Femme Fatale

Fatalism, Nihilism, Rock ‘n Roll (in the Bret Easton Ellis sense)

 

April 13th, 2014

Andrew: I have never had an online connection lead to anything once.

Me: Seriously? Not even awkward sex?

Andrew: Zero. Isn’t that strange?

Andrew: Like, not even drunk sex.
Not even just because we both had the next morning off.

Me: I guess. I mean, I suppose it depends on what your standards are. After a few months of tinder, mine have gotten SO low. Like I’d say all of my experiences were a step below masturbation. And that’s being generous.

Me: I try really hard not to have drunk sex

Me: I don’t get drunk on dates

Me: I prob should though so at least there is an excuse for sex being fucking terrible and men’s parts not working

[See: self-handicapping, attribution theory.]

Me: The level of ineptitude had been astounding

 

April 22nd, 2014

Me: If you’ve never had anything come of an internet date ever, why do you bother? Are you ceaselessly amused by the sideshow freaks you meet?

Andrew: I’ve thought about this before. Like, why do people name their children after literary characters? Don’t they read the endings? My brother’s wife’s name is “Juliet” after the teen suicide play. But why then bother dating at all if we know how it ends?

Me: Ha. Yeah, I’m not sure all literary figures are tragic. Dating seems to be though. One of my friends just told me that my blog is a “shipwreck” and I am the rock; he can’t figure out why guys continue to sleep with me. The same should be asked of me of course.

Me: Not having anything happen is distinct from having bad things happen

Me: To a certain extent, I’d rather entertain myself with gross and humiliating sex than sit in bed snuggling with my cat

Andrew: See my problem is I don’t have a cat.

 

July 29th, 2014

Fatalistic, is how I feel about sex.

When the one guy I wanted to put in regular rotation disposed of me, Annie attempted to console me by saying, “It’s just a number’s game.” And it is. To some extent. But the odds are dismal. And I’m floundering. In a sea full of algae.

Because most men are forgettable, from memory I probably could not list more than 15 dudes I’ve gone out with this year. Thanks to okcupid, tinder, and phone records, I’ve compiled a comparatively complete list. Nearing the end of it, I threw my hands up, “Oh. My. God. I am one of those people!” A serial dater. Heinously picky like all of my female relatives. Eternally single.

40. That’s the number of dudes I’ve gone on internet dates with since April 2013. The conservative estimate. Now let’s get to these odds, and as we all know the goods are odd but the odds are not good. I’ve gotten naked with 11 of them. Let’s call that 1 in 4. And I was being generous. My vagina, the philanthropist. Which brings us to the 1 I had awesome sex with. Given how amazing the Minnesotan was with his mouth, I’m guessing we also could have had awesome sex. But we didn’t. Because God was punctiliously protective of his penis. So there was no sex to assess. No sex at all. Let’s stop speculating and get back to reality.

I’m just gonna say it: sex is a fool’s errand, and I’m the fool. 1 in 40 is too much work! Was what I invested in that 1 guy worth it even though he disposed of me for no particular reason? Sure. Probably. I take what I can get. I mean, he left me kinda traumatized and disillusioned but I still want more. So let’s call that a wash. One thing is for certain: the effort I put into those 40 to get that one is fucking absurd. 40 dates and all the requisite pre-arranging for two great nights of sex? Fuck. My. Life.

sex, a lot of work

Principles of Biology I: NYU, Summer 2014

To be fair there were two other guys who were awesome this year. Met them both in the wild. I know what you are thinking, internet dating is not for me. But hear me out. In grad school Libby once asked me if I actually enjoyed the sex I had. Brave question. We agreed that approx 30% is terrible, 30% mindblowing, and 40% meh. As a 24-yr-old, I read that as, “Even mediocre sex is better than no sex: bang on, fair soldier!” It was a glass is 2/3rd full kinda thing. Fill. Me. Up. Sign. Me. Up. Turn. Me. Out. I think the last line from this Colleen Green song kinda captures the sentiment (replace wasted with sex; boldface mine):

oh my god, did you see what she was wearing?

I would never wear something like that

so you’re gonna go to the party tonight?

everybody’s going

we’re gonna get so wasted

but, like, what the fuck else are we supposed to do, anyway?

—Colleen Green, Every Boy Wants a Normal Girl @ Good Records

Now I—Genie the Hopeless Cynic, counterpoint to the Hopeless Romantic archetype—don’t see the glass 1/3rd empty. Worse yet. I see the 70% chance that my back will be thrown out by fucking and it wouldn’t even have been fucking worth it. In my humble risk assessment, only great sex is worth being crippled over.

Are we all just fucking away existential despair? Reminding ourselves we aren’t dead yet? Some people need more reassurance in that regard than others. Sighh, broken body. I might not be able to walk, but I can lie on my back… and spread my legs in the air like I just don’t care! Hip hop hooray, hoe… bag!

I’m worn down, weary, tired of scrounging for scraps to make a meal. Scrounger trading cards went sooo outta style after the 2000s, anyway. (Hey, Reedies!) So you may ask me, “Why sex?” Sex isn’t mere escapism to me, mindless distraction. Once I am satisfied, it liberates me to fulfill higher-order needs, to connect with my desires and other people more deeply. Without the pesky nagging of how and when I’m gonna get fucked, not everything I do relates to sex somehow. It is only on my mind if it isn’t taken off the table.

 

August 28th, 2014

Addendum

HA HA, LIES! That would maybe be a persuasive explanation if I were ever satisfied. Not that I can’t be. But the last time I was getting fucked regularly was 2008. And my only recent hope was Andrew. So it would be irrational for me to argue that I’m chasing this elusive, practically mythical moving target of satisfaction. What I’m doing is ceding to instant gratification because it feels more productive than letting amorphous sexual thoughts run amok in my head. Action is control, precision, decision. Which brings us to the point. Why sex? To escape my head, the measured micro-manager. It is exhausting to be in there all day, directing.

I’d rather wear out my body to evade justification. Sex is self-evident, after all. I’d rather bow down below the belt, delegating direction and reveling in reaction. Whereas my head is discursive, nebulous, and obfuscates matter-of-fact issues with analytical gymnastics, my vagina doesn’t lie. I’m quite proud of it for its terse, limited communication skills.

 

 

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