Tanscendental Sexuality, and why you should explore it

He carries himself with quiet, peaceful strength, and he smells like all of that too. We found ways and reasons and spaces to stay together that warm night, through massage and hugs, silent but for deep breaths under a starry Caribbean sky. Numbers were exchanged and we happened to make it to the same beach around the same time on the next day. An afternoon of exploring sand and sun, and gentle waves fit for play.

 

An afternoon that turned into evening as magnetic pleasure for each other’s proximity called above all else. Loud in our own hearts, loud enough we acknowledged it in the other. So, yea, let’s spend the night out here. It’s beautiful, it’s warm. And we can keep touching each other.

It couldn’t have been a blur because every moment was intense and pulsating and vivid of color and taste. But they came on like waves, rhythmic, and we created an orbit for hours, we really did. Only taste and touch. Only tactile discovery of our shapes, and textures, curves, and natural undulations. Only the warmth of our skins, and the gentle hold of his arms supporting me, we rolled like choreography on that shore. Hours, I tell you. At sunrise we kissed, we folded blankets and sheets, zipped backpacks, and accelerated away. Family day for him, flight home for me.

We still hold that gift and have unwrapped it together a couple of times. First, shyly, with sideways glances away from the other’s image coming through the computer screen;

did you feel it too? Time didn’t exist. We touched, we danced, we kissed, and suddenly the sky was brightening again.

Then, confidently. That. What we had that night, THAT. 

We want that.  Or better yet; we know THAT is what it’s got to be.  We know we’re not stuck in bodies, we have elastic skin to transcend us in and out of here.

We’re given other versions of ourselves, varied textures of hair and tones of skin, other families, and tongues spoken, even, but… once we quiet, we hear the same palpitations within.

We’re given sex and pleasure, lust and love. Perceptions of the world through tender nerves sparking up connections they’ve always known.

His touch set my essence into dance with my brothers and sisters; the stars, the moonlight.   Because Love solidifies our existence, we are gifts to one another, abettors that close the distance between ourselves… and all we were, moments after birth, and all we can be, if we listen closely.

Merry Christmas to you as well. Thank you for the orgasms.

Ho Ho Ho, friends.  I’m full of fucking spirit, just can’t  quite confirm it’s jolly.

The red scare arrives next week, Christmas is tomorrow, and I just got dumped mere minutes before I used that upper hand and did it myself. Misery travels in threes, and as the most intuitive 33 year-old on the block, I already knew this.

I met him via online dating because, truthfully, I have no patience for most men who approach me these days. Except for that cutie who stopped me dead on my tracks mid Miami streets stroll last week, charm and confidence convincing me to hang with him on the beach till the wee hours of the morn. Lance, you’re so great – but I digress.

I’ve been single for nearly four years now. Yes, one, two, three, four. The last ex being the douchebag you already know. I never told you this, but his initials are BS. Fucking fitting, right?

Anyway, I was too busy being awesome, taking fun trips, working, and procrastinating on starting a second business because of, what’s new, fear of failure, so I’d “given dating a break.” Then I bumped into a friend who happily recounted her wonderful romance with a beau she met online – the same site on which I’d disabled my account – and she encouraged me to give it another try. So I did. I went  home, got online, re-wrote the damn profile, slapped some new pics on it, and started browsing. 

I set my search to “long-term dating only” and men over 30. Because I don’t have time for weak ass bullshit. Tic fucking toc.  But I made sure to add “let’s slowly get to know one another” or some other cautionary phrasing of the sort (can’t check for accuracy now because only losers peruse dating sites on holiday break) to warn off the lonely types looking for a ready-to-birth bride. Back the fuck off, my uterus is mega elastic and the remaining ova carry primest DNA.

I thought bountifully shameful thoughts about the dozens of faces shyly staring back at me, ’til I came across his little square.

Oh.. he cute.

Clicked on him. Nice body, beautiful eyes, adorable smile, good job, outdoorsy, SPEAKS MY FIRST LANGUAGE, wants a girl who will make the first move.

DUDE… all I do is make brilliant moves. Messaged him. Logged off.

We exchanged some texts so I could assess his grammar on the go, and settled on a Saturday night in the city. I spent the whole afternoon at my parents’s place, stuffing face, and battling thoughts of canceling on him. Finally got the fuck up, went home, got ready and headed out. We had no concrete plans, so we strolled for a bit ’til we picked a local dance spot with soul and funk sounds. This kid was either gonna swim in his dance shoes or drown right before my eyes.

He swam, confidently, adorably too. We moved to a bar, and I ordered a ginger ale and he had an IPA. Because I don’t have time for weak ass bullshit, I made sure to throw in the quintessential “I don’t really casually date. I want to get to know someone to build something awesome with.” He nodded. The night went better than I expected. Since I’d taken the train in, expecting to be back home before the last ride of the night, he drove me home. I skirted a first kiss, because my intentions are pure, because I want someone to love my mind first. But he looked so sad, and his lips so fat, that I didn’t need to be coerced. We kissed. And it was god.damn.good. Like, I don’t wanna get out of this car, my vagina is WOKE, you better keep kissing me, boy, good.

The next date was the very next night. We picked a movie, and as we sat watching the previews, I let my mouth run off, and he shushed me with a smile. Mmm. This might just be a good egg, I thought.  A two hour drive to a beautiful hike in New Hampshire as the third date sealed the deal for me. If we could make it work horizontally as well as we did on our feet, I might have a dating profile awaiting a victorious ‘delete.’

I made him wait till the fifth date. I didn’t wear anything purposely sexy. I knew about his upbringing before I knew about his penis. I was serious about being serious.

And when we did it, it was good. And the next time was even better. Soon enough I had an orgasm, a feat only long-term boyfriends had accomplished.

He lives over half an hour away, but works nearly down the street from me. So I would happily invite him over, share my healthy meals (I’m vegan, y’all. I stick to real food, like a real human), and my healthy sex drive. I helped him not fall back asleep when his 5am alarm went off. And if he seemed extra tired, I’d give him oral for a good day ahead.

Yea. I’m fucking awesome.

We talked every day. Our schedules weren’t exactly similar, but early in the week we’d figure out which nights might work. We spent nearly every weekend together for two months. We acknowledged to each other that we weren’t seeing anyone else. I told him I liked him, and he said it back, ever so sweetly, while playing with my hair. I threw him to the lions, at a gathering with my friends (and their four children), and he was just as great as I’d expected he’d be.

Then the time came for a few trips we more or less planned before we knew each other. I had a long weekend at the foot of the White Mountains in the books, and he was heading to Cuba, to return a day after I’d leave for a week in Miami.  We didn’t see each other for nearly four weeks, but we traded texts, pictures, and messages of “I really miss you.” Well, at least I really meant it.

I had three priorities upon my return: kissing my dog, kissing my cat, and kissing that boy. I headed over to his place, and as soon as I laid my lips on his, tactically looking for that taste of magic, I peeled off empty handed. I tried again, and it just. felt. different. I shrugged it off. We talked, exchanged gifts. I’d gotten him a shirt he loved – it fit perfectly because I knew his top and bottom sizes, how he likes his coffee, what foods he doesn’t like mixed together, the face he makes when he’s annoyed.. you know. Because I’m fucking awesome. He got me a handmade wooden box we both had some trouble opening, but which I loved anyway, like I would’ve loved any old thing he might’ve chosen to gift me.

We had great sex. I still couldn’t shake that something wasn’t right, so I tapped him on the forehead and said, “what’s wrong? why are you so serious?” He looked to the TV and mumbled he was sick, his body hurt, that was all. We fell asleep. In the morning he made me come, we took showers, and ordered Thai food. We spent the afternoon napping and cuddling, until it was time for both of us to go see our parents. We made plans to see each other the next night, Monday. I left thinking something *still* wasn’t right.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. We barely exchanged texts, and the words we did offer were superficial. I finally called because I knew his voice would give what he denied me with his texted words. He was uncommonly chirpy, he didn’t ask what my weekend plans were, and that affectionate boy I knew had checked out.

In all negotiations, you have got to be ready to walk away before you’re ready to begin. I knew the Cuba trip had stirred something in him – I’d been through the same experience, and returned home from 3 weeks in Hawaii absolutely convinced I was done with the 9-5 and 2-week paid vacation crumbles. I needed to run my own business, I needed my time to be mine, I needed to Live Life and surround myself with minds that understood we’re not here to grind and die. But hey, I also knew the climb is so much more pleasant with a partner by my side.

I told him I knew something was up. I told him I liked him, and it was unlike him to be so distant. I wished he’d share what was on his mind, but at least, I asked, give me honesty.

The next day went by without a peep from him. I decided if he didn’t reach out by the end of the night, I’d let him know I no longer wanted to see him. But he called. He said he shuts himself in when he’s got a lot to figure out. And with the studying he was facing for a work-related license, a new job, and new long-term travel plans he was making, he’d likely shut himself in more, which would be unfair to me. He also said bla, bla, and some additional bla. Ended with, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WERE EXPECTING OUT OF THIS.”

BITCH, WHAT?

And, “I HOPE YOU DON’T HATE ME.”

BITCH, I DON’T HATE YOU. JUST RETURN ME THE LAST THREE MONTHS, A
DOZEN MAGNIFICENT BLOW JOBS, AND ALL THE GOOD WILL I SENT YOUR WAY, AND WE EVEN.

And, “YOU DON’T HAVE TO DISAPPEAR, WE CAN STILL TALK”

BITCH, SOON AS WE HANG UP, YOU CEASE TO EXIST. 

I was calm. I wished him well. I wished him Merry Christmas. I wished I texted mere minutes before he called.

I texted a good friend, ordered a pizza, and tried to watch a romantic movie. They all sucked. I stuck to science fiction – the kind of art that gives us the truth about human nature.

So, boo, I just wanna tell you:

• Thank you for the orgasms. I probably came more in these last three months than I did over my two years with BS.
• Thank you for gently, and non-judgmentally pointing out that I was again a pothead. I quit the daily joint and am in the best shape I’ve been in years
• Thank you for helping me remember I have the spirit of Tim Ferriss and the skills of Lexi Belle
• Thank you for giving me the opportunity to practice effective communication, faith in my good intentions, an open heart and open mind
• Thank you for the beautiful hand-carved wooden box. I still can’t open it, like your heart, so I’m giving it away

Merry Christmas to us. May the new year bring exactly what we’re looking for. Atop my list are more adventures and more success – with a best friend who prefers me undressed.

My dad licked me often

My dad was 34 when I was born – the third and fattest of his babies.

40 when he began kneeling down at my bedside, interlaced fingers, calm and quiet, listening to my prayers as I thanked God for mom, dad, sister, brother, dog, parrot, grandma, friend, teacher, neighbor, toys, food… The biggest atheist I’ve ever known, he waited patiently for me to finish and repeated “Amen” after me. And he always followed that up with a kiss to the forehead and a good tucking in under the sheets. I haven’t slept as peacefully since. Especially not on the night he discovered that, at age 13, I was attending Catholic mass not for my relationship with God, but to steal kisses from my first boyfriend as we sat on the back pew, barely listening to the sermon. Dad was pretty livid when he caught us holding hands outside of church. That was the last time I attended Jesus’ crib.

He’s tried but can’t hold a grudge for too long. And he’s got odd ideas about getting even too; in my Prime Pest Modus Operandus, I enjoyed (still do), flicking, poking, pushing, tripping the old man, slapping magazine or book out of his hands, turning off the computer monitor and running away, hiding his silverware as he’d help himself to seconds (or thirds), snatching a pen from his hand and tossing it across the room, standing in front of the TV, blocking his view… you name it, I did (do) it with the biggest smile on my face. He’d smile back too:

“I’m gonna get you. I’m letting you know that you can stop now or I will get you,” he’d say calmly.

I’d go on about my business of annoying him.  Suddenly he’d get up from the couch or chair and run after me. Locking myself in a room was useless because his patience has always outlasted mine. I’d choose instead to run as fast as I could and enjoy the thrill until I was finally caught. He’d place me on the floor and tickle ’till I couldn’t handle it anymore and then… he’d spit all over his hands and smear them on my face. That was his punishment and, what can I say… it was disgusting but I must’ve enjoyed it. A quick wash with soap would rinse away the foul smell of saliva and I’d go find him to shake hands in truce.

I had no revenge for all the snacks and sandwiches he’s stolen over the years, unfortunately.

“Oooh, did you see the cat zooming by??” he’d ask surprised, out of the blue.

I’d look, and in that split second, half of my sandwich would be making its way down his belly. The man will eat anything too. Blame it on having grown up poor, or just being a food fiend; he’s been known to eat cake sandwiches or banana sandwiches – yes, a slice of cake or a banana between two slices of bread. In two bites. No water. When I was little and didn’t have the appetite to finish my food (throwing away was not an option), I’d find my dad, step on his foot, and he’d open his mouth, like a garbage disposal. I always got a kick out of that.

He taught me to ride my first bike, even though he never learned how himself, having been too poor as a kid to own one.

Last month, on father’s day, I took him kayaking – his first time – and enjoyed the reversal of roles; he listened to my instructions and I calmed his nerves, reassuring him that the damn thing wouldn’t turn over and we would not drown in the Charles River.

My father was, is, and will always be my standard of a Man. It’s his birthday today, and I’m as silly as he is when it comes to showing emotion – we’ve never said “I love you” to one another. But the tears won’t stop streaming down my face as I think about everything he’s been in my life. I love my dad and I can only hope to find for a partner, a man half as strong, honest, and good as he is.

Butt Baby observations

I’m sitting at the same café, same friggin spot as always, and have just chatted with the cutest, friendliest waiter I’ve ever seen – he seems to remember everything I ever tell him and loves updating me on the status of his apartment hunt on the west coast. He’s not my waiter tonight, unfortunately. It’s instead a girl I’ve never seen, who doesn’t smile, and likes to pretend I’m not here. Oh, but I’ve reminded her… about five times now. She must love me.

What has grabbed my attention for the last few minutes is the adorable cutie sitting directly across from me. Don’t get too excited – he looks about 19.  He’s built like a wrestler, with half-sleeve tattoos peeking out of his beat up Gold’s Gym t-shirt, and another on his chest – I got a glimpse thanks to his awful posture. He brought a book to read at the bar of a busy café. No iPod.

Thing is, he hasn’t been paying much attention to that book; he gets distracted often and his eyes wander – but before settling back on the open pages, they drift to the first guy I noticed when I walked in.

I know who this guy is, of course, because he’s a waiter here too. He was sitting in the corner booth when I arrived tonight, inhaling his sandwich in the last few minutes of his break. Facial scruffiness, dark eyes and hair, and a lean build, he is a major hottie with ADHD. His eyes don’t stop moving. Ever. Slightly disconcerting.

He returned to work from break and a few minutes later, 19 year old cutie arrived. He sat on ADHD waiter’s corner of the bar and is still pretending to read a book and check his smartphone. But I swear to god, he’s checking out the waiter.

Has he ever had sex with a man? Is this waiter the first guy he might put the moves on? He looks uncomfortable and eager at the same time, it’s a pleasure to watch – in a cute way.

The waiter doesn’t seem to notice. He’s a fidgety fast mover, efficient and friendly, but disengaged. I try hard to avert my eyes at crucial times, because I don’t want to be a creep, but it’s hard. The young’n looks like such a jock; like he’s missing three clones, with whom he’d laugh loudly and rough-house while walking down Newbury Street – certainly not inside a bookstore/café at 10pm on the warmest Wednesday of the year. Instead, he’s indeed here, multi-tasking between cell phone, book, and secretly admiring. I wish he’d say something.

I also wish that my luck were different tonight and boob-infatuated self-proclaimed Bostonian with a thick Irish accent AS WELL AS Berklee School of Music undergrad with horrid pick up lines weren’t both here. I need a new hang out spot ASAP. It’s too damn bad, because this place has excellent coffee.

Guest Contributor Time!

I’m lucky to have nice friends who are supportive of my blogging obsession. So supportive, I think my sickness is rubbing off on them.

Olya is a Russian-born, NYC-dwelling smart, sassy, sexy, funny, honest, and FUN girl I connected with through mutual friends. We’re gonna party hardy together in Miami next week – more on that later. She felt inspired last night, and cooked up an awesome piece on being a single girl (with a slight SATC obsession) in NYC. Meet Olya, in her own words.

– – – – –

My best friend gave me the complete Sex and the City series for my 27th birthday and I just can’t stop watching it. It’s addictive.

I moved to New York City in 2006, and though the move was for no particular reason other than a change of scenery and my love for New York, I can’t help but think that the show may have played a part. Of course I realize that it’s just a show and that it’s not real, but still… it is so authentic and inspirational – I think every woman who watches it secretly wants a similar life. The romances, the fashion, the infectious, free spirited honesty of the four women… but yeah, mostly the love life.

It seems like around every corner, the Sex and the City ladies found someone more than ‘decent’ to date. At least for me, the question is obvious: “Where are these men??”

I live in Midtown – it’s a great location. I am well employed, even if kind of broke, but who isn’t these days (in NYC, especially)? I am not unfortunate looking [Juliana interjects: she’s HOT] and have a solid social life. I go out a few times a week and while I get checked out and asked out by “presentable” men, they never turn out to be as they initially portray themselves.

My latest frustrations in the dating department come from two different (yet so similar) jackasses with a love for texting. The first one – we’ll call him Jackass #1 – I met at a friend’s birthday party. We chatted only for a few minutes, but the mutual physical attraction was clear. We exchanged numbers, but as we know –

men no longer call; they text.

He texted a few days later. We had conflicting schedules that week so we just… kept texting. I was running out of patience so I asked if we could meet up for a drink. His response?

No, sorry, I have work until 9pm tomorrow, so I am going to be tired and will just go home to blaze.

SERIOUSLY?? Why the fuck are you texting me, then?

Oh you poor workaholic. I tried to be nice.

How can any normal man respond that way? A few days later he texted again, just to ask how I was doing. A gazillion texts later, there was still no prospect of an actual invitation to meet. I finally stopped responding.

As a woman (and a Piscean) I had to analyze what happened:

Why did he keep on texting me?
Did he just need someone to text to?
Did he want me to bring up going out again?
Did he want me to invite myself to go over his place to “blaze”?

I don’t have the answers. I do know that a man with no balls to ask a lady out is like a man WITH NO BALLS.

Jackass #2 I met on my 27^th birthday celebration. He was cute and a bit shy, which I really liked. Again; not much conversation before exchanging numbers and going our separate ways. He texted the following day (I don’t remember the last time a man called rather than texted).

Hey Olya, happy birthday again, what are you doing tonight?

I didn’t want to play any games and had no qualms with seeming “available.” Nothing much planned, just taking it easy.

Nice, me too. Hit me up later.

Umm. WHAT? I will hit you upside the head right about now. NO BALLS.

I decided to ignore the absurdity, but he was back for more the next day.

Hey, we are watching TV at home if you want to stop by. We might also go to the movies later.

OK, really? Who the fuck are “we” and why would I go over your place when I met you for five minutes? I was confused and wondered if he was gay, living with a partner and maybe looking to experiment with a woman – it’s possible my Sex in the City overload is to blame, but it honestly wouldn’t shock me. I was livid and couldn’t let it go for a few hours. I thought about actually calling to let him know that his horrid manners are in need of some polishing.

If both jackasses just wanted to sleep with me, it’s fine – at least take me out for a drink! Alas, men are lazy and have no understanding of chivalry; telephone conversations and getting-to-know-you walks in the park are no more. It’s all been reduced to texting and fucking. To be fair, men aren’t solely to blame – but that is a whole ‘nother topic.

Today I find myself sitting at the computer after work with two open tabs: jdate.com and okcupid.com, while contemplating signing up for Millionaire Matchmaker. Yes, it’s true, I feel just as pathetic as you are judging me to be. But what can I do? The world lives online and if I can’t find a decent man in person, perhaps I can find him on the web.

This isn’t about me being cynical; I still believe that there are great men out there. Nor is it about me being 27 and having a “running out of time” dilemma. I am actually not in the freak out zone (yet) to get married and pop out babies, even though I sometimes contemplate calling losers from my past (the ones who made me throw up a little in my mouth) just so I may go on a proper “date.” But I haven’t and won’t. A little vomiting may be a quick way to lose a few pounds, but I’d rather not mess with my sanity.

So I am giving online dating a shot and still searching – not for a Mr. Right – but at least for a Mr. Right Now. WITH BALLS.