Fling Flung, Part 1: Doubt

Posted on October 22, 2010 by indefenseofgettingoff

As someone who has been with a lot of guys, I have faced a lot of ends. The average shelf life of a random fuck that doesn’t go anywhere is 2-3 times (the range is 1-4). Imagine my surprise after two months of dating and fucking regularly.

There is something uniquely painful about being dumped after two months (don’t know if that is the technical term for being disposed of by someone you weren’t dating exclusively). After 2-3 times it is just self-righteous ego bullshit. You wonder if the person is superior to you, what gave him the right to dispose of you, how he ended up on top. The strife is all about your relative positions. After two months, you wonder what you lack, how you have failed as a person, what could have been. Because, by that time, you have become a person and you have lost the opportunity to continue something that was developing. His dissatisfaction with you seems more palpable; he thinks you are worthless and has something to base it on. Mostly, what I think about is how it ended prematurely and I don’t think he gave me a fair chance. By the time you end a real relationship, you know there is nothing left. This seems more unsettled; he didn’t even grant me face-to-face time once issues started arising. You can sift through words in your head over and over and each time interpret them differently. In the end, time became a more credible culprit than either of us. The more it punctuated our interaction, the less I understood the basis for either of our claims–the less I knew whether things were salvageable. With matters like this, half of the viability derives from will. I suppose I was the only one who had the will to make it work, not that I didn’t have my reservations.

Then there is the strangeness relating to who dumped whom. He said things that upset me and  I questioned whether we still had potential or whether we were hopelessly incompatible. Instead of having a conversation to assess the damage, he told me he could not take me seriously (for being upset about the hurtful things he had said to me, among other things). The indignation kicked in and I felt like he had done me a favor. I was in the “what gave him the right to dispose of me” phase. How did he end up on top? After all, I was the one expressing dissatisfaction with him and how he had treated me. Once that phased out, and three weeks had passed since the last time I saw him, a sense of resignation kicked in. Along with it came the realization that I do miss him, I thought it could have worked, and I was happier three weeks ago when we were still hanging out, even if I was upset with him. I know I’ll never see him again; he has given up on it.

I don’t think I could have done anything differently. At least I was mature enough to be honest and direct about how I felt: what I wanted from him and how he hurt me. I’m so sick of rejection. Grad school rejection. Job application rejection. Dating rejection. I’m sick of fucking marketing myself. I want to be sexless forever or have such fleeting, inconsequential experiences that when guys waive me off it isn’t for real. They are merely rejecting an image, not me. I want to go back to getting my ego stomped on. Because that ain’t real.

Now, for the e-mail/text message showdown you’ve all been waiting for…

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GENIE:

I wish there were a more eloquent way to say this, but instead I’ll err on the side of extreme transparency: It is true that I am super fucking annoyed by the fact that it has been two months and we haven’t done anything together, nor have I met anyone you know. The former seems like it is bound to get worse as time marches on and both the former and latter make me wonder whether I’m wasting my time. But these issues seem to pale in comparison to those brought up in the conversation we had last weekend. Since then I’ve had serious doubts about whether we should continue seeing each other at all. I was happy with the sex until you complained about it. And now I’m not really happy with anything, sexual or otherwise.

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Jake told me he would match my transparency with even more transparency, then he opened with a line I find infuriating: “At the risk of telling you that your concerns are ridiculous, I do think they are a bit overblown.” I hate disclaimers along the lines of “No offense, but…” Their purpose is to introduce something quarrelsome, while robbing you of you license to get irritated, as they were at least thoughtful/self-aware enough to warn you.

First Jake covered the activity issue and claimed, “It’s not as though I’m unwilling to do them.” He listed all the activities we almost did together (all of which he had cancelled), and counted our going to dinner once as an activity. Great, we had dinner once over the course of two months. Well, woop-dee-doo. I eat dinner every night. The fact that we ate dinner together once makes him a barrel of fun. Eating dinner together and talking is at least half a step up from having drinks and talking, which is at least a full step up from sitting around and talking. He concluded by saying, “Two months isn’t a lot of time, and we’ve had some scheduling conflicts.” No, two months is a lot of time considering that it isn’t as if he was doing anything else with his time. He had plans maybe once a week at most (that didn’t involve me); he was always free—to a bizarre degree. I don’t need somebody to play hard to get or to be popular in social climbing or networking way (that likely involves superficiality and spreading himself thin), but I would like someone who has something going on in his life—even a kickball league would suffice, and you know how I feel about sports.

I consulted a few friends about this matter and one, who is in a long-term relationship, made the most incisive comment: When people have been dating for a while, they stop going out; it could only get worse if it’s month two and you haven’t gone out yet. In Jake’s defense, I explained to my friend that Jake was really good at referencing things I had said or conversations we had had in a clever way, but it seemed as if eventually we might need to share joint experiences so the references went beyond things that had been said. My friend added that one thing he hated about hanging out with kids from college is that they only talked about the shit they had done and, “If we have nothing to do besides reference what we’ve done, why don’t we just die already.” Agreed. Whenever I talked about fun things, Jake dismissed them by saying, “Those are the kinds of people my friends would make fun of.” Commentary is great and all, but at some point you have to do something worthy of comment. I was afraid that if we did something together he would be a total killjoy and provide running commentary at the expense of enjoyment. Because he never gave me the chance to find out, I’ll never know. I expect someone to be a good sport, if nothing else. Not sure he was willing to lighten up and get out of his comfort zone of sarcasm, or if having someone to go home to is enough for me. People always say they are looking for a partner who “challenges” them; for him, I think this only included intellectual sparring.

As for meeting his friends, he assured me, “[Y]ou haven’t met them, but that has nothing to do with my avoiding such an encounter due to embarrassment. I have a hard enough time tracking down my friends as is.” Among the list of reasons meeting them would be a nearly impossible feat, he listed: “[T]hey aren’t interested in thing you are interested in and vice-versa. Hanging out with them would not only be difficult logistically, but also, would involve going to meat tastings and drinking beer while watching football.” Ha ha, no. Other people’s friends do things, non-descript things, like go out for drinks or eat dinner. He’s met my friends and I haven’t dragged him to rock concerts or pornj parties or psychology/sexual health lectures. Or any of the other things that my friends like, but that I understand the general population has no interest in, and that I’d never expect a boyfriend to do with me. There are activities I know my friends can’t even be persuaded to do—and I do these myself.

Jake said the same thing about the friends as he said about the activities, that the situation is “only bound to get better, since it can’t get worse.” Fair enough; I don’t want to feel like I am pulling teeth, though, and I’ve brought up both of these points multiple times. When I talked to him about the friend thing in a very confrontational manner, he even feigned surprise: “Do you want to meet my friends?” As if it would be an unusual expectation after two months. How could I evaluate whether I wanted to date him if he didn’t let me into his life? I guess the problem was that he didn’t have one. “Willing” or not to do activities, he was not the kind of person who was inclined to do them, or engage with people. 28, single, already reclusive and inactive. I remember on our third date he mentioned that he infrequently saw his friends because many of them were married or have girlfriends. He also said that his friends who were coupled were not allowed to so much as look at other women or have a penis without getting scolded. I never want to be in one of those kinds of couples. I don’t want to just fucking die once I start dating someone. Oof!

One thing I did appreciate about Jake is that anytime I had a concern (and I had a concern that I though needed addressing after the first time we had sex), he was very receptive to me. He told me to be upfront with him about why I was upset: “You keep talking cryptically about these “conversations” that I was apparently a part of, but I have no idea why they’ve upset you.  I’m not quite sure how I complained about sex, but I’m generally satisfied with it.  If I weren’t, I wouldn’t do it… If you’re concerned about something in this regard, you should definitely let me know, in no uncertain terms.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

G: I have written you a manual of complaints. it is a little mean. do you want me to send it?

J: Sure

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Posted in fling flung: part 1 | Leave a comment

The Exotification of Sex

Posted on July 16, 2010 by indefenseofgettingoff

Found this on my computer. Wrote it about a year ago, but I think it’s timely given that I just started JDating.

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After suffering through many a petty conversation about the politics of the workplace and high-maintenance dating rituals, it finally hit me that I had nothing in common with the girls from Birthright when we got into a discussion about blowjobs. This was after the transplants—who were using New York as a post-collegiate terminal because they couldn’t make it big in their small cities—explained how even though they lived with their boyfriends and fucked whenever they wanted, on the occasion that they visited their parents together, they had to sleep separately because they were not married. Such illogical technicalities shined light on their adherence to dating rituals that lacked utilitarian value or even moral merit.

But it wasn’t until they brought up blowjobs that I realized I was an alien in my own city. One girl shared that she hated giving blowjobs so much that she had to psych herself up all day to put her live-in boyfriend’s penis in her mouth. She prepared herself mentally at work, as if she were going to give a presentation or meet someone’s parents later that day. Only it was her boyfriend’s penis that she had to prepare for. Clearly we have nothing in common. If ever I were to prepare myself for a boyfriend’s penis, it would be by watching porn and thinking, “Oh god, I can hardly wait for the minute when I get to feel a penis twitch in my mouth.” Just thinking about preparing for a penis makes my pussy flutter.

Insightfully, another girl offered her two cents: “There are two reasons why girls give blowjobs: because they want a guy to like them, or because they really like a guy.”

Holy Sweet Jesus! Has she missed the most obvious reason?

Because they like penis.

I could hardly remember meeting a penis that I did not like. And this seems like reason enough to want one in my mouth. I mean, I like kitties and I do not want them in my mouth, but there is something about penises that lends them to oral insertion.

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The other night I went out with a girl and guy from Birthright and I felt as if I were in The Old South trying to explain abortions to Dirty Old Republicans. Jen didn’t follow The Rules, but she had standards she applied early on in the courting process. She would not call guys she was interested in, because if they were interested, they would call her. She would not consider a guy who did not pay on the first three dates. After that it didn’t matter, because, after all, once you are together, you split the finances. Her logic was sort of sound; she explained that she didn’t want to be with someone who was going to have financial troubles, and if they couldn’t pay for the first few dates, it meant they didn’t have enough money. Fair enough, I wouldn’t be interested in someone who was counting pennies, because it makes going out with them and doing the things you want to do difficult. But, first of all, there is a difference between not being able to pay for yourself and not being able to keep a girl. And, second, I would not assume that someone not paying meant they were unable to pay. Reluctance to pay for two people could mean any number of things, among them: egalitarianism, taste, and practice.

I explained that I don’t turn down money if guys insist—I mean, who doesn’t like money—but I wouldn’t expect the guy to pay, because there are some perfectly nice guys who don’t make a lot of money, which I can sympathize with as a grad student, and I wouldn’t want to eliminate them or make them uncomfortable by paying for something they really couldn’t afford. She was like, “Oh, no, I wouldn’t do that. After all, I work in public service. I always offer to pay.” The guy we were with incisively noted, “Only it’s a loaded offer.” She replied, “No, it’s not loaded; I would pay if they didn’t want to.” But it was loaded, because if they let her pay after she offered, she wouldn’t consider dating them again provided that this was during the first-three-date courting period. I offered that I found her offer “insulting,” and the guy agreed with me. If I were a guy, subject to the first-three-date courting period, I would desire to immediately eliminate someone who said what they didn’t mean—who wanted to establish the rapport where girls beat guys up for doing what they suggest but do not actually want. Who wants to feel like the first few dates are a test? How could you grow to trust the person? To Jen, was the courting period a test of judgment, obedience, or ability to see through shit?

Some girls would be insulted if a guy insisted, implying that the girl was not self-sufficient or capable. There are so many assorted practices and reactions when it comes to handling money and the logistics of dating. The beginning of relationships is all about smoothing out semantics, developing a common language so it becomes clear whether simple habits or values are divergent. I care more about sentiment and sincerity than ability to follow a particular vein of social protocol. If someone were unable to be polite and civil at a dinner party or with my parents, I would not think he was mature enough for me. But I care about how someone is going to ultimately treat me and act around me, not whether he is able to crack my code or impress my company. It seems like these dating formalities have little to do with how things are going to end up down the line. All formalities teach you is whether someone else was schooled successfully in the same institution of narrow-minded, rigid thoughts about human interactions. It is the world where cultural differences—meaning, which edition of The Rules you read—can make or break a relationship.

If someone had such expectations for protocol I were to follow, I would think they weren’t smart enough to analyze my worthiness on a deeper level that would more closely approximate the portion of me they would be dealing with if we were ever to get serious. Don’t get me wrong: day-to-day logistics matter, but they can be adjusted easily to satisfy your partner at a later date, provided that you find initial commonalities that go beyond similar practices and protocols.

I want to enjoy the time I spend with a guy, not argue over pennies, putting a value on our interaction. Once my upscale, conservative cousin explained a bad date to me: She was immediately annoyed when the guy asked her where she wanted to eat because she thought it showed lack of initiative or that he didn’t care enough to put a plan together. She was also annoyed because he was going to pay, so she didn’t know how expensive of a place was appropriate to suggest. To me his openness shows thoughtfulness and consideration: He wanted to please her and make sure they went someplace she liked, rather than imposing his taste on her before getting a chance to learn her preferences. After all, she is a vegetarian, so this doesn’t seem like an absurd proposition.

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When we got to the subject of sex, Jen explained that she didn’t “give it up” until she was sure the guy actually liked her. The indication of whether a guy liked her: whether he spent money on her and properly courted her. So, apparently, if a guy does not make enough money to satisfy her desire for him to pay for the first three dates, and if he does not have the wherewithal to understand that she expects him to pay even though she offers, then it is impossible that he could really like her. This is not crazy considering that if you do not have money and are not into games of coquettish frivolity, this girl is probably not for you. So, good test: it suits her purpose of weeding out guys who are not on her level or do not subscribe to the same idiom of dating idiocy.

Give it up? What exactly do you have to relinquish in this town to get fucked, anyway? Your dignity? I’m pretty sure when I go on dates I don’t think, “At what point do I need to give it up?” I think, “Will he touch my vagina? How do I get him to touch my vagina? Is it too early to get him to touch my vagina? How do I make it obvious that we both want the same thing? DOES HE KNOW THAT I WANT THIS EVENING TO END WITH HIM TOUCHING MY VAGINA? Fuck, should I have gotten off before we went out?” It is like that Bacon Bits ad, only with people and pussy.

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I like guys and they like me because I like having their penises in my mouth and they like having their penises in my mouth. What a serendipitous situation. Isn’t life grand?

What a miserable life, waiting for guys to call you and giving blowjobs to please men. Is this female empowerment? Would I feel more in control if I couldn’t express what I wanted and gave what I didn’t want in exchange for a placeholder, a symbol of affection?

Jen makes it seem like since she has self-respect, she will not be duped into sex, she will make sure that guys earn it. Um, I like sex. If I had to prove myself to someone before I could have sex with him, I would like the process of sex but I would like them less. It would not earn him respect in my eyes if he denied something he wanted to manipulate me. Let’s lay down the rules: We fuck and I respect you the same afterwards. All that will change is I’ll assume you like to fuck. Easy. Done.

Privileging sex: I want sex to be like everything else we do together, just more fun and unequivocally mutual.

Exotification of sex–> boutiquiness (boutique item)–> commodification vs. sex as a mundane commonality.

I suppose if someone wanted me to go through ten empty gestures before I fucked them, I would do it. There is a lot I would do to get laid. But I would think less of them. Assume they were manipulative and frivolous for making me run around to prove my interest in them.

I guess this is why I don’t get along with girls. Because I just think of how I would feel as the guy. I would think, “ You want me to prove myself to you/prove my interest in you? I’ll prove myself: I’ll fuck you because you are hot even though you are a heinous, petty bitch who attributes artificial value to things.”

I don’t get along with girls because I’m not into sexual symbolism and I’m not into saying what I don’t mean and not saying what I mean. What I mean is, I like sex and I like when people pay for my food because I’m poor—not because I don’t like sex. That’s it.

So let’s say what I mean: I like people and I like penises. And hopefully these are not mutually exclusive categories, because, let’s face it, people have penises. Often I like them in my face (penises, not people).

Posted in exotification of sex | 1 Comment

just curious

Posted on July 12, 2010 by indefenseofgettingoff

My favorite part of JDate is that you can instantly click a chat box closed if an uggo, fatty, or oldie appears, uninvited, on your screen. My least favorite part is that you can limit your search options according to height, but not weight. Oh yeah, that and you can’t trawl for redheads.

When a fat, volunteer firefighter appeared on my screen, I thought I made him disappear. But when I checked my inbox later, there was a message waiting with the subject line “just curious.” Seemed non-threatening enough.

Let me digress for a minute and note my issue with his screen name, JewishFirefighterEMS. First of all, we are on fucking JDate so stating that you are Jewish is as redundant as stating that you are looking to date someone. Second, I know you put FirefighterEMS in your screen name for the same reason that guys post pictures of themselves with other people’s pets and babies. You probably volunteer exclusively so girls think you are a hulking bundle of caring and courageousness. But when your action-packed job is my first introduction to you and you are literally wearing a shirt with a blue collar in your profile picture, it does not evoke thoughts of selflessness and helpfulness; it makes me think: too blue-collar for me! Sure, I want a guy who knows how to cook ramen noodles and hit a nail with a hammer, in spite of his Jewishness, but knowing how to tap a fire hydrant is above and beyond unnecessary. Knowing how to piss on one is enough for me. Besides, my uncle happens to have been a volunteer firefighter in Westchester (who was unable to work once becoming too fat to perform his firefighterly duties). His most heroic feat to date was putting out a garbage can fire outside of the 7-11. With a Dixie cup. Because they could not spare a Big Gulp cup. God forbid he ask for a 99 cent refill.

OMG, Americans are so fat I want to cry tears of glucose, sucrose, and fructose: http://freerefillsamerica.com/2010/04/02/how-would-a-soda-tax-affect-big-gulps/

And now, the message showdown you’ve all been waiting for:

FATSO541:

I am just curious why you declined? If it is because you are busy that is fine but if it is something else more physical then that is a whole different problem. Could you please tell me because I am trying to figure out how the woman mind works when it comes to online dating?

GENIELOOKSBETTERTHANYOU352:

Okay, well if you want me to be honest:

a) I would never date somebody overweight so that is why I automatically declined chatting with you.

b) I have no interest in dating somebody who lives in Westchester or who would like to live in Westchester.

c) You list marriage and children as things you are looking for and I am definitely not looking for either of those right now.

FATSO541:

That is all so BS and number 1 means you are so superficial and high maintanence so I am glad you decliened. If i woudl I woudl grow up. Good luck finding someoen with that attittude.

GENIELOOKSBETTERTHANYOU352:

Okay, asshole. Don’t ask girls questions if you can’t take the answer. Fatness is about lifestyle, not just superficial qualities. Good luck finding someone who wants a fat guy who isn’t mature enough to handle what he asks for.

Good luck finding someone with that attitude? What does that even mean? Many people don’t want to fuck fat people. I think he meant good luck finding someone who wants an elitist bitch like me. Well, thanks!

What a fucking shithead. He REQUESTED feedback on his presentation, explicitly asking me to critique his physique. When I bountifully obliged and he was too much of a baby to accept my response, he critiqued my personality UNSOLICITED and instructed me on how to behave. As if I asked for dating advice from a fatty. I’m doing fine, thanks. In the words of someone to whom I told this story, he was ASKING FOR IT. If you ask someone for feedback, you have to be willing to handle it graciously. Fatness is not a license to be self-righteous and I’m fucking sick of fat people criticizing average-weight people for being superficial, high-maintenance, snobby, or otherwise lacking in character. Likewise, fatness doesn’t automatically make one holier than thou. There are plenty of mean, depraved ugly people. Like those who pick fights with strangers online then sit on their fat arses feeling sorry for themselves and acting as if they’ve been victimized.

Nutritional deficits and drug side effects aside, height is almost entirely genetically determined. But fatness is a lifestyle that everyone seems to be too polite to designate as such, because body image is a touchy issue. Sure, there is some genetic basis to fatness and it sucks that I can eat a hamburger and pizza and not get fat while you can’t. However, there is an interaction between genes and the environment and there is a strong behavioral component, more so than in the cases of most health outcomes with genetic bases. I’m sorry if you are more predisposed to fatness than I am and would gain more weight on a steady diet of hamburgers and pizza than I would, but if we both ate healthy food in moderation it is very unlikely that you would be dangerously or unattractively fat. Fatness that isn’t caused by habitual, poor eating habits is extremely rare, and I give people like Jeff Garlin a ton of credit for admitting to the cause of their weight gain. I wish more people would take personal responsibility for their actions. Explaining away fatness by invoking genes is extremely unpersuasive considering the cross cultural differences; the fluctuations in weight and body standards within this culture, based on wealth and other factors; and the fact that obesity has risen exponentially, especially in children, over the past few decades. It ain’t that fatties are fucking more or that more fatties are fucking.

I’m sick of people telling me that my preferences are more superficial than other people’s. As I mentioned, JDate lets you limit your search based on height, but not weight. Because indignant fat people have made themselves a PC protected class. FATNESS IS A GODDAMN LIFESTYLE AND I’LL BE DAMNED IF YOU LET ME LIMIT MY SEARCH OPTIONS ACCORDING TO DRINKING AND SMOKING STATUS BUT NOT ACCORDING TO FOOD-CONSUMPTION STATUS. I don’t want someone who will drop dead of a fatness-induced heart attack at 45 and I don’t want someone who will drop dead of smoking-induced lung cancer at 45. I don’t want someone who stuffs their face at every meal and binges while watching tv late at night, and I don’t want someone who reeks of smoke when they come home and tastes like an ashtray when I kiss them. I think those are comparable.

Like cigarettes, fatness is something we all have to pay for whether in health insurance premiums or otherwise. I got yelled at by my fat Aunt when I explained to her that when I’m on a bus that is filling up, I methodically remove my bag from the seat next to me and look up when a thin WOMAN passes by. This is a sheer matter of practicality, not a matter of lookist discrimination. Next are you going to tell me that I’m sexist because I’d prefer to sit next to a woman? They take up less room.

According to Merriam-Webster’s definitions, I would say I am superficial but not shallow:

synonyms superficial, shallow, cursory mean lacking in depth or solidity. superficial implies a concern only with surface aspects or obvious features <a superficial analysis>. shallow is more generally derogatory in implying lack of depth in knowledge, reasoning, emotions, or character <a shallow review>. cursory suggests a lack of thoroughness or a neglect of details <a cursory reading>.

But whatevs, liking guys of a certain weight or build isn’t any more superficial than liking guys of a certain height, style, demeanor, or race. Some things are simply considered lowbrow, namely those that are related to pleasures of the flesh. Fat, titties, etc. I think this designation system is extremely elitist ala Nietzsche’s Genealogy of Morals. Ultimately, looking for a boyfriend or any other level of dating/fucking partner is all about compatibility. I don’t like dumbs, I don’t like jocks, I don’t like guys who are easily emasculated, and I don’t like fats. Done.

I will fuck the dumbs but not the fats. I do not think this is unreasonable or makes me debase. Just honest. And aware of my personal preferences.

I’m not saying that we should laugh at fatties or discriminate against them in hiring practices, presuming that their fatness does not impede them from performing their functions at the job in question. But fatness does make you unfit to perform one of the vital functions of being my boyfriend: getting my vag wet. How can my vag excrete fluid when it’s thinking about the sweat building up between your rolls. Bleh, just the thought make me want to cry tears of glucose, sucrose, and fructose.

If I could send the female equivalent of the message that dude sent to me, it would go something like this:

Dear fatso541,

Does my ass look fat in these jeans? JUST CURIOUS!

Posted in just curious | 1 Comment

The Guy with The Smallest Penis Ever to be Seen, Part 4

Posted on June 14, 2010 by indefenseofgettingoff

I scrawled this in a notebook at 1:30am after fucking him in Boston. Because I like to preserve original copy (and drunken thought), this is it—unedited. Anything that has been altered or added is in brackets. Enjoy.

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How you know you’re a real adult (not having your own linens): You go to a professional convention in another city and you call somebody to fuck. He lives ten blocks away from the convention center because he works for a hedge fund.

You come back from your fuck date and your roommate, exhausted from a full day of sleep [I mean ‘work,’ ha ha, Freudian slip], is sound asleep. Your mouth is numb from spermicidal condoms and your pussy and asshole are throbbing. You consider getting off again until you realize you need to wake up at 9am [to be business cas perfection] and need to Benadryl yourself to sleep because you aren’t a real adult and slept four hours on the bus after being kept up by your spoiled cat who meows at you at 4am, 6am, and 12pm, all before your scheduled 2pm wake up time. Because you feed her at 4 [before you go to sleep] before the sun rises at 5:30 so you aren’t inconveniently awakened.

Thoughtfully wash your pussy with a washcloth and partition it from other towels, while observing the environmentally friendly sign that says if you leave a towel on the floor, thousands of gallons of water will be wasted per days, but if you leave it on the rack, it is a reusable pussy rag. Look composed for your roommate before come home from your fuck date.

“Call you in 15 im just finishing up dinner” is [text message] code for “Cleaning my asshole for you.”

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Ridiculous hotel room with 8 pillows per 2 people and plants revolving in revolving door—2 sections, instead of 4, with display triangles.

So horny after bus ride. Didn’t get off day before, despite planning for having roommate for two days. Even thought about the shampoo bottles (Bath and Body Works’ Apple Fresia) I frantically fucked before last convention. Time alone in skyscraper hotel with nice view of the exotic CPK [California Pizza Kitchen]. Flat screen TV—what do I do with my time? How do I get off? Oh, I know someone in Boston. Like those T-shirts “You’ve got a friend in Pennsylvania.”

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.

Conceal texts from him so he didn’t catch sight of his title: Adam Smallest Ever (consolidated due to phone’s number of character restrictions).

Pretty pastel shirt with tacky, amex-like logo. Driving shoes. Omg, he had his own washer-dryer (something to wash his own linens in). He is an extra super adult. I bet he wasn’t even impressed by my apartment—doesn’t even know the meaning of moving out of your parents’ apartment into a “lifestyle apartment.”

Calls doorman to call taxi for you. Lives in mansion with granite counters and slate floors, even though younger than you. Got job because of uncle’s connections, “not on [his] own merit.” Goes golfing with parents over Memorial Day weekend.

[When he leaned in to kiss me, he didn’t even have to lean in. He led me to his bedroom. After mounting him, we made out naked and I rubbed against him—but he had other plans for me, ones that involved clumsily rotating me around into an undisclosed orientation. Obligingly, I flipped over confusedly and he fumbled me some more. Once I was sitting up spooning him, I questioned, “How do you want me?” He flipped me back around and requested, “Let me see your pussy.” Um, I thought you could see it? Touch it? From that position.]

“Sorry, I haven’t had really good sex in a long time.” Omg, do you not get laid?

[That’s what he said and what I thought after he came quickly following heavy foreplay. Round two was almost immediate, by the way, and he attended to me during the wait.]

Bed too tall for him. Couldn’t fuck me standing up. Had to relocate to couch, which was too short. Life is hard as an almost-midget.

[When you fuck someone on the side of a bed, your balls should be able to clear or, at least, skim the sheets—a little fortuitous fondling. His penis barely peeked over the edge, like a kid on his tippie toes peering over a bar counter. Chocolate milk, please?]

[Considering the fact that he was not a midget—just a very, very short person—I feel as if he should have been able to obtain appropriately sized furniture without going through the trouble of getting it custom made. He not only lived in a mansion; he lived in a mansion built for giants. Fi-Fie-Fo-Fum.]

Hot next-to-bed mirror.

Shaves everything. Ha ha ha. Totally forgot about that. Shaving is like losing weight. Look what I’ve found! Forgot to ask him about friends knowing about his small penis. Well, he is a good time.

Head sort of small for his penis. Too continuous. Not enough definition.

3 fingers—def that’s his size. Didn’t even gag on him face-fucking me.

In retrospect, didn’t put balls in mouth just because I [wanted to see if I] could—he probably asked me to.

Impossible to keep ass and mouth separated.

[And vagina. Between the licking, sticking, and switching holes. It wasn’t like I was going to run to the bathroom in between fingering my ass and sucking his dick again. Even though sucking his dick required no hand action, it isn’t like you can give good head without a hand for support. In this case, an ass/vag hand.]

Asked me if I wanted a towel. He has a good memory.

[Asked right before I did to myself exactly what ends in squirting. So he memorized the routine. Maybe he has been jerking off to this for the past four months.]

Literally like sperm to be spread.

[I wanted him to cum on my face so badly. And after all that teabagging I think I deserved it. But he couldn’t. Cause he started round two too soon after round one.]

Why don’t all guys have small penises; I would orgasm with all of them.

[For true, once he was in my ass I came in less than a minute both times. My clit swelled to gigantic.]

Told me he didn’t think I’d ever call after that 4am text message (“Nothing good happens between the hours of 2am and 5am.” Unless [you] call in advance, plan to be [my] end of the night.) (What were your game plans anyway? Thought you could do better than me that night?) As my wise friend once told me, he used to feel self-conscious hitting on girls, feel like he was imposing, until it dawned on him: Girls like sex, too.

[When he said he didn’t think he’d ever see me again, I asked, “After you ran away?” And he specified after the 4am text. Because we find different acts egregious. 4am texts are just stupid—potentially wake up and piss off a prospective partner and have a 1% chance of getting you laid.]

I should be having more anal sex—revelation. Thanks, guy with smallest penis ever to be seen (and your predecessor).

God, I’m not done.

[I lied in bed for so long that night contemplating whether my pussy was throbbing because I wanted more or because I was done. Either way, the interest did not wane.]

Thanks for the orgasm; now let’s fuck.

He must think I’m a fiend for anal; little does he know I’m a fiend for having small cock up my ass.

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The Guy with The Smallest Penis Ever to be Seen, Part 3

Posted on June 14, 2010 by indefenseofgettingoff

A few days later, he texted me…

1/18
8:59pm
A: That was pretty wild the other night… I had a good time

1/19
7:00pm
G: Ha, me too. Glad you texted. Thought it was pretty rude that you left without saying bye.

9:14
A: Sorry I didn’t want to wake you and I had to leave didn’t mean to be a dick

10:12
A: don’t think I’m an asshole that really wasn’t my intention

A month later, there was a follow up. Well, a booty call…

2/22
1:22 am
A: back in town

The next night I replied…

2/23
7:55pm
G: are you still around? I might be free late tonight but im not sure.

10:00
A: Yea txt me

1:05
A: so you gonna make yourself available

1:06
G: Ha ha, well put. im back home but am considering having a quiet night.

1:09
G: So adam from boston who works for a hedgefund, I feel that there is an inequity in terms of the info we know about each other.

1:10
A: ok so give me a brief bio

1:11
A: and I’d say we know each other a little better than your giving credit for

1:13
G: No I mean you know where I live and my last name bc I clothed you in shirt ive had since sleep away camp days and I have med bottles lying around.

1:13
A: ha ha… you’re a grad student studying something sexy

1:16
G: I own an absolute basketball shirt w my name in it that you wore until you ran away.

1:17
A: I didn’t run away I had to get my shit together and catch a train

1:17
A: and I didn’t glance at the tag

1:19
G: Wait it was 1994 nba finals shirt. But that’s bs because I set my alarm for you and woke up to said alarm and empty bed.

1:20
A: I didn’t know it would upset you so much.. but the ball is in your court right now so

1:22
G: Can you just disclose your last name so youre searchable? No big deal but in my entire career as a slut never have i ever had a guy vanish.

1:24
A: we can both disclose full names… but are you going to track me for some reason I should know about

1:26
G: Only curiosity—knowledge that youre a real person

1:27
A: haha fine I for some reason trust that you’re a good person… adam ____ n u

1:33
A: r u really gonna delay response?

1:34
G: Why arent you searchable via fb. dont wanna be friends just wanna know you exist.

1:35
A: what do u mean Adam ____ ____

1:36
A: I went to u Michigan… Now reciprocate

1:37
G: Okay I found you. so it’s ____ genie ____.

1:37
A: both members of the tribe

1:38
G: Well if you went to Michigan id say that’s a given.

1:40
A: hahaha… so does this mean there is a rendevous in my future

1:44
G: Straight to the point. well i am interested in prospectively hanging out again but i am kinda settled for the night and feel like youll be back in town soon.

1:45
G: Wait two quick logistical cues [that was supposed to be “qs,” as in, questions]:

1:46
A: you always need so much convincing you want to see me that’s why were talking right now

1:46
G: How old are you and exactly how short are you. im twenty five and five two in case you require reciprocation.

1:48
A: Why’s this necessary I’m 5’6’’ 23 yrs of age

1:49
A: Why build me up and burn me down when you want to see me anyway

1:51
A: And why not how tall are you not short

1:51
G: Ha ha, ok interrogation over. i think youre exaggerating the height but whatevs. i do wanna hang out just not tonight. let me know when youre back in town.

1:52
A: wow so you don’t even want me to come over

1:52
G: Very cocky, btw

1:54
A: I’m by no means cocky I clearly want to see u

1:58
A: And what is w this height issue anyway you can tell I’m short I beautiful tho

2:00
G: Ha ha, no youre cute, I don’t mind short, just fascinated in a record-breaking way. like i think youre way shorter than that.

2:02
G: Anyway not gonna happen tonight but tell me next time youre around

2:03
A: Haha I’m no midget my I’d from when I was 16 say 5 3 so I have to be 5’5’’ but fine I’ve haven’t felt so rejected in a long time

2:05
G: Rejection? thats a big word for a random fuck. tucker max did make the midget a novelty.

2:06
A: Hahaha someone gets brave with the text message

2:08
A: How’d this conversation get so contensious

2:09
G: Nothing of the sort

2:10
G: Anyway, i should go

2:13
A: So how do we end this

2:13
G: Goodnight?

2:14
A: Hah well you want to see me sometime in the future aka a date or your just enjoy insulting me via text

2:16
G: Not sure about a date per se. but didnt mean to insult you. nothing wrong w shortness, just novel.

2:18
G: I dont know if ive ever been on a post-sex date. seems dangerous.

2:19
A: Haha your too much to be blunt I’d like to have sex again

2:22
G: Done i think. just be patient. Goodnight.

2:24
A: Fine sleep well… You’re the best lay I’ve had

[This guy sure knows his audience. If I hadn’t seriously considered fucking him again, now I sure would be. My other thought, though, besides ‘He really knows how to woo a narcissist,’ was ‘Seriously? That’s the best sex you’ve ever had. How depressing. I mean, fun, uninhibited, for sure, but certainly not quality.’]

2:28
G: Seriously? well, thank you, thats flattering. sleep well, too.

A month later, and he was back in town. But he sent me an incoherent message at 4-something am when I am at another guy’s apartment. The text message was, “I’m up. Wanna fuck?” Um, you are texting me to announce that you are awake? How about “I’m back in town. Wanna fuck?” Besides, if you are referring to the point that you are back, Boston is North of New York, and, therefore, the appropriate thing to say would be, “I’m down [for the weekend]. Wanna fuck?” Either way, 4-something am is too late. And the guy whose place I was at I was actually interested in.

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The Guy with The Smallest Penis Ever to be Seen, Part 2

Posted on June 14, 2010 by indefenseofgettingoff

We went back to my place and the hook up was normal enough until Adam exposed himself and I realized he wasn’t joking about his size. I reacted like most girls wouldn’t: Ever the sexual opportunist, I was thrilled! One of the main reasons I was so disappointed when Josh internet dumped me (i.e., cancelled our almost exclusively online friendship) is that I was trying to figure out how to ask him to fuck me up the ass without insulting him and embarrassing myself. When he cut me off for internet mocking his small penis, I felt like I had missed out on a rare commodity. A novelty. And I felt sooo self-indulgently misunderstood.

I wanted to scream, “But wait! I loved how you could fuck me hard and it didn’t hurt, how your balls smacked against my asshole with each thrust as you were more than balls-deep, and I was waiting for the ass-fucking services that only a small penis could provide!” The swift break (public snub?) left me so tantalized. And I was infuriated: What kind of narcissist takes attention as an actual insult? Seldom have I spent so much time contemplating the prospects of a single penis. But mostly I was left wondering: Do all girls eventually ask him for anal? Is that the natural inclination? Or am a uniquely adept at sexual scheming?

Alec: I thought you didn’t like getting fucked in the ass?
me: no, i’ve always been interested in anal most penises are just too big
Alec: Psh, now you’ve got me jealous of a guy with a tiny dick.
Alec: I’ve always wanted to do anal with someone. no one has ever seemed willing.
me: yeah, sorry dude
you will have to find a girl with a more gapey asshole
Alec: uh, thank you?

I’ve always been interested in anal, but most penises are just too big. I like fingers. Usually I am too self-conscious to request that myself if no conversation has been had beforehand. Adam was a stranger, so who gives a shit. He didn’t even live in New York—was visiting from Boston for the weekend. Some people know how to make lemonade out of lemons, and I know how to make anal out of midgets.

Adam’s penis smallness was consistent with his almost-midget status, and his balls were proportionate, too. Usually I’m not into licking or sucking balls. But you know that stupid anti-pot ad where someone tries to stick their fist in their mouth and obviously fails? I stuck his balls in my mouth—successfully—just to see if I could. Does that make me stupider than the idiot in the commercial? If I were a fat chick, I could probably suck his balls and dick at the same time. As with Josh, there was no gag factor: He could face fuck me all he wanted. Kind of magical (the lack of gag factor, not the face fucking). Luckily for him, he was somewhat hairy so he didn’t look like a 5-year-old. Looking like a 5-year-old could instantly ruin the putting-something-up-your-butt allure. Because it would make inserting a crayon into your ear seem like a more age-appropriate option.

Besides having the opportunity to bank on something I had been wanting forever, I felt as if anal were obligatory because he was so small I could barely feel him. Once he got it in, he kept slipping out—and I ain’t got no loose asshole! Granted, it was drunken, uncoordinated sex, but still! Excessive slipping out meant we committed the cardinal sin of anal sex: back to front action. I didn’t realize he was going to throw it back in the front, and once it was already there, it was there. Until it slipped out again. At which point I sort of threw my hands up in surrender and staved off the concerns about transferring bacteria until the post-sex portion of the evening. Whichever hole he had it in, I felt like I had to put some fingers in the other one to “accommodate,” “compensate,” or act as “filler.” However you’d like to think of it. For me, there was not much thinking involved at all. Between the constant slippage, hole transferring, and finger plugging, I could barely keep my ass and my vagina straight. Finally, an instance in which, “Babe, I thought it was the other hole,” could have been construed as a viable excuse.

Most miraculous: I got my first rim job. Without requesting it. And it was exactly how I’d expect a rim job to be: amazing. How could anything so disgusting that is in fairly common practice be anything but an absolute delight? Previously I had contemplated what I would do if someone offered me a rim job (in a totally hypothetical way, like what I would do if someone asked me to piss on them). I figured I would be so grossed out—imagining what it must be like for them, in real time—that I would be unable to properly enjoy it. After all, it isn’t like I’d lick my own asshole. As an encounter with my asshole would be unpleasant at best, I was unsure I’d want anyone to have that privileged, sensory knowledge about me.

When the moment came, there was no self-consciousness. My asshole can’t be worse than anyone else’s, and evidently this guy is indiscriminate. Who licks a STRANGER’S asshole!? God it was so good. It wasn’t even unnatural or sequestered in any way. A rim job is just oral sex extended to other, more sensitive areas. I loved being on my hands and knees not knowing exactly where he was going to put his tongue. Mostly, I loved feeling it roll blithely over the nerve endings. It isn’t like he tried to slip it in my mouth afterwards. At that point, it was an ass exclusive.

As long as we were being so friendly, I thought I might as well command him to cum on my face. Not normally into facials, but with small penises it is absolutely perfect. I discovered this much with Andy. Having him straddle my face and jerk off over me.

We both came twice and I came all over my bed. Lying together post-coitally, I asked Adam if girls usually asked him for anal. He sheepishly replied, “sometimes.” I followed up with, “You’re the perfect size for that.” He didn’t know whether to take it as a compliment or an insult, but took it well either way. I assured him that I was rarely met with such an opportunity so I was pretty excited.

Excited, indeed. What a disaster area my bedroom was. I could barely move when it was time to put new sheets on my bed. After two anal fuckings, two facials, and two orgasms of my own, I was spent. He told me he had to wake up to catch his train back to Boston, and I set my cell phone alarm for him. With dread and anticipation, I knew that when it went off four hours later, I’d still be drunk.

I woke up to the alarm I set for him and an empty bed. Initially I was confused: Was he in the bathroom? Gathering his stuff to leave? It seemed too bizarre to be true. In my long and lucrative (illustrious?) career as a slut, never have I ever had a guy disappear before dawn—leave without saying “goodbye.” In retrospect, the reality of the situation must be that I am a very, very light sleeper and no one previously had been successful at a surreptitious escape, but recently I began wearing earplugs to sleep. Which apparently benefits both me and the sneaky fuckers I fuck. Do I need to sleep with one eye open? My cat sometimes does.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
After the reality set in and I realized that I was drunk, sticky (ha ha, no I had showered), and alone, I was deluged by one frantic thought: I didn’t get his last name! Out of all of the guys I’ve fucked, and there are many, there is only one whose last name I don’t know. He is captured by the title “Jonathan from Georgia” and stinted by the only other piece of information I know about him: where he lived four years ago. Last time I had a one-night stand (Hipster Dave), we exchanged informations on the way out. It felt substantial.

Maybe this isn’t the first thing that would occur to most people when waking up to a blaring alarm, a mixture between drunkenness and a hangover, and an immeasurable sense of shock; once I see someone’s penis, I like proof that they are an actual person. That if I looked them up, they would exist in the real world—i.e., on the interwebs—outside of the very fake, privileged world of my yuppie bedroom that my parents pay for and sleep pretty damn close to. In the world that exists beyond rumors and gossip, most of which I perpetuate myself—because once you are an aspiring adult, an adult in training, you can fuck whomever you please, and as long as they didn’t go to NYC private school or an elite college, no one has to know. Even if they did, well, let’s just say I’ve been in situations where friends of friends denied conspicuously sleeping with me after the fact. But situations with strangers that happen in my glittery bedroom in my fake life of anal sex and no consequence, they are not manifest until I get a label for the person. I should get a label maker and make it for realz. Specimen number one. Exhibit A. Ha.

My fixation on the situation did not end there: I realized there was a certain inequality with respect to how much information we knew about each other. I had pill bottles lying around and stuff. He knew where I lived. I lent him my 1994 NBA Finals Eastern Conference Champs Shirt to sleep in. It had my name in it; I took it to sleepaway camp. Back in the day when I slept in “night shirts,” boxers, and a scrunchie; the Knicks were a good basketball team (I knew what constituted a good basketball team!); and you could still use tokens on the subway and scan school bus passes if you were awfully clever and technologically advanced. The very fact that I had a possession readily available in my apartment that I had owned since 1994 (okay, truth be told, I got it used at a school sale in 1995), verifies the fact that I am a real fucking person with a shiny, fake life of luxury.

How could I live without knowing who had stuck his tongue up my ass?! This very thought ran through my mind over and over. I mean, the prospect is just weird. It would be like if someone had touched me before I had ever touched myself. It’s my body and I want to know what goes on with it. One minute someone’s tongue can be up your ass with their nose wedged between your ass crack, and the next minute they can be gone forever without more of a trace than body fluids. DNA. Not to get sentimental about it, or anything.

He did leave his phone number, accidentally, upon calling me the night before so I could find my phone to set its alarm. For him. I contemplated condescendingly chiding him with a pithy, little text message, seizing the moral high ground while remaining ridiculous: “In my entire career as a slut, never have I ever had someone disappear in the middle of the night.”

I should have known. The fleeing did not go without foreshadowing so obvious scenarios like this can only be written in novels. The previous night I asked my now-ex friend if he would be upset if I left after our post/during-sex fight. He questioned whether I was leaving because I was mad at him or because he couldn’t give me what I wanted, to which I vehemently and venomously exclaimed, “Both! You only gave me half the sex and half the drugs I wanted!” As I gathered my stuff and polished off his beer, he wistfully disclosed that I was the only girl who had ever left after sex. I thought he was referring to those who had left acrimoniously. He meant, simply, that no girl had ever opted out of spending the night with him. Impossible, I contended! I didn’t always spend the night at guys’ places and they certainly didn’t feel obligated to stay at mine. He revised his statement: Some girls had woken up a few hours later then left. We agreed on this much: No one had ever disappeared without saying goodbye. And then we giggled like little girls at a pizza party.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
I spent the next day fearing for my vagina. All of these years I had been so good: I always peed before and after sex, avoiding acquiring a pesky and painful UTI. Would I get some horrible kind of infection. Like waking up pregnant and not knowing the father of your fetus. Oh well, I guess they aren’t comparable situations. I would know the origin of my infection: my very own ass—and idiocy. There was nothing I could do at that point except wait it out.

And I was fine. Thank the ass Gods. Wait, am I going to hell? At least I got my asshole licked first. Now for threesomes and fucking people with strap-ons. Fingering guys’ assholes. It’s actually beyond absurd that I had gone all of these years only having had anal sex once. As is my limited experience with girls. God, I’m twenty-six. I need grown up. I wonder what Adam would think if he knew his penis was one of only two that had been up my ass. What would Jesus do?

My other activity of the day after: reconstructing his dick size with my fingers. My initial impression was four girl fingers or three guy fingers, but then I stuck my combined fingers in my mouth and realized I was being too generous. Final determination: three girl fingers in girth, a guy finger in length.

Temporary alliances were formed to tickle nerve endings, new territory was treaded with reckless abandon, and I learned the exact demarcation between small and too small—somewhere in between Josh and Adam. Imagine becoming the new index of a standard—the anchor point

A night of firsts: Never had I ever gotten fucked up the ass by a stranger. Never had I ever gotten a rim job. Never had I ever put balls in my mouth other than just licking. And never had someone ever left in the middle of the night without saying bye before. Obviously, the ultimate goal in life is to win Never Have I Ever, so I’m well on my way.

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The Guy with The Smallest Penis Ever to be Seen, Part 1

Posted on June 14, 2010 by indefenseofgettingoff

The Guy with The Smallest Penis Ever to be Seen: Anal Obligatory

After a night of unenthusiastic, effortless, and ultimately antagonistic sex with a now ex-friend, he was exactly what I needed. The guy with the smallest penis ever to be seen. So small he managed to strip the guy formerly known as “the guy with the smallest penis ever to be seen” of his superlative. If I were a bitch, I would name this blog post “smaller than [name of other guy].”

Here I thought I’d seen everything.

I met him at my now ex-friend’s birthday party. He was with a group a friends and danced in front of me to get my attention, waving his hands manically like he was doing some Japanese lightstick bullshit. Then he lifted his shirt up slightly as to indicate something.

I inquired, “Do you have a lightstick in your pants?”

It was a set-up: “What do you think I have in my pants?”

“Um, a penis—hopefully. And maybe a lightstick?”

“I do have a penis in my pants—a small penis in my pants.”

He told me he had a small penis before we hooked up. Before I got him back to my place. Bold. But I mostly thought he was joking because he said it in front of his friends. Had I realized that he was serious, it wouldn’t have meant anything to me, anyway, because that degree of smallness was previously unconceivable to me. He set a whole new standard. And, besides, I probably would have taken it as a challenge: It can’t really be that small.

Yes, yes it can.

I have this new tactic when it comes to snagging guys: I go after short men. No one else wants them so they are desperate, but they are just as cute. As long as they don’t have Napoleon complexes. Psychological damage aside, why not take advantage of a surplus? It isn’t like we are Neanderthals and I need physical protection. I don’t believe in vestigial status symbols.

He was very confident. I liked. We didn’t have much to talk about and I wanted to talk to other people, so I asked him if he wanted to come home with me and if we could adjourn for a while and meet up again when we were ready to leave. When the night started winding down, we reconvened and I told him I was having doubts—not about him specifically, just the prospect of bringing someone home with me that night. He said, “It’s okay, you can reject me.”

And it made me kinda want him. Shortboy can take rejection and isn’t ashamed to try to convince me of his worthiness. Shamelessness. Mmm.

And I really needed a good fucking after the horrible disappointment of the previous night. Albeit a drunken fucking by an almost-midget.

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moral outrage

Posted on February 8, 2010 by indefenseofgettingoff

There is this guy I hook up with every so often. I shouldn’t even phrase it like that; I should say, “There is this guy I’ve hooked up a few times over the years.” The amount of contact makes it seem as if it is this ongoing thing; he texts me regularly late at night (let’s say every other week), I text him almost as much, and we gchat sometimes. But I’ve actually gotten very little out of it. So little that I wondered if it was even worth the effort, because suggestion breeds anticipation and anticipation breeds frustration, and it seems like a whole lot of getting my hopes up for one hook up many years ago and two this year. Such infrequency that it took me a while to discern whether we had hooked up twice or three times this year. But the first time this year was so good and his penis so beautiful and his semen so plentiful. And he so cooperative. Once I showed up.

Friday night he gchattted me, asking why I was at home and I said I had had a late night the night before and decided to stay in, but that I would probably go out the next night and would call him if I wasn’t otherwise occupied. He seemed enthusiastic about that prospect. Then the next night, I thought, why bother going out when I can get laid without going out. So I started my text message inquiry and encouragement early.

10ish-11ish

G: Are you visiting me later tonight?

D: Should I be?

G: Yes, please!

I figured that barring interfering events, he was mine; it was just a matter of waiting. When he texted me at the end of the evening, I figured the deal was sealed. I was ready to go. Had been for hours. Got off earlier in the day as basic maintenance but still desperately horny. The kind of horniness that was incurable without another physical body for relief.

2ish-2:45ish

D: I’m heading home

G: No come here

D: Not happening

G: ugh I hate you

D: Come to me

G: fuck you im not a call girl

D: ok, sorry

G: I go there every time

G: ?

D: [his address]

G: No, i told you that you should come here. im not going to keep traveling for you. it isn’t fair.

G: Do other girls just show up at your door on command?

D: No they don’t

G: So why are you unable to make any effort ever?

D: come here

G: Stop wasting my time. i was pretty excited about the prospect of your penis earlier and now im just annoyed and frustrated.

D: Come here

G: Goodnight

D: Ok. Sweet. Goodnight.

What the fuck!?! The sex is always worth the trip. I might have even come over forty-five minutes ago had I realized he really was not going to make the trip, but I figured if I refused he would suck it up and change his mind, and after forty-five minutes of his nonsense I was so exacerbated and mystified that anyone would turn down such easy sex that I didn’t know if I wanted to fuck him or fucking punch him. Like, seriously, we didn’t even talk before we fucked. All he had to do was throw himself in a cab—and it isn’t like his yuppie ass couldn’t afford a cab—and throw his dick in me ten minutes later. Maybe a little post-sex chat, although I wouldn’t have shaken him if he passed out afterwards. Last time he was even surprised by my abrupt departure, the fact that I didn’t want a round two or a sleep-over. And he joked, “Oh, I get it: I’m being used.” I had actually stopped by on the way home from a party; his place is literally on the corner of an uptown 6 stop and my place three blocks away from the main entrance to a 6 stop. You wouldn’t even have to exit underground for more than half a block if you didn’t want to. That’s pretty direct. Besides the issue of reciprocation of effort, it is way more annoying for me to go there because I can’t stay over; he is an absurdly loud snorer. The whole bed shakes. If he came to my place, he could sleep in my bed and I could sneak out and sleep on my couch or spare mattress. Frustration with his obstinacy aside, I really needed to get fucked; he coulda fucked the anger and despair right out of me. I was convinced of it. So in a last ditch effort—really I was shocked that he replied with “goodnight,” when I was just fronting—I made my final offer, effectively attempting to expose his lack of logic more than offering him anything useful. Emphasizing how fucking easy I was making it for him. After all, I’m nothing if not easy.

G: A ten minute cab ride isn’t worth the sex to you? you’re impossible.

G: Cant I just pay for you to take a cab here? It will be cute like im paying for sex.

D: Missed your shot. Shoulda come here.

At that point I didn’t realize what he meant, but I held my tongue (fingers?) and didn’t respond because I was furious. What does a girl gotta do to get laid in this town? I was sort of at all loss as to what to do with myself because I was in that ‘want to fucking punch things and don’t really care about getting off’ state, and if I got off it could only be violent and miserable.

I would have gone out with somebody else if I had known this was going to happen. I would have gotten my shit together and dragged my ass out of my apartment to alleviate the tension of a night spent indoors and restless. I would have put in the effort and called my friend who texted me the night before, whom I’ve been wanting to hook up with forever. But it was too fucking late.

I so wanted to punch holes in a wall that I decided to text my friend whom I recently sort of broke up with by fighting with him and ceasing to contact him. I thought he would be the perfect companion for an angry fuck. The last time we had sex it was angry, bad sex but that seemed like a better option than any at this moment. An hour and a half later—after beginning to drug myself to sleep—I got a text back and I assumed it was him. He is sort of a cokehead, goes to psytrance shows, is a high-functioning drug addict, so it wouldn’t have been outrageous for him to be get back to me at that late hour. But, no.

4:30ish

D: You’re lame

G: Ew youre still awake that makes me extra super hate you

D: Well I have other friends that are willing to make the trip

G: Um, were not friends

D: Um you’re lazy

What a fucking piece of shit. Are you fucking kidding me? Who texts to tell me that they fucked someone else? To rub in that they got laid and I didn’t. Well, fine, I hope you had fun with your fucking call girl. I’m not going to travel for some asshole who won’t pay me the respect of doing the same. I’m not lazy, you fucking hypocrite. It’s the principle. Do you think you are some kind of prize and I should feel sorry for not fawning over you because you have a queue of girls who recognize that you are worth the effort and degradation? In my long and lucrative career of being a slut, never have I ever gotten a text from a guy saying he had fucked someone else. It would be like if he texted me while I was with someone else and instead of just saying I was busy or was with a friend, I replied, “Sorry, with someone I’d rather fuck than you.” His text was tasteless, obnoxious, and uncalled-for. It screamed, “You’re replaceable, interchangeable with other women; if you don’t do what I require in order for you to fuck me, I don’t care because I’ll find someone else who will.” And you know what, I would have found someone else earlier in the evening had he made it clear that I wasn’t worth a trip. It isn’t the sentiment of being replaceable that bothers me; what we had was practically a cordial, mutually beneficial business agreement. It is the fact that he would unnecessarily throw it in my face that is unforgivable. Like, there are guys with whom I’ve ended things on really bad terms and when I fuck other people I don’t announce it to them as a bragging right; I think privately to myself, “Hooray, I got fucked and now I don’t need that asshole anymore. Good thing I’m cute and people want me!” There are tactful ways to deal with these sort of things early in the ‘where do I put my penis tonight?’ decision process. Like, I wouldn’t have been upset if he’d sent me a text message being like, “I’d love to fuck you, but I’m lazy and don’t want to leave my place. I need to get laid tonight, so if you aren’t going to come over, I’m going to call someone else. Let me know what you want to do.” Not only would I not have been offended by this, but my entire relationship with Allister was founded on a transparent interaction much like this one and subsisted on such transparency for quite a while, and that is why I like and respect him.

The sad, sad thing about the present situation is that before that single, definitive text it was a really good situation. In fact, I was thinking mentioning how good it was. Not because the sex was really good or because I really liked him, but because previously he had been so easy to deal with. In fact, 75% of the reason I had hooked up with him was because he was easy to deal with and nice so it seemed like why not. Also, the first time we hooked up I did possibly the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done with a guy and he was cool with it. As my personal slogan goes, once you embarrass yourself, everything is subsequently less embarrassing in comparison. Much freer. No self-consciousness necessary. He was generally sexually chill, easy-going, and unfazed by preferences and instructions. Not judgy. No sexual double standard. Let me ask for and do whatever I wanted. Eager to please. Attentive. And our interactions were all very polite. Not fake or anything. But there was never any reason to be anything but nice. I mean, we were essentially doing each other a service. And I actually sort of liked talking to him. He is smart, funny, and reasonable, although not distinctive in any way. We couldn’t actually be friends in real life. He is one of those yuppie, grown-up, fratboy bankers who socializes in a different scene and might as well live in Murray Hill. But he has a good balance of qualities and we got along well. Mostly he was just easy to be around and when I hooked up I felt like we were equals.

With one text, 75% of the reason I wanted to hook up with him vanished into thin air. Easy to deal with? Um, no. Stubborn, inflexible, and selfish surely preclude him from meeting that qualification. Nice? Fuck no. All we are left with is his body and the quality of the sex. I’ve never really been attracted to him, and the sex isn’t special. In fact, years ago when he expressed interest in me, before we ever hooked up, I explained my lack of attraction to him. Objectively he’s attractive and other people find him attractive, but I’ve never really understood it. I knew him as an adolescent and wasn’t into him then, either. And he’s one of those grown-up fratboys who is past his prime: He has a beer belly and could stand to lose a good thirty pounds. You can see it in his face, too. But the sex is fine and once you get naked with someone it isn’t like you don’t get aroused. And there was the first time we hooked up this year which was so fucking good that suddenly I became interested in him because I got off to the cum scene like 500 times because there was just so much cum and I guess the amount that I get off to a sexual experience is directly proportional to the amount of semen. This was before I even told him how into cum I am. When I finally told him, he said I shouldn’t have been embarrassed, it made no difference to him, and I should have brought it up before if that’s what I wanted. But then I lost interest in him because, like I said, he texts me so much but never delivers. He does have a really nice cock. Oh well. My mom always told me “there are many fish in the sea,” but she should have substituted for the prevailing proverb “there are many pretty penises lurking in pants;” that would have been much more reassuring. And the alliteration is enticing.

I woke up to an apology text from him.

10amish

D: Sorry. Didn’t need to be so mean

Too late. The damage had been done. Maybe if he has any decency, he will pass me on to a friend. That’s what I’ve sort of always wanted anyway considering I’ve never been attracted to him. Of course, part of the appeal was that he was familiar, which made me more comfortable with him and made him lack grossness. After knowing someone even casually for a certain amount of time I feel like they have passed a screening process.

This afternoon I got a text from a former friend whose attention I tried to solicit out of frustration and desperation and the desire to throw bad at bad and generally fuck shit up so I had something real to blame for feeling awful, not just sexual frustration. He wrote, “Hey, I was asleep and am sick.” I instantly felt horrible because maybe he didn’t realize things were over between us and actually wanted to or was willing to repair things. I sent him a sort-of apology text back, “Im sorry. I shouldnt have texted you. i dont want to be friends. I was having a shity night and hoped to use you to take out my frustrations. feel better.” This brought me back to reality and now I feel bad for real because I actually cared about my friendship with this guy, unlike the immediate sexual situation which I will obviously get over cause it’s just like, great, now I have to find someone who produces an amount of semen comparable to that of Peter North. I just wonder if this whole friendship breakup was a big mistake or if being friends with him was the mistake. I suspect the later, partially because if I hadn’t contacted him I suspect he wouldn’t have contacted me. Mistake or no mistake I guess at this point there is really no way I can get anything out of the shambles of our friendship and it could only end in more disappointment so I might as well quit while I’m down. Now I have to replenish the men in my life. Sigh.

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The Rise and Fall of Hipster Dave, Part Four

Posted on February 1, 2010 by indefenseofgettingoff

Since our last encounter, periodically I received late-night text messages from Hipster Dave. Tuesday night I decided I had had enough.

D: Hey its dave…just got done playin a show and wonderin if u wanted to grab a drink

G: Im sry but this is getting ridic. do you actually think id fuck you again? you just lie there, useless. dont think you even like women. at least not vaginas.

D: Ok. wow. Well i thought our first time was fun. Sorry about haloween i had more to drink then planned…it was holloween. but yes i am surprised…specifically that we didnt give it another go… i mean u did call me the perfect hipster. but sorry u feel that way. Let me know if u change ur mind.

D: Also a simple im not interested is fine too…cuz i had no idea.

G: Never have i ever had a guy not touch me. a simple im not intrstd wouldnt have sufficed. as a consolation prize, the link to my blog: indefenseofgettingoff.com

G: I did think you had the perfect hipster body

D: Sounds like a problem that could be fixed with a little communication…other than that i got nothin else to say

G: You mean my explicitly verbally and physically asking you to do things and your blatantly ignoring my requests. dont blame me for your laziness. incompetence would be a charitable attribution. read my blog.

D: Ok well i do apologize for the state i was in that night…i thought our first night might warrant another try. Apparently i was wrong. too bad

Am I a huge bitch?

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The Rise and Fall of Hipster Dave, Part Three

Posted on December 8, 2009 by indefenseofgettingoff

“Lazy” and “useless” would be massive understatements in describing Hipster Dave during our long-awaited, second encounter. He was, more aptly, “stagnant” and “sedentary.” Stoic. Stale. Dead.

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Allister unintentionally taught me a winning technique for ensuring the repetition of sex. After the first time we fucked, he ensconced the encounter with a sex follow-up phone call: “I just wanted to tell you I had a greaaat time tonight. Get home safe.”

I thought it was damage control, the implicit way to plead, “We’re cool, right?” The sex had been mediocre at best. But, indeed, we were cool.

Except he followed every encounter with a call just like the first one. Eventually I heeded his lead, realizing it was a foolproof way to link one encounter to the next, to plant continuity before time was punctuated.

Frequently in sexual situations time or hearsay engender the great divide. One-night stands are assumed to be just that and after not calling someone for a while it becomes awkward, insulting, to hit them up out of what could only be assumed to be desperation. That’s why the day after you have to eliminate any ambiguity, let the person know that even if you don’t get back to them right away you are considering them for continued contact. It can be simple and sweet: “I had a great time last night; let’s get together again soon.” more than suffices.

The genesis of the problem is in how people think of sex for sex’s sake. Not to mention the fact that there exists no adequate language to describe nuanced situations. Everyone grasps “one-night stand,” but “two-night stand” is not a popular idiom. Some assume that after a one-night stand their partner doesn’t want to be contacted, doesn’t want to be reminded of their “mistake.” If fucking attractive people casually were a mistake, then I would be a very poorly adjusted person.

Sometimes guys need to be reminded that you are in it for the same thing that they are, that you got what you wanted and want more. There is no universally prescribed limit to the amount of times you can have good sex. Sure, in theory it could be difficult to get back “in the moment,” but being attracted to an attractive person is not a difficult moment to recreate. All it takes is a little social planning and making sure that they are your end-of-the-night so you aren’t stuck with them for the whole night. That and a little pre-booty-call seed planting so when you call them late at night it seems pre-planned, not like round two of mistaken sex.

Also, calling someone late at night without any forewarning is a mistake within itself. Not only does it not secure you sex for the evening, if sex is procured it is likely to be low quality. I like to start contacting potential partners at approximately 9-10 pm if I expect to get fucked. That way it is likely that someone I have contacted will get back to me and whoever gets back to me knows that he is ending up in my bed, which means he can plan his activities accordingly (i.e., won’t drink to the point where sex will be sloppy). I figure people like having a destination set for the end of the night, anyway. A homebase, so to speak.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The first time Dave contacted me after my sex follow-up text message, I thought, “Score!” We texted back and forth every so often for a few months and ultimately we were both too lazy to make much of an effort to see each other. (Okay, so maybe I was too good to travel to Bushwick to get laid). Until one weekend he was persistent and texted me every night. The next weekend I made it happen.

It was Halloween. I made certain to get home before he got to my place so I had ample time to fix myself up, and by fix myself up I mean cleanse myself of my fairy princess costume and get undressed. I answered the door in magenta tights and a turquoise, lacy tank top. There is something so exquisitely exciting about a reunion with a one-night stand. It’s like once you point to a guy in a corner of a bar and take him home with you, he’s yours forever. Because it’s just so much easier to make the same mistake twice.

We engaged in some social pleasantries. I thought after months of not seeing each other, even if it may have been a bit easier to get down immediately, it would have been a little rushed even for me. I kept in mind the whole time that once I was ready I couldn’t be fooled by the fact that time seemingly becomes more difficult to punctuate the longer you let it run. After half a glass of wine and a little catch up, I was ready to go and started pulling him in during conversation. I mounted him and my first impression was, “His costume feels so fucking disgusting.” He was wearing the burnt orange, sequined ice skating outfit that Will Ferrell sports in Blades of Glory. Visually it was unpleasant enough. My second thought was, “Underwear or no underwear?”

We traveled to my bedroom where I persisted to mount him and make out with him, but other than his lips nothing was really moving. I repositioned him so he was on top of me, and he became a deadweight, preventing my continued humping. I felt like I was thirteen and someone was just figuring out what to do with his hands during a make-out sesh, after mastering what to do with his lips. Getting “felt up” was awkward to say the least. It seemed like he was scared to offend me by touching my “boobs.” Boobs aside, body parts that he did not touch include: my hair, neck, thighs, ears, ass… and the list goes on. I got bored, threw him back on his back, and took him out of his pants.

I quickly made a mental note that I would not suck his dick because last time he failed to reciprocate so my failure to initiate would prevent me from feeling annoyed and cheated. But the problem is that I love sucking cock. I didn’t so much as spit on my hands because I didn’t want to be tempted in the slippery slope of slippery penises. I’m not going to lie: I was a little grossed out by his dry penis and general lifelessness. Even his precum was an unwelcome visitor, as it reminded me of all else that was missing in our encounter.

After approximately five minutes of dry penis rubbing, which I assumed would culminate in wet vagina touching, he asked, “Do you have a condom?” i.e., “Get out a condom,” which sort of stunned me because I was still in my underwear. He had made no attempt whatsoever to touch my vagina, or to do anything, really. I looked at him like he was ape-shit crazy and replied,” Yeah, but touch me first.” Normally I state requests as suggestions, like, “Can you touch me first?” but with him I wanted there to be no ambiguity.

He made a half-assed attempt to grope my ass—through my underwear. Stopped, and looked at me again as to submit a second request for a condom. As if he had magically gotten a step closer to my vagina by touching my ass—through my underwear. Not to sound rapey, but I moved his hand and put it in my pants. Because seriously that’s just a basic step towards sex and he will touch my vagina before he puts his penis inside it whether he likes it or not.

I’ve never invited someone over for sex before and had any difficulty orchestrating it. Normally if you set forward sexual steps that guys have to fulfill before fucking you, they are happy to comply. Most well-adjusted people see underwear as a physiological impediment towards the execution of sex and go through extensive motions to remove it.

When I stuck his hand in my pants he just left it there, no initiative. So I had to move his hand around on top of me, the way guys sometimes guide my hand for a few seconds if they want me to get their rhythm. I removed my hand and he continued exactly as I showed him for approximately thirty seconds. Then stopped, looking at me expectantly. Mimicry as foreplay.

It was so hopeless and he did such a shitty job that I gave up. I touched myself for a second, took the condom out, and started fucking him. It was a little good at first and then I thought, “Wait, I will not get myself into this situation. It is a little good now and will not end well if I allow myself to be teased. He’s going to be totally useless to me. Why should I put in any effort?”

I made him get on top of me to do all of the work. If it was going to suck for me, I sure as hell wasn’t being involved. I hoped that he came soon and got it over with. His expenditure in fucking me was comparable to my effort and enthusiasm in humping my hand when I am half asleep. All his dead weight placed on top of me. He moaned and I cringed. He remained on top of me, sweaty. After a minute or two, I unpealed him.

The gross thing was, although he made virtually no physical contact with me during our sexual encounter, he attempted to be cuddly. I attempted to veer far, far away from him. If you will not touch my vagina, you will not touch me. I thought about how on a scale from masturbation to sex, this was worse than masturbation because I wished he would just fucking leave so I could masturbate.

I contemplated masturbating in front of him, because he was cooperative about that the first time, but I was more disgusted than horny. What was I going to get off to? His vagina phobia? Last time I could at least get off to how his cock felt in my mouth, how it looked slicked to his boxers in precum. This encounter felt almost non-consensual, like he didn’t want to be there. I considered going to the bathroom to get off. I thought about the rudeness factor and didn’t care. It would have been easier than getting off in front of him and it isn’t like he didn’t bring it on himself.

Ultimately, I talked myself down by repeatedly reciting the ancient Jewish proverb (in my head, although, it would have been so much funnier to do out loud): “And this too shall pass.”

And it did. All it takes is a little concentration and revulsion. And a general lack of arousal.

I was left wondering:

1)    I’m pretty forward for a girl. How does Hipster Dave manage to have sex with other, less active participants?

2)    How could Hipster Dave take the initiative to travel from Brooklyn, but not take the initiative to remove my very willing underwear in order to stick his penis in my vagina?

3)    How could Hipster Dave not have the desire to touch, or at least default to touching, my vagina before asking to stick his penis in it? Somehow his lack of interest in my vagina made me feel more objectified than I’ve ever felt before, like I was just an entry point through which to stick his penis. Never have I been in another sexual encounter where I have thought in such explicit and gross terms about sticking penises in vaginas. Normally this just happens. As part of a progression.

4)    How could someone stick his penis in my vagina without inspecting it first? There could be any number of things wrong with my vagina. It could have cauliflower. It could have teeth. Does this guy have so little interest in his penis that he does not inspect its potential whereabouts ahead of time? I hope he never has children. If I were a guy I could think of many places I would prefer to stick my penis than a vagina that I had not touched: apple pie, a wide-necked shampoo bottle, girl’s underwear, a vat of Crisco, my hand. None of these requires leaving Bushwick.

Forget vaginas. Arousal is a process. That someone would want to fuck another person with no consideration of whether she is aroused is bizarre to me.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

This past Sunday morning I woke up to a text message sent at two-something am: “Hey Genie, what are you up to tonight?”

I briefly considered writing back with any one of the numerous versions of the response I had been drafting in my head in anticipation of his coming back for more: “Are you fucking kidding me? You are totally useless. I might as well fuck an inflatable doll.” A simple “As if!” would have sufficed.

I thought, what nerve he has contacting me!

Until it occurred to me: And this too shall pass.

Posted in rise and fall of hipster dave: part 3 | 5 Comments