Annie, and wanted to be able to fill her in on the most recent details).

Me (via fb): you shy?

I figured the story had run it’s course, and the only thing I had left to do was send Hans the link to my blog, once I was finished writing about him. He preempted me. At two am on Friday night, after I got home from telling Annie’s roommate the sordid tale, I received a barrage of texts.

It’s ridic how much a creamed my pants upon receiving the gay porn text. There should be a Genie vag-o-meter that measures my responses in fluid emitted. Would solve the problem of trying to read “Genie’s poker face.” My vag doesn’t lie.

Was surprised he followed up the next day after not receiving a response. How persistent. Kinda assumed he was drunk when he sent the 2am texts, even though he is trying not to drink.

As much as I like the negative attention, he has some nerve (chutzpah!) to text me sexy messages after telling me he didn’t want to see me again. Just trying to watch my back.

That was a serious question. Wasn’t trying to insult him, but I guess I killed two birds with one stone. This is like when, after begging my college boyfriend for anal for Christmas, he finally submitted to fingers up the ass and did a terrible job. I asked him if he had purposefully done a bad job so I wouldn’t ask for it again. Ooops.

I like that Hans asked for feedback so he could improve next time. Nevertheless, I’m genuinely surprised that he is surprised. Did he think it was hot? Not a negative experience at all, until the aftermath. On a scale from masturbation to guy sex, I’d rate it a 5, alongside girl sex.

Here’s what I want: a guy who acts more than indifferent toward hooking up with me (in 90’s speak, someone who is “stoked,” rather than “unenthused.”) It wasn’t about the lack of penis-in-vagina sex, at all. I’m not even sure I wanted to have sex with him. Not opposed to taking things slow if it builds up the desire. But there was none at all. No sexual tension to speak of. It isn’t completely his fault. This is something I complain about in reference to internet hook ups in general (he’s only the third guy I’ve ever hooked up with from the interwebs). By the time it is time to get naked with someone, you aren’t that interested in them yet. I can get super excited about strangers and guys I know as people, whether they are friends or romantic prospects. With internet dates, at a certain point it is like we might as well see if it is gonna work sexually or we should stop seeing each other. There is an even broader problem with sex at our age: you realize everyone is a ho bag and is down to fuck. (See: oral phase/plight of a ho bag, which I wrote a whopping four years ago.) With certainty, the hotness of anticipation diminishes. I was actually kinda excited to play a little coy with Hans, to keep him wondering. His lack of enthusiasm was astounding: I literally had to take off almost all of my clothes! Just as unsexy as clothes coming off in bunches. It was among the least gropey/grabby sexual experience I’ve ever had. Blaaaah.

When I said it wasn’t a “fuck date,” what I meant was don’t come over expecting to get fucked. I didn’t want to feel a sense of obligation. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want him to want me. Since he said in writing that he didn’t know what constituted fuck date behavior, I figured he’d at least try to test my limits. You know the Cole Porter song “Let’s Misbehave.” Um, yeah, that.

Guess this is where I include a sad, little analogy. Many years ago I was raped. Thankfully, the rapist was considerate enough to wait until I passed out, so my visual memories are minimal (wish I had seen whether or not he wore a condom, though). A few years later, I told a boyfriend about it, as one of many, disparate pieces of my sexual history. It never really affected our relationship or how he felt about me (I mean, it shouldn’t affect how you feel about the non-participant), until one fateful evening when we watched the Jack Black movie Nacho Libre. Afterwards, we wrestled jokingly, he held me down and we began to touch each other blithely. Suddenly, his face turned, he released me from his hold and mumbled something about how he was “sorry” he couldn’t “go through with it” because he couldn’t stop thinking about my getting raped. Which, ironically, made me feel revictimized for the first time. Like we were having this obviously consensual, silly, sexy experience together in the context of a relationship marked by trust, and all he could see me as was physically helpless—a victim. I wanted my sexuality to be defined by pleasure and desire, not fear. He robbed me of my agency by disallowing me from engaging in a situation he deemed potentially compromising. What I’ve been through physically over the last year is similar to rape, only far more traumatic. I hope it isn’t insensitive to compare it to gang rape. Of course I’d like men to be extra conscious of my limits—to be prepared to stop immediately if I issue a request. But I’d like to be the one who determines how much I can handle. The more men act like they are walking on eggshells around me, the more broken I feel. I suppose by not communicating with Hans much ahead of time, I hoped for the situation to proceed as normally as possible. Perhaps in the future I should specify that I know how to say no.

YES, THAT’S WHY I’M BEING MEAN TO YOU! Also, you asked me what I didn’t like about the experience. I’m telling you why it wasn’t exciting: the tone was worse than the mechanics. Kinda feel like you gotta accept whatever I dish out. You still haven’t apologized or explained your sudden change of faith. Why the reconsideration? Or am I merely being demoted from 8pm slot to 2am slot? Gotta say, I’m a little confused about what he finds mean v. hot. Quite frankly, the whole humiliation racket is a puzzling to me: I love cutting unsuspecting frat bros down to size, but how can one humiliate someone who asks for it? And isn’t the small penis thing ultimately ego inflating? Like if some chick keeps fucking him despite his small penis, doesn’t he get to feel extra good about himself?

How did I manage to lose a conversation that opened with “I mean if you ever wanna watch gay porn together…”? Best. Offer. Ever. He alienated me in a matter of texts: I went from being turned on to being disgusted. There was something soooo self-aggrandizing about his closing line. Like, how did he infer from my annoyance that I was “interested in [him]”? I demand a certain level of respect from everyone I hook up with, no matter how casual. He isn’t exempt from my expectations concerning how men treat me. (See: moral outrage.)

There are two possibilities: Either he told me he didn’t want to see me then changed his mind because he is manipulative or because he has no fucking clue what he wants. Neither bodes well for him. On the manipulation front, it is entirely possible that his game plan was to demote me to fuck buddy. Totally terrible, not to mention deluded, if he assumes he’s such a fucking catch or I’m so hopelessly interested in him that I’ll be grateful when he offers me sex a mere week after he’s disposed of me as a person. Almost a bait and switch. Does he think I have no self-respect? Let me tell you how to relegate someone to the realm of sex. Step 1: Fuck them. (He failed to accomplish this.) Step 2: Text them at 2am, asking to come over or inviting them to your place. No message saying you don’t want to see them again necessary. “Jerked around” is hardly a step above “teased.”

I’m kinda leaning toward he has no idea what his own endgame is. He changed his profile recently to make himself sound way creepier and much less well-adjusted. It’s the extreme sport of TMI, and this is coming from someone who (somewhat anonymously) posts pics of her vag snot! He says he’s not looking for anything “too serious,” but is looking for something “meaningful,” whatever the fuck that means. And he lists practically all of his diagnoses: He discloses he suffers from “bouts of depression,” is an “anxious person,” has some fetishes, and doesn’t drink or do drugs because he’s had problems with substance abuse. The only people who would respond to such a profile are those who are equally fucked up and looking for co-dependence or those with savior complexes. Hello, Jesus. Purposefully destructive or not, he’s a mess—actively seeking trouble. It’s almost as if he behaves badly so people have reason to validate his lack of self-worth. Self-fulfilling prophesy: a classic trick among those who “suffer” from low self-esteem.

In person, the one thing I was crazy about was the way he smelled. Chemical compatibility is of the utmost value face-to-face or head-to-tail: it programs your arousal such that you keep coming back for another dose. Not inconsequentially, it lacks long-term value: I measure sexual utility in terms of masturbatory material, and you can’t get off to the way someone smells. Unless you wrap their articles of clothing around your face when you masturbate, which is just creepy. Also impermanent.

Late Sunday night, as I was writing this post, Chuck responded.

Chuck (via fb): no usually

Chuck (via e-mail): sounds kinky, im in. give me a couple days to get them ready. i might need a risque shot of you to get my blood flowing

Me (via e-mail): awesome. i would be happy to reciprocate with a few faceless shots.

how many days does it take you to jerk off and take pictures, ha ha.