Tag Archives: boys

Boys like me, OK?

9 Oct

I talk to my mom every day. Every single day I call her, tell her about what I’ve been eating, with whom I’ve been hanging out, the cleanliness (or not) of my apartment, how work is going, what I’ve been reading, movies I’ve been watching… my father is usually in the background, cracking jokes at my expense. Last week, as we were saying good-bye, she said, “OK, don’t forget to call me, I need to know how you’re doing. You live alone and Tori can’t pick up the phone. There’s no one else I can reach to make sure you’re alive; you have no boyfriend, you’re a card-carrying PN.” PN, in Portuguese, stands for “pega ninguem”, which can be translated as ‘someone incapable of hooking up/finding a boyfriend”, generally due to being ugly, weird, lacking in confidence, and such other qualities. Not sure how to defend myself against such accusation – what should I say? “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a such a ho, I hook up with a different guy every month” – I nod and agree; “right, right. Thanks, mom. I’ll call.”

Little does she know that I could’ve had like, 5 boyfriends in the past two years I’ve been single. I’ve been asked out, and had my boobs grabbed at clubs. I’ve been catcalled, and offered a chance to perform fellatio for very attractive men, with enough money to pay for a cab ride back to my place after. And little does she know how adored I am by tow truck drivers and toll booth collection workers all over Massachusetts. In fact, every Sunday when I visit my parents, there’s a silver fox working at the Mass Pike exit I take to my parents’ house. I won’t be seeing him anytime soon, now that I use FastLane, but when I did… he would caress my fingers as I handed him my exact change, and tell me how cute my car is, and how pretty are my eyes. He’d ask me where I was going, and tell me how much he’d enjoy taking me out to dinner at Olive Garden. He was young too, definitely no older than 55.

As for the tow truck drivers; I met one, as we waited inside our respective vehicles for the light to turn green, and he saved my life by telling me the location of the closest gas station, as I drove around with a near-empty gas tank in the wee hours of a frigid Sunday morning. I pulled up, walked by Dorchester homeless men huddled against the wall in their torn clothes, and paid with cash for my full tank of gas. I walked back to fill up my car, but couldn’t get the hose to pump. Moments later, he was standing next to me:

“Hi, I drive that tow truck, you asked me where to find a gas station.”

“Oh, hi!” Are you going to kill me?

“I came after you because I wanted to tell you that your break light on the right side is out. I can help you replace it, if you want, it’s easy.”

His name was Julian. He was a dark-eyed, dark-haired, olive skinned cutie with a beautiful Puerto Rican accent, and just-below-the-ass oversized Dickies pants. I thanked him for the offer, but assured him my father could take care of it. He saw I was struggling with the hose, and offered to help. Surely enough, within seconds he got the gas to pump. We said our goodbyes, and he walked to his truck… only to return and hand me his phone number neatly written on a McDonald’s napkin.

“If you ever need anything, call me. I work in Boston every weekend, overnight shift.”

How sweet is that? Fuck AAA, I can get VIP service, bitch.

After Julian came Edgardo. Edgardo is divorced with three children, one of whom just started college. He owns a beautiful home in Florida, and shares an affordable apartment with three roommates just 7 miles from my house. He towed my car once, and let me and my dog ride home in his truck. He promised he’d teach me how to change a tire. One sunny afternoon, while I lay tanning by the pool, I decided it might be a good day to learn how to put in the tire I’d bought for my car. He came over, smelling so fresh and so clean, crisp white socks on brand new Adidas sandals. He jacked up the car, took out the spare tire, put it back on, and walked me through the process. I did it like a pro. We moved on to a real tire – it was heavier and scarier, and I thought the car was going to tip over, but I did it all by myself. We chatted for thirty minutes, and I learned about his plans to open a tile installation business down in Daytona Beach. I evaded invitations to dinner and expressed my urgency to return to my chores.

Two weeks later I received a text from him, in Spanish, telling me he’d seen my car in the town of Concord (it’s FAR from where I live). I was afraid he’d been following me, but it turns out he was working out there. And then there’s the fact that my car is… memorable. I’ve only seen two others in the same model and color in the five years I’ve owned it. Last night he texted me when he saw my car on the highway, late at night. “No andes solita en la noche, que te van a robar” (Don’t go out alone late at night, you’ll get robbed). Silly Edgardo thinks we’re in Mexico.

The truth is, I could be gearing up to move into a fabulous house in sunny Florida, managing my boyfriend’s new and booming tile installation company, never again having to worry about changing a tire or replacing a car battery. I could be enjoying the company of a gorgeous young Puerto Rican, probably without any children, who’d save me $40 per year on a AAA membership. I could be playing golf every Sunday with a well-preserved silver fox who’d treat me to dinner and buy me pretty dresses. My mother has no idea what a catch I am.

Butt Baby observations

7 Apr

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.

Sex tape and diarrhea. Verbal diarrhea. Not during the sex.

11 Mar

I’ve been blessed with quite a few nicknames. My mother calls me Juzinha (it’s cute in Portuguese – zhu-ZEE-nya), some friends call me Ju (Jew, what I am not, but most of them are, hence the irony), others call me Juls (this one is very cute and conjures up the image of a well-mannered girl without the undiagnosed potty mouth verbal diarrhea syndrome from which I do most unfortunately suffer). I like Juls. It makes me feel wholesome.

Lately I’ve been going by Lady Ju. If GaGa gets that kind of respect, I don’t see why I shouldn’t – the presence of a vagina between my legs hasn’t ever been publicly questioned. I guess “publicly” is up for debate. And so is “questioned.” You see, for highly intuitive types, the 1% of the population capable of understanding the most complex of metaphysical concepts (such as, ‘which came first, the chicken or the egg?’ and ‘how many fingers am I REALLY holding up?’), the essence of my persona has always been drenched in Awesome. Take successful young professional Matt WhatshislatnameIdunnohisoldblogwascalledPublicIntoxication-whythefuckwouldheputuphisreallastname, for instance; soon to be SIR Matt W. took one whiff of my blog and recognized the Awesome. But it wasn’t just any Awesome – it was Female Awesome. He referred to me as a girl, never questioning my XX status.

Alas, it appears as though not everyone sees things so clearly. My own sister – blood of my blood – claims to not believe in my biological womanhood. If I had easily-crushed-by-insensitive-remarks-that-make-me-wish-I-had-bigger-boobs-then-there’s-no-way-you-would-ever-be-able-to-say-that-about-me  feelings, I might be hurt by one, or a combination, of these libelous wisecracks she likes to make about my person:

you were born a woman because they were out of penis in the sky when you were being made.

seriously, you’re a man.

how do you expect to find a husband with these nasty nails?

why do you insist on wearing man shoes?

In my defense, I make my nails pretty for special occasions. And I’ve gotten compliments on my boots – the super awesome boots to which she refers as “man shoes” – from both boys and girls.

My mother doesn’t so much question my femininity as she does my manners, I suppose; she says I eat like a famished beast and often reassures me that there’s more food available, and insists I “calm down.”

Again, in my defense, my manners are most gracious and cultured when they need to be – but when I’m starving and hung over on Sunday afternoon, having had a last meal 20 hours prior, I might eat a little fast. Of everything, all together. ‘Cause that’s how I like it.

So my sister and mother have no faith in my man-snatching abilities. Maybe I should show them a copy of the sex tape I did when I was 19 (just kidding, I don’t have a sex tape. Or do I? If I did, how much would you pay to download it?). I say they’re wrong. The modern woman doesn’t always have to have painted nails to be feminine. She doesn’t have to wear high heels to work – it is in fact, perfectly fine for her to wear her man shoes while maintaining her girlishness. She may enjoy coloring her language with profanity (for emphasis), but it DOES NOT mean that she’s a boy, or is like one, or wants the blue sweater instead of the pink one (mmm…), or will end up alone with her dogs.

Because if I do end up alone with my dogs, it’ll be because no man was interesting enough to take my attention away from Tori clapping for a treat.

[I know that the more I stay home blogging and/or refusing to make eye contact with boys at the gym, the smaller my chances are of scoring a good one before they all vanish into the suburbs, buried by a mortgage and 2.5 children, leaving me with this or this – I don’t believe there will be much in between. But by then, my friend Masha and I will have made millions from the Female Private Touch Pillowtm and Vajuice blendtm, so it won’t matter because I’ll be travelling the world with as many hotties in tow as I can possibly desire. And a poet. Who sounds like Chris Cornell doing an acoustic version of “All Night Thing” every time he reads to me and feeds me chocolate covered strawberries.]

But honestly… I’m not worried about “ending up alone,” nor do I subscribe to the “all men are scum” silliness. Some boys are assholes just as some girls are bitches. And just as there is Female Awesome, there is also Male Awesome. And until I find the latter, I’ll be single… in Miami… with my friends… in two weeks. And I can’t wait.

I’ve been told my clock is ticking, but…

15 Sep

I am a “single gal” in my mid-20s, so from time to time I poke my head into the dating world. I’m pretty sure I was better at this game a few years back; I had less experience and more eagerness to connect with someone. Some might call me jaded, but I prefer to think that the more comfortable I become with myself, the less energy I have to impress someone else. If that comes across as less attractive than the next girl, so be it.  Nevertheless,  I’m not better than anyone else, and as much as I rejoice in the ‘freedoms’ of single-dom, there is no denying that we thrive with companionship.  There’s also no denying the psychological and physical benefits of frequent sex, so for my own well being, I’ve got my baited fishing rod in these seemingly still waters.

As the gorgeous and eloquent Jennifer Aniston recently put it, “dating sucks.”  The majority of people I know would agree; especially the married ones. “I’m soooo happy to have found my husband. I can’t believe how many losers I had to date before we met.”  I’m never quite sure how to respond to that, so I opt for the half smile and change of subject.  The truth is, I really, really dislike dating. I psyche myself out before I even get there. I’m a chronic over-analyzer, and there is no worse position in which to put myself than on a date.  I’ve prayed to have him call and cancel, I’ve wiggled myself out of dates last minute way too many times, and I’ve even stood up a couple of really nice guys.  I have no issues spending time with men; I have a lot of guy friends and I’m pretty good at making new ones wherever I go. But the minute I know someone might be romantically interested in me and I’m asked out to dinner, I want to run and hide just as much as I might want to spend time with him.

Dating is a moment you set aside to judge and be judged; I cannot help but feel this way. I am being judged on my appearance, my mannerisms, my humor (or lack thereof), my choices, my manner of speech… I’m supposed to analyze his and my body language, laugh only at appropriate times,  keep certain opinions to myself, and anticipate how awkward things might get if I do decide to go in for a nightcap. And what I struggle with the most; do I let him pay or not? I once went on a lunch date with a bar manager I’d met while completely inebriated two nights earlier.  Ten minutes into it, I couldn’t wait to get back to work. I insisted I pay for lunch and he was incredibly offended. With another guy, I wasn’t really sure how I felt about him after our first date, but I let him pay for dinner anyway. At the end of the night, in the car, he closed his eyes and puckered his lips my way… I turned my head really fast, he landed a wet one on my cheek and I said “Good night!” while staring at the ground. The look of disappointment on his face was so obvious, I once again, wanted to run and hide. In conclusion, if I don’t let him pay, he’s offended. If I let him pay, he thinks I’m interested and when I’m not, he’s offended.  I can’t ever win.

I can’t ever win because I’m analyzing every second as much as I think he’s judging my every move.  That’s why boyfriends are few and far between and why I find amazing comfort in making new friends.  There are no expectations; I can say the stupidest things that I eventually will say, I can walk into walls and trip and fall, and I’m happy to laugh at myself with you. But I can’t do any of that in high heels and I have to remember to not mention the apathy I have for the Red Sox and the Patriots, because I really would’ve preferred to have stayed at home than chew my food through the awk-ward-ness.

My scene is hanging out with my friends, meeting new people in a relaxed environment and being completely honest from the get-go. When I’m not wearing a push-up bra, when my makeup hasn’t transformed me into a different girl, and when I don’t have to list my hobbies in bullet point format.  I recently met a guy at a show, and before I even remembered to ask his name, we had already discussed our favorite authors and our love for writing. He was holding my hand before I knew his age. I still don’t know what he does for a living; I don’t care. My biggest issue with dating is all of the packaging and marketing you have to do of yourself before any connection is made.  I prefer to look into someone’s eyes until it gets uncomfortable and listen to him laugh, before I find out if he has a car. At the end of the day, you have no idea how long any relationship will last. I have fallen in and out of love and hope to do it again at least a few more times.  If I worry more about hyping up my career and my plans for the future than how he reacts to my unfunny, badly told jokes, then I won’t have shared myself with him and I’ll probably lose a bit of myself in the process.