DREAM BIG, BABY: PART 2
Sex trolling commenced as I was composing the Rock Bottom post admitting that I couldn’t go additional months without sex. Mostly exploring my options, like when you open your eyes to the world out there before orchestrating an overdue break up. The first dude I messaged was a beautiful ginger, with a superfluous PhD in science, who created pop music and threw hipster dance parties to complement his bread-winning nine-to-five. Other plus: he peppered his profile with humorous photographs, including him with a ginourmous bucket of KFC, captioned “I will provide for you.” Probably socially competent despite his scientific inclinations. Turns out his personality didn’t matter. In person he was a decrepit ginger who looked halfway in between my mom’s and dad’s ages, and I have elderly parents. A smiling corpse, he resembled. And, look, it’s nice that he has a sense of humor about his crow’s feet (he accurately captioned one of his okcupid photos “crow’s feet”) but that doesn’t mean I want to become a character in a Tim Burton flick. And there’s this: before we met we had this bizarre convo in which he tried to convince me that you can tell before meeting someone whether you want to bone simply based on their pics, which convey more info than physical appearance alone. Okay, well, pheromones aside: either I am really poorly calibrated, have no clue about my physical preferences, or should be banging way more than I am. I miss bar pick-ups where I know veritably within the first two minutes if a guy piques my sexual interest and the other 40-or-so minutes it takes before inviting him back are just a screening to make sure he respects women, respects my boundaries, understands that women are sexual creatures, isn’t a total buffoon, etc. It’s silly to power through all the hoopla of internet introductions and shoddily laid out plans and subway service changes, if there is no way you are going to fuck a corpse in the first place. Call me regressive: I prefer pseudo-pedophilia to necrophilia.
Around the same time, a guy with a 99% match rating messaged me. Unclear whether he was physically attractive or fugly from his pics, but he definitely seemed like someone I’d enjoy hanging out with. Even owned a pink and green snowsuit! Except he listed his relationship type as “open” and mentioned polyamory in the body of his profile, whereas I am strictly monogamous when in a relationship. I responded with a regrettable rejection and explanation. Which he gently refused to accept. Attempted to convince me that polyamory isn’t necessarily his preference and he isn’t currently in a relationship—he just meant to rule out anyone who would find such a situation unfathomable, devious, or distasteful. The small-minded or claustrophobically conservative folks. If polyamory simply isn’t my thing, that’s cool with him: he’d still be down to hang out as friends regardless of my prospective romantic interest. Hmm.
I followed up by futilely attempting to convince him that I’m the worst of the worst: needy AND unavailable. Trust me, he doesn’t want me anyway: my body has been mired in medical monstrosities, my expectations are unrealistic. Buyer beware: I’m a lot to take on!
Below are some excerpts.
to be honest, i’m not interested in meeting people casually even if it is to be just friends. you mentioned the awful us medical system, and let’s just say that i’ve had personal experiences with it recently. since my body has been so unreliable and since nyc is so scattered, i really need to focus on sticking to a small group of people to be intimate with (as friends or sex partners) and not spreading myself thin.
i guess “seeing someone” might actually cover the kind of situation i’d ideally like to be in, which is to say one where i have sex with the same person regularly but don’t necessarily want to meet their friends or do activities with them and don’t care whether we have an intellectual connection. maybe that sounds kind of soulless. but i suppose after having isolating and debilitating medical problems that’s how i view rehumanization.
i’m trying to teach myself how to deal my life in ways that don’t involve sex. like, quite literally, how to not stuff all my feelings in vagina. but i suppose “easing back in” would be a dishonest way to represent where i am in the process. i’ve been with a disgusting number of men in the last year and a half. not that it’s the number or societal judgment that i’m concerned with. things have finally started feeling icky and viscerally wrong to me.
1) i’m totally recovered physically from my main medical problem which involved my getting my colon/rectum removed and my lower gi tract reconstructed. in mid-january i’m having spinal surgery which is likely due to all the horrendous medication i was on before the gi surgery.
2) i guess i don’t have much faith that someone who has a preference for a polyamorous situation could really give me what i want even if he doesn’t currently have a primary partner. but maybe what i’m looking for is unrealistic.
I cut myself down, revealed my conflicting desires, and minimized our prospects in all the ways. Yet, somehow my counter offer of being unhinged but honest was too enticing to reject. Can’t say I blame him: recently I discovered the unwitting appeal of vulnerability. Plus there is that whole managing expectations to impress people thing, underhanded as it may be. I’m the best at making people assume I’m slated to be a mess!
1) That is heavy…My cousin was here for dinner today, she had her heart, lungs and a kidney transplanted when her body stopped working a few years ago, so I’ve seen some crazy shit.
2). I obviously have no idea what I could give you or vice versa. We’re constantly looking for unrealistic things so let’s take that as a given.
He had a point. Considering no one seems to live up to my expectations! Can’t be worse than the guys I already know.
And that’s when the tables turned…
Niall: In recent non-monogamous relationships I’ve started to realize that there are certain things I require to be happy sexually and emotionally that sometimes I can’t get despite really caring about people.
Me: oooh, do you have weird sexual preferences? if so, please share. i’m just curious as to what being happy sexually and emotionally require. also, i’m kind of a voyeur and like hearing about weird shit.
Niall: What are you in to?
Me: the only weirdish thing i’m into that is a non-negotiable is semen. anywhere but my face. and that gets complicated with the whole casual sex thing because of, ya know, disease risk.
Me: i dont’ care if guys are specifically into that. i’d actually prefer that someone isn’t specif into that. but it has to be something that a partner enjoys because i do or it just doesn’t work.
Me: once upon a time i dated a guy who was terrified of his own semen and he told me he didn’t judge me and could get it on me as long as it didn’t touch him. and just, um, no, sex can’t be partitioned like that.
Niall: Ha! That is very specific and awesome that you can just come out and say it. So you want semen on you…everywhere…but not your face?
Me: yes, and face includes mouth though that’s occasionally exciting for me if i’m really into the person. it’s sooo specific!
Niall: I can relate in that I love to be covered in vaginal fluids (not menstrual) whenever possible. Being used as an object for someone to just rub themself on anywhere until they get off is the best.
Niall: And I hope to get soaked in the process
Too good to be true? If bathing in fluids is wrong, I don’t wanna be right. GAME ON!
Two weeks later he invited me to the Neue Galerie to see a terrible art exhibit, a retrospective of portraits by Egon Shiele: child abductor, rapist, impudent prisoner, beneficiary of nepotism. But all was not lost because we established that we have compatibly twisted senses of humor and similar sexual predilections.
As per the 5-minute rule, by the time we checked our coats and ascended the ornate marble and wrought-iron staircase, I suspected I was gonna sleep with him. Rifling through our respective wallets to pay the admissions fee, we both produced NYU IDs, despite no longer being students, and joked about how we should start a fake student ID business for cheap 30-somethings. Obviously the headquarters would be on MacDougal Street because NYC history. We spent ten minutes removing 8 layers of clothing each, and gazing at him without his winter casing I assessed, Yes, a skinny! Sold. To the lowest bidder.
There was a definitive theme to Shiele’s work.
“Wow, he really liked the ginger bush, huh?” I reveled devilishly, not quite sure how I ended up inside an UES mansion with such a prolific display of splayed pussy.
“Who doesn’t,” Niall concurred.
“I guess he liked black bush, too,” he added as we caught sight of the next section.
“Oh yeah, look at that, like Picasso he had a black period.”
Supplementing our German and Austrian art field trip, we shared shameless stories about our own European travels.
Niall inquired whether I had ever been to Germany. I told him about my miserable 24 hours in Berlin spent sick, overtired, and crying profusely into a bathtub so deep I was afraid I’d drown in my own tears, never to be found due to what can only be described as a negligent lack of emergency button in the spacious marble-gilded bathroom of a 5-star geriatric hotel. How I went out to dinner alone that night for a brief reprieve, naively assuming my street-smart vagina did not need a chaperone to sashay two blocks and slurp down spaghetti at a non-descript Italian restaurant. But when I paid my bill and made conversation with the bother-brother waiter and maitre d double team, they informed me otherwise. Apparently because I was traveling unaccompanied, I deserved to be raped. I looked “too young,” whatever that means. I didn’t know what men were like in Berlin. They know because they work at a restaurant. Pressed on the credentials that granted them authority on human behavior and morality, the maitre d considered my question thoughtfully and spit out a mouthful of braggadocio, “I don’t just work at a restaurant. I’m the manager.” Yes, Mr. Manager.
“If he didn’t have work, he’d do the raping himself. But he’s wayyy to important for that. He’s busy managing his breadsticks. Just wait until his shift is over: he’ll teach you a lesson,” Niall caught on.
“Ha, exactly. He knows what creepy men are like because he is one of those men. I told him it wasn’t nice to scare women, that he was being an aggressor.”
“So when I got back to my geriatric hotel,” I continued, “I photographed myself in my flannel shirt, combat boots, glasses, oh and let’s not forget the provocative rock ‘n’ roll hoodie. Then I posted the pic on facebook with a description of his threat and the caption ‘asking for it.’ Obviously he couldn’t help himself; men will be men and I’m irresistible.”
“In your Urban Outfitters rape bait attire.”
That is almost an exact description of what I was wearing. Welll, the leggings were from American Apparel, to be fair.
Niall and I waltzed on to the next politically incorrect topic upon my noticing all of the Jewish-sounding names of Shiele’s commissioned subjects, most well-to-do and likely hoity-toity. I suggested that while Shiele and co. died unfortunate and untimely deaths from assorted medical ailments that would be easily treatable in modern day, given that most were Jews in Austria in the early 1900’s, they were effectively spared fates more grisly than massacre by microorganism.
“Let’s call this exhibit ‘The Lucky Ones,’” Niall declared ruthlessly.
“Was that too much? Too soon?” he backtracked.
No. You are hilarious.
From the get-go it was obvious that the tone of this museum visit was going to diverge vastly from that of my last, an after-hours tour led by an outrageously genteel curator and graduate of my frou-frou, elitist UES private school. Caught off guard by a question about Otto Dix’s ‘A Memory of the Glass House in Brussels’—a painting depicting an off-duty soldier fucking a prostitute, surrounded by mirrors that reflected a kaleidoscope of pussy-pumping, tit-honking, champagne-certified good times—she blushed, referred to the act in question as “love making,” and discreetly directed the asker to a book in the gift shop with a more comprehensive description. Relaying this story to Niall, I summed up my righteous indignation, “Quite frankly, I was offended by her perverse misrepresentation of the act.” “There was no love exchanged?” “None, whatsoever. Only money and syphilis.”
Our low-stakes first meeting went so well that we agreed to extend, relocating to a bar. Except bars aren’t open at 3pm on the Upper East, so we kept it classy and settled on Blockheads where we split guac and sipped studiously on spring break concoctions meant to be guzzled savagely with a side of sizzurp.
Half a drink in, he shared some story, apropos of my book-to-be, about a friend who is a dominatrix and pimp and also writing a book. Slyly, I propositioned, “Can I tell you something gross? Like 10th date material, at least. Seriously, it’s super disgusting,” narrowing my eyes as if to hold back the classified information with my eyelids aflutter. Not that I thought he wouldn’t want to hear, but I stalled and asked permission as a social signaling technique: mitigating the inappropriateness that was about to ensue by performing self-awareness. My countenance belied the illicit intrigue of a ten-year-old boy concealing a frog clasped in his closed fists. Niall obliged, eagerly. “Okay, so, now that I’ve had all this surgery,” I waxed poetic, “my dream is to become a dominatrix who specializes in brown showers. Turning my disability into a sexual SUPER power. Other women have to drink coffee first; my shit is liquid, permanently. How great would that be! Banking on shitting with a vengeance on gross, sad men.” Seriously, after all of my medical torture, concomitant financial expenses, and life limitations that have arisen therefrom, profiting off of my new anatomy would be the ultimate act of sublimation: a path to liberation. He acted as if I had just proposed a brilliant, actionable get-rich-quick scheme, like he was Leo Bloom in The Producers and we were going to go into show business! “Well, if that’s what you want to do, I can hook you up with my friend; she’ll show you the ropes.” “So to speak.”
The afternoon crashed into early evening and despite being thoroughly enamored with him, I was exhausted. My poor sleeping habits had finally caught up to me. Or else I would have invited him over then and there. Before we parted ways, I asked what he was doing the following night; I wanted to see him again before my surgery, although my schedule would be tight so I couldn’t offer him an exact time in advance. He said no worries, he wasn’t busy. And I added, so there was no confusion as to expectations, “The thing is, if we hang tomorrow night, it has to be in Williamsburg, because if I invite you over, my mom will be in and out of my apartment bothering me with last minute things. So it was settled: I was invited to Williamsburg. And implicitly: he was getting fucked. We were getting fucked. Praise the lord, amen!
He texted to confirm my invitation, lest I think he was being polite in-person only to brush me off later. I affirmed, “Hooray! I liked you way more than I expected, which I know is a weird neg.” “Ha, that’s perfect actually,” he kvelled, “I like surprises and underhanded compliments.”
The next night, I kept pushing the time back. Like, “Talk to the hand, time!” When I finally arrived, I admitted that I still had to collect a few items for my hospital stay (earplugs to match my eyeshade escapism, Neutrogena make-up remover wipes for bedridden bathing), pack my trusty L.L. Bean Deluxe Book Pack, and make good on my standing appointment to watch the season premier of Girls with my parents. Our visit would be a short one, and I could not wait until we relocated from the bar to his storefront apartment. The problem with traveling to someone else’s neighborhood is they have control over when they invite you over. The trade-off: your retaining the right to leave whenever.
Our make out sesh on his couch was decently hot, and I suspected we should get a room: his. It went downhill from there. He was cute naked, except it was one of those situations where everything took way too long initially. I rubbed our genitals on each other forever before he got a hand between my legs. By the time he touched me, I was already growing bored and inpatient. Little did I know, that would be the least of my concerns. The fingering was so traumatic I’m not even sure “fingering” is the correct term for the action, nor did I know how to model better form. It’s as if he shoved his fingers inside me, kind of left them there, failed to move them in the traditional in-and-out trajectory, yet managed to stab me with his nails. There was no back-and-forth friction, no petting with finger pads—only jabbing! It was jarring! The fingering equivalent of an amateur kisser darting his tongue in and out of one’s mouth or an amateur fucker jackhammering one’s pussy. Which seriously puzzled me because his nails weren’t even long. That’s something I usually check for before allowing someone to stick their talons in my tender lady bits. The eating out wasn’t much better. Nothing grosser than a bristly beard ShamWow! sweeping my crevices like a basket of bread sopping the savory meat juices off a drenched dinner plate. Maybe I could have forgotten about the scratchy, whisker-brushing sensation if I didn’t have to keep a vigilant eye open in my slumber to protect myself from his Edward Scissorfingers.
Couldn’t take it any longer. Time to switch to sex!! Asked him to take out a condom. But by that time he was barely hard. Square one. I fluffed him a little hoping things would improve, and then gave up a little more and told him to put the condom on. Squishing him into me, it crumpled. Could not be slid in. Politely, I asked if he wanted to get on top. He declined. Except it was intended as an imperative, a rhetorical question: Get. On. Top. Of. Me., I meant. The misunderstanding reminded me of a conference presentation Steven Pinker gives on the utility of indirect language in building social rapport. His most memorable example: If you are at a dinner party and want someone to pass something without making your request sound like a brusque order, you ask, “Can you pass the guac?” Everyone gets that you are instructing them to pass the guac and not questioning whether they are capable of passing a condiment or dip or however guacamole is categorized. Phrasing my request a hair less ambiguously, though still rhetorically: “Can you be on top?” “You want me to?” Niall estimated, apprehensively. “Yes,” we shifted places. It’s not that I have a preference for missionary, by any means, just that if someone is having trouble staying aroused it’s usually easier for them to be in a physical position of power. Because people know how to get themselves off. After another lackluster thrust or two or three, of glorified engastration or stuffing a carcass with a carcass, I suggested going back to what we were doing pre failed sex. Seemed slightly less fail? Figured I might just finger myself and call it a night. He gathered me up into fetus position, my back pressed up against his chest and my knees approaching my own. Even though I interjected ouch, as a fetus is wont to blurt out while being scraped with a coathanger, a finger or fuck from behind really does it for me. So he stabbed my way to orgasm, and while I was coming I thought, Fuck, I can’t believe I’m blowing my last pre surgery lady load on this that is only mildly more pleasant than being cut open. Probably I should have saved myself the trip and fucked myself gently in my soft, sweet shower. Still remember my final pre colon surgery wank, and it was lovely.
Turning the attention to Niall, I feebly pet his penis and asked if he could help. Which only seemed fair considering I didn’t make him start from nothing. Clasping his spare hand around his balls and squeezing to inflate, his cock stood taut and bore an uncanny resemblance to Martian Popping Thing. My eyes, blowjob bulgey, bugged out at his white-knuckled grip. Time for me to take over. I tried the best I could with my mouth, then my hand, then my mouth—again. What number time of give up on life is this? I don’t know, I lost count, reneged on my responsibility, embodied learned helplessness, and transferred his penis back to its rightful owner: his right hand.
Reunited at last, an epic struggle ensued between his masterful hand and unruly penis. If I could have worn a visor and averted my eyes completely I would have, but there are only so many places you can look. Unless you close your eyes. Which is my M.O. only in serious escapist situations. Like if a literal bear attempts to steal your literal jam or if your cultural-Christian roommate walks in on you under-blanket masturbating. And you have to pretend that you were asleep the entire time and your face is radiating red sheerly due to shock from being awakened unceremoniously. Not that that has ever happened to me! This current clusterfuck is classified as a casual sexual calamity, one at which I was relieved of my pitching duties and downgraded to spectator for sport or moral support. Assuming my role of apathetic and disengaged consumer, I let my sight fade to out-of-focus and ignored my inclination to stay tuned. That’s when forms emerged from the mulch, convoking my character reference game—the license plate game of sexual entertainment—for a special session. Niall is mostly covered in tattoos, and as far as I can tell all of those tattoos can themselves be covered with a long-sleeved shirt, making him marginally employable beyond art and the academy. The lone exception: a tiny bicycle mounting the nook between thumb and pointer, his homage to hipsterdom. With my eyes on autopilot, I turned all Marc from Empire Records tweaking out to Gwar music videos on special brownies. The mounted hand bicycle morphed into a cartoonish face, its spokey wheels into spooky animated eyes and its handlebars into off-kilter expressive eyebrows. With every pump of Niall’s cock, a surrealist nose protruded then retreated menacingly, daring me to acknowledge its pained plight. Mostly it reminded me of Baby Animal honking Gonzo’s crooked nose. And, in my mind, Gonzo accepted his appointment as front-runner in the form and spirit categories of the character congruence game. Meanwhile, I freaked out on my own distorted, “You play a mean guitar, man; it’s really a shame that you must DIE!” moment.
It took infinity time, like in all of the scenarios where I’ve begrudgingly forced an orgasm out of myself because I felt like it was expected. Because an orgasm is easier to have than a conversation.
I think, Oh fuck, I’m not nearly there and I don’t think I can get there. He expects me to orgasm and I don’t give a shit either way. What to do, what to do… I wish he would just cum already; this, sir, is a sinking ship. Somehow I manage to get myself closeish with my hands even though my clit is barely hard. I put him back inside me, hope he’s almost done, and finish. As much as I appreciate his generosity, there are no high fives for forced orgasms.
I wondered whether I could orgasm with a sad, limp clit. I put his hands on my tits, as an excuse to straddle his body so I could almost straddle his face. Because nothing gets me off like being in a dominant position. When I orgasmed, he finally got a little bit hard. Like his penis was actually pointing in the right direction without any help. A shame considering I was done before I was even done. I had hoped we could put the pained production behind us.
—Me, It’s a Flop
On the other side of it, it felt silly and sad. But I guess neither of us knew how to call it off. And I didn’t want to be rude by indicating my blatant boredom. If it was anything short of tedious for him. “Do you like to watch?” he jolted me back into consciousness, reincorporating me into the scene. Blerggh, the answer to any sentence that starts with that construction is inevitably no. It’s a forced-choice test. And I demand sexual agency. I’m not here to fucking fluff someone’s ego. I like it even less now that you asked me. “Mmmhmm,” I demurred, hoping it would get me off the hook.
“Sometimes, I feel like I am totally anti-porn,” I say.
I say that when I’ve gone to tube sites or whatever, I feel this sort of empty sick in my stomach that it’s always the same image, always a woman demeaned and submitting. Teen anal gang bang, Japanese girl submits, black slut with two cocks projected into the retinas of twelve year old boys, images of women getting pleasure solely by being demeaned, being told, “You like that don’t you.” The male viewer rewarded with orgasm, as the women answer “U-huh, I do,” every time.
I can’t be pro-porn if this is 95% of porn…
“How am I supposed to call myself pro-porn when it’s a handful of male-owned LA companies that have a global monopoly?” I say.
—Rachel R. White, Want Me To Cum 4 U?
I can’t be pro-sex if this is 70% of sex. How am I supposed to call myself pro-sex when I spend so much of my sexy time acting, feigning enthusiasm, and fulfilling sexist male fantasies?
He looms over me and keeps whacking, like he’s about to cum. And I think, yess, this is gonna be over soon. But I also think, this is consensual yet unwanted. Cum is the great amplifier: boring, gross, or unpleasant sex becomes infinitely more so, cemented in semen. Guess I’m none other than a drop cloth at this point. Oh well, it could get worse. And it does.
“Touch yourself,” he instructs. Rather than outright reject him with a deserved, “Ew, I’m not gonna fake wank for you,” I tacitly decline, staying silent and still. Until he pushes, “Touch yourself,” as if I misunderstood the first time. “I’m not going to do that,” I state coolly. Matter-of-factly? Frigidly? “C’mon,” he commandeers, registering annoyance in his elevated tone.
What the fuck is this, a casting couch porno? I’m not gonna fake wank for you! That’s what prostitutes are for.
He leans in closer and squeezes the nozzle conservatively like he’s decorating a tasteful cake, drizzling it on me delicately and gloating in frosting evenly dispersed. It’s all over my neck, chest, stomach, and shoulders, and it’s fucking disgusting. I can smell it—the cum constellation. That part really isn’t his fault, though.
Niall: So you want semen on you…everywhere…but not your face?
Eagerly agreeing, I suppose I failed to specify that everywhere doesn’t mean EVERYWHERE ALL AT ONCE! So, now I know.
All of this sexual failure reminds me of a conversation from the past. And how I should probably just have guys read my blog before misunderstanding and hilarity inevitably ensue.
April 14th, 2009
me: have you gotten to the part of my blog where i talk about how i am obsessed with cum and how i am very particular about it?
Josh: im aware of it
me: okay, well you transferred your dick from my hand to your hand which caused the cum to spatter all over you chest in separate drops and while it was happening i was thinking “fuck, i will have to file this under my list entitled ‘things i will never be able to get off to.'”
Josh: what, a guy coming on himself?
me: no, how it landed. i’m telling you, i am very particular.
i like it to land in pools, not separate drops.
guys cumming on themselves are hot
Josh: you just want a torrent
me: i mean, that would be ideal, just not so much shaking
Josh: i see
me: i’m sure this is not what you expect to disappoint girls
it’s the pattern youre concerned with
You got it!
I’m such a lunatic. Why does anyone put up with me? Now that, friends, was a rhetorical question.
Post-coitally, Niall might have felt cuddly if I wasn’t feeling so stiff and edgy to leave, biting my lower lip and biding my time until moving on felt appropriate. Or maybe he’s too skinny for that, anyway. “You are beautiful as expected,” he offers as a counterpoint to my earlier neg. And it might have meant something if words meant anything without sex. If it wasn’t an empty gesture to nowhere, a consolation directed at a cold body.
“Wait, I think I left something at your place,” I do a double take as he shuts the door behind us on the way to walk me to the subway station. Not that I need my bow barrette before surgery, just that I’m not sure I’ll be back. Not that I necessarily wanted to make a point of it. Something about the catch of the door reminded me of its metal strips snapping shut.
Arriving at the green-and-white MTA globe designating my impending descent underground, we say our parting words. Me first.
“Twelve hours from now I’m gonna be propofoled: Heaven!”
“Huh, I don’t know what that means.”
“Propofol. Anaesthesia. It’s the drug that killed Michael Jackson.”
“Well, I hope you don’t die tomorrow. Because I’d like to see you again.”
We kiss, lightly—affectionately, I’d say—and I think, Oh fuck, I’m not sure if I want to see you. I mean, I do. I just don’t know if I can endure a sex number two. And with that, I burrow underground, anxiously awaiting my emergence one hour closer to propofol on the other side.
As I pace back and forth on the uptown union square platform—long awaiting my transfer from the L to the 6 and thereby my transformation from self-hating hipster to unabashed yuppie—I laugh inside to keep myself warm and curse fate: Of course this is my life. It is two thirty a.m. the night before my spinal surgery, which I discovered I needed after repeated sex injury. The train isn’t arriving for another 22 minutes, except a minute ago it said 20. This is some fucked up downloading bad internet connection shit. Spattered in semen from surrealist sex after a final weekend out and about and museum hopping because me so cultured. Homebound to watch the season premiere of Girls with my parents before I wake up around noon to be anesthetized. There is no more suitably predictable way to watch Girls except on your laptop or iPad via your parents’ HBO GO account.
Was tonight an exercise in endless youth one-upmanship? I wonder, with barely enough separation for self-reflection. Pre-gaming for propofol! I answer my own question.
Why does every sexual experience I have seem to have that Sorry About Last Night vibe? the train rolls into the station. And that’s the quandary that rides with me. How can I be pro-sex if this is 70% of sex?
Half an hour later, I saunter off the subway and stride down Lex to the nearest Duane Reade to collect my earplugs, Neutrogena grime wipes, and a single-serving container of vanilla Haagen Dazs to indulge in at our Girls premiere party. Hi, mom: I’m home!