Adventures with Superman and Little Wing

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Screw JDate, Ride a Bike

Oy vey.

In theory, many things sound great. Like communism, or having a job. Another one is public transportation, although I guess it’s not so much the description of it that sounds appealing so much as it is the mere idea that seems promising. It actually sounds pretty damn dreadful if you spell it all out: riding a train car or bus that “runs” on a “schedule” so loosely that you can never plan a trip accurately. It's essentially dirty cattle cars that thousands of other people take every hour and proceed to touch, puke, and sleep on. You're travel distances in a rectangular-shaped confined space with 65+ other strangers who may be insane, loud, or smelly. If you choose/are lucky to find an open seat, it's usually still warm from its previous occupant who may have very well been farting on it for the past twenty minutes. It’s funny, everyone has weird little idiosyncrasies, and as a person who worked in the service industry I can be the first to tell you how absolutely retarded and unfounded they all seem. But as much as I say that, I have my own little things that annoy the hell out of me, and for some reason mass transit brings them right to the surface. Like those assholes who insist on using the subway car and/or bus to have completely unimportant cellphone conversations at the top of their voice. Or, feel that it is the perfect time and place to go through all of their ringtones at top volume to find the one they like. Or sit five seats apart from their friends when there are empty seats in between them and having a conversation in overly loud voices anyway. Or blast the music on their iPod so loudly you can hear it from 10 feet away and OVER your own headphones. I can go on like that for DAYS. But other than that it doesn’t take much to annoy me when I’m using public taking mass transit. However, once I started biking my commute to work every day instead of riding the crowded stank-hole that is the NYC trains and buses, it didn’t take long for me to realize how horrible mass transit was and how wonderful being a “road warrior” is. Granted, drivers and pedestrians are just as frustrating and stress-inducing, if not more so, but that aside, I became a total bike whore. I loved it: the hour-long ride to and from work, the weaving in and out of traffic, the butt maintenance. And of course, not having to wait for passengers/train doors opening and closing, unnecessary stops, track work / trains not running, and being able to just go, go, go. As a very independent person who loves to do my own thing, I quickly fell in love with my newfound bike commute relationship so much that even my mom's voiced concerns in typical Jewish motha-fashion that it was dangerous couldn't pull me apart from my beloved two-wheeler. My first month pedaling on the Brooklyn streets passed smoothly, and I looked forward to what was the healthiest and happiest new coupling I had been in since, well, not any boyfriend but probably not since my first vibrator (I may have cried a little when it gave its final buzz.)

However, no matter how swimmingly this honeymoon stage was going, it was only a matter of time before it faded and reality set in. I was (and am) a good biker: I always ride with traffic, stay to the right or in the bike lanes, have lights on my bike, and never, ever wear headphones to obstruct my hearing. I made sure once it was clear this was going to be a permanent lifestyle change to look up all the laws I would need to follow, and rights that I have as a biker. Unfortunately, no matter how well I may have adhered to the rules of the road, or watched out for me and others, it was almost inevitable that I would get into some sort of accident. Because no mat ter how much effort I put in to do my best to be a team player on the streets, I shared those streets with drivers. And I may have been nice while describing them in the previous paragraph but let me be blunt: they all SUCK. I mean, it’s beyond belief sometimes how absolutely retarded and inconsiderate they are. In fact, my experiences have led me to update my “five deal-breakers” list when it comes to men to include anyone who drives, leases, or owns a Lexus: it’s a wrap. Lexus drivers are by FAR consistently the hands-down worst people behind the wheel you will find anywhere. If there is traffic, or congestion, or a pile-up, I can practically guarantee that a Lexus will be at the source of the problem. But aside from me finally understanding the phrase “all the crazies were out driving today”, and the reason behind bikers being such fucking assholes (which as a pedestrian I had experienced many times but never understood what could be stressing them out so much), statistically alone I was bound for trouble. I biked anywhere from two to sometimes three hours daily, easily four to five days per week. Add up the road time and throw in some morons behind wheels, and, well, you've got a recipe for disaster. The kitchen timer finally dinged for me on a warm afternoon in October as I was biking up Coney Island Avenue on my way home from work.

As I biked down the nearly empty, four-lane avenue (the light at the intersection I had just crossed turned red, so no cars were behind me) I was thinking about grocery shopping I had to do after I got home when- WHAM!! The driver's-side door of a parked car on my right opened up without warning and hit me, mid-pass. It slammed into my outer calf and part of my bike, and I flew off onto my back into open traffic. Luckily, even though the light from the intersection I passed had since turned green, the cars behind me were a good enough distance away to slow down in time. Almost with a survival instinct, I bounced back up immediately, dragging my bike and myself to the curb. I instantly burst into tears, barely able to breathe or register what had just happened and buried my face in my hands. The driver who had hit me with his car door (called getting “doored”) had come over to me and was now holding my shoulders, asking if I was all right. Shaking from head to toe, the shock had made it almost as if I had gone slightly deaf and couldn't really hear even his pressing inquiries clearly. As the haze that had come over all my senses began to wear off, I heard him talking to some pedestrians who had come over to see if I was okay, too. My face still in my hands, I managed a weak nod of the head as sort of a general acknowledgment and assertion to whoever was there that I was O.K. I heard the driver tell them, "Yeah, I think she's just in shock." As I regained a normal breathing pattern and heart rate, I pulled my hands away from my face and attempted to shakily wipe away my tears from my eyes and cheeks. All I wanted in the world at this point was to head back home (I was literally 3 blocks away from my apartment) but before I could do more than breathe, the driver quickly intercepted my mental desires. He was still standing right in front of me, and now that I had my face uncovered I saw by the lack of space between his feet and mine that he was actually really, really close to me, with his hand still on my shoulder. Reluctantly, and sort of confused as to why he was standing practically on top of me, I looked up and got the full picture. I won't lie, I was partially reluctant because I know I must have been lookin' a hot mess with mascara and sweat everywhere, and I found myself thinking for a fleeting moment oh man, what if he's cute?! But then I remembered that my best relationship for the past month had been with a bike, not a man, so my odds were probably not the best in the potential romance department. Sure enough, when I looked up at the bike assaulter, my eyes rested upon a middle-aged, pot-bellied Orthodox Jew whose clothes were more of a mess than mine but who clearly did not feel the same sinking disappointment that was hitting my stomach. He exclaimed, "My God, wow, you're absolutely beautiful!!" Jesus buddy, really? That's the first thing you say? Since his looks were not the most sobering, I was still sort of in a daze, though luckily this barely-able-to-see was due to a near-death experience and not because I lost a contact lens in the accident. That may not make the most sense; I mean, when would it ever be better to almost die rather than lose a contact, right? But allow me to explain my logic here. If I had lost my contact lenses, than I wouldn't have had to see him since I am practically legally blind without them. That could have been terrible in the long run since his voice was the sexy voice of a good-looking man. I may have been drawn to that alone and even given him my number. But apparently there is a god up there who doesn’t want to fuck with me too much, because I came out of this accident with both lenses in, both eyes were working, and it was the gift of sight that kept any potential madness at bay. Well, should have. What followed next could only qualify as madness of the highest power. As if his opening line that I was gorgeous, not his insurance information, was bad enough, then he insisted on driving me home, refusing my refusal and hastily ushering me into the passenger seat of his car. Despite being heavily reluctant and assuring him I was okay to make it on my own, I was still too out of sorts and weak to put up the good fight and as if out of a bad dream, found myself succumbing and taking a seat. My attacker, on the other hand, jogged around the car with giddy excitement to put my bike in his trunk. He got into the driver seat with a huge grin while I sat there, slumping into my own seat in a state of utter confusion at why this was happening and how I had let it. He took some time before he turned the car on, to discuss all the issues that needed addressing, such as my looks, and did I want any wine? What. The. Fuck. Next thing I know, he is getting out of the car, running to the liquor store across the street while I remain inside his 90’s dirty Toyota Corolla, dying a little more on the inside as the minutes ticked by. Then he returned, with this bottle of wine that was, I don’t know, a present or something, finally turning the car on and started driving. He couldn't seem to get over meeting me, a.k.a. mortally wounding me via car door. He kept looking at me and talking excitedly, asking me where I was from and what I do for a living, and repeatedly raving about my beauty. I guess the bottle of wine wasn’t just for me, because he was like, “Let’s go back to your place and crack it open!” When I didn’t answer that with a resounding “Huzzah!” he tried something else, like saying we should go out somewhere, a restaurant to have something to eat, or a bar to have a drink. NOW. Not, "Oh hey, let's get together sometime after you've cleaned the blood off your hands and knee", but right then, this minute, to go drive somewhere and HANG OUT. He seemed a little less enthused about the restaurant idea he had thrown out there, confessing he wasn’t much of an eater but definitely a drinker. This led to him telling me he runs a booze business and I should come and work for him. It was all getting to be too much for a girl to handle. And I don’t mean in a touching, heartfelt way, but in more of an “Okay, so I'm about to vomit and you're a fucking creep” kinda way. So I told him I had (fake) plans and therefore couldn’t hang out, and to drop me off at the train station because there was no way in hell I was about to show him where I lived. He kept calling me a “miracle” and, "wouldn't it be funny if we wound up actually turning into something? Like we don't know each other at all, but maybe this is fate and if we start seeing each other it could maybe really go somewhere!" Right. Because that's clearly what the miracle here was, that we're soul mates and not the fact that I survived a bike accident with almost nothing more than an elbow scratch.

Sadly, it would've been an amazing story for the grandkids if it had actually gone the soul mate route. But all I could think was: this might be really romantic if he didn't happen to look like an Israeli George Costanza.

Series of Shorts: Dick Rant

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Series of Shorts: A Most Humbling Moment

During my junior year of college, some friends and I decided to grab dinner at the Cheesecake Factory, on the ground floor of the Westchester Mall. I wanted to get cash before we got our table, so I excused myself and took the elevator to the fourth floor where the only ATM was. On the elevator ride back down, I was alone, and it stopped on the third floor. As the doors opened, I looked up and saw the most unbelievably gorgeous man I had ever seen in real life get into the elevator. Thick, dark, wavy hair that was styled a little long in that European way, green eyes, chiseled jaw, tall lean yet muscular body, wearing a suit and open trench. I swear there must have been a little man walking in front of him with a fan to create a breeze that delicately blew his hair, and lighting staff to illuminate him from behind. Or perhaps that was just the clouds parting and the heavens shining down on him; come to think of it, I think I heard a choir of angels singing. Our eyes met for a moment (although that stupified, open-jawed look probably isn't the best look for me.) As the doors closed and the elevator continued its descent, my heart was beating about a mile a minute, hoping that I didn't do anything stupid, like fart or burp or swallow too loudly. (Although maybe that last one would form ideas in his head to put odds in my favor…) Then, amazingly, he turned me and said, "Excuse me?" To ME! Trying to sound calm while adding some throatiness to my voice I turned to him to reply, "Yes?" He said, "I'm sorry, but you're blocking the directory and I need to see what floor Morton's Steakhouse is on." "Oh, I’m sorry!" I said, and moved out of the way. Thanks, God, thanks a lot.

Bad Sex-1, Elena-0

Sex with Ben was like if I, a petite white chick, were to enter the ring with a prizefighter, or the court against a 7'3" basketball player. Except Ben was a champion of no physical mastery, unless you mean being an expert on how to be a failure in the sack. Like Alexander's infamous Day, my time spent between Ben's (dirty/none-existent) bedsheets was a never-ending path of terrible, awful, no-good, very bad sex that got worse at every turn. As a general rule, I refuse to entertain the idea of a bad time in the boudoir- I will have great sex because I love men and getting' down and dirty with them. Ben, however, came out the winner of our night; even my most valiant efforts of pulling my troops together could never be enough to challenge his heinously heroic attempts to hump me into submission. There was no redeeming what happened that night, and there's a reason it only happened once. But aside from winning the battle, Ben also won the war: my gag reflex is now permanently activated every time the unfortunate re-play of that night pops into my mind.

I first met Ben while doing an opera with a small regional group in the Northeast. He was hired as a director, the company having made some staffing changes. On the night of our first read-through of the script, I was the first singer to arrive. The director was busy making calls which left Ben and myself alone in the room, giving us the chance to talk a bit but also for me to get a feel for Ben before everyone else arrived. Ever since childhood, I have had an instinct that is on-point. Most of the time this gift is wasted on me, since I tend to ignore it and act a fool, but nevertheless I am always right when it comes to reading people. With Ben, my instinct kicked in right away- I could immediately sense that he was interested in me. Maybe it was the way his face lit up when I walked in the room, or his bumbling like a clumsy professor throughout the reading, or his constant dropping and shuffling of his loose script pages, or the way he was checking out my ass. Despite his apparent attraction to me, unlike other situations where this is enough to make me at least think to reciprocate the feelings, I can't say that it happened this time. He was short, on the lean side, with apologetic posture and eyes that turned down at the corners with dark circles and bags underneath- i.e., not attractive. But despite looking like the love child of Woody Allen and Ray Romano, I of course eventually slept with him anyway. I am a girl who isn't too particular about looks on the whole; I thrive instead on a guy who can provide great conversation, intellect, and has a big penis. Ben proved, as we both took the same train home, that he had at least the first two of those things. The commute after each rehearsal resulted in a lot of time spent together getting to know each other, and quickly became quite flirtatious as he was not shy about telling me he liked me. So while the physical attraction may not have been instant on my end, the more we hung out, the more the feelings grew, however reluctant I was to let this happen. I mean, let's be honest here: physically this boy was enough of a hot mess to turn me off, and trust me, that takes a lot.

However, over the next month or so I couldn't help myself; the more we talked, the more I wound up feeling incredibly, insanely and irrationally sexually attracted to him. So much so that I started getting what I call a female version of a boner- you know, when even looking at the guy makes your vag "erect" (read: aching with arduous desire. It's actually almost painful.) When I like someone, I can't keep my feelings to myself, regardless of the outcome. It's just becomes an overwhelming need to tell them. Certainly with Ben there was no fear of rejection since he told me all the time how much he liked me, I just wasn't sure about getting involved with a colleague (god knows I've tried it often enough, with disastrous results), or even if I really wanted to get involved with him at all. But never being one to concern myself too much with consequences, I made my maybe somewhat careless decision. When I revealed my ever-burgeoning feelings were too much to contain any longer, he asked me out on an official date and we met up one night in Brooklyn to hit up some bars.

The second bar we were at was some little sports bar/pub type place in a Brooklyn neighborhood, Park Slope, that he mentioned he used to hang out at a lot when he lived in the area. Park Slope is like the poor man's Manhattan- all the people that live there can't afford city rent prices, but still think they are better than everyone else in the Brooklyn borough. So I assumed to live around there meant he made a decent living, but then he told me he had since moved in with his dad to a different neighborhood of Brooklyn, as Ben was currently getting his opera company off the ground and needed to cut his personal spending to put every cent into his project. I found it a little odd that a 37-year old was living with his dad, but who was I to judge? I was 23 and still living at home myself, getting acclimated to life after to college and figuring my shit out. He was doing something amazing- starting an opera company from the ground up. So I ignored what for many women would have been the first red flag, and we continued talking. I wasn't sure where the night was going to end up to be honest. Oh who am I kidding; we all know.

We were sitting on a couple of barstools against a wall, facing each other and chatting. The bar wasn't what I would call conducive to romance- fluorescent lights should be reserved for stadiums and prisons. Even though Park Slope is on the whole a fairly upscale neighborhood, this bar was way more lowbrow. This normally would make me feel self-conscious and wonder about how crappy I must be looking in lighting that could make Angelina Jolie look tired, but I didn't mind because I was feeling so strongly towards Ben that even these little otherwise mood-dampening surroundings didn't phase me. In fact, we talked at great length about how we were both into each other, and finally he leaned in to kiss me, right between the scratched up pool-table and ESPN halftime report.

It was all happening like I had fantasized- except for the actual kissing part. He had leaned in and gently taken my face in his hands, but then he landed. His breath was ehhhh and his lips were oddly soft; there was absolutely no pressure behind them at all. I imagine it's what kissing a dead person is like (except he was alive.) Luckily it didn't go on for too long, because like a guy without a condom I was ready to pull out. Except I was ready to vomit, not come. Anyway, we went back to talking for a bit longer, and then he excused himself to use the bathroom. I figured he had to break the seal but he was gone for 20 minutes. As I sat there, waiting, I tried not to make any assumptions, like that either this boy was dropping the kids off at the pool or jerking off; either way, not good. When he came out of the bathroom, I had to refrain myself for making a poop joke or two, pretend like almost half an hour hadn't passed, and when he asked if I wanted to go back to his place I ignored red flag number two and agreed. We finished our drinks and headed to the train station.

On our walk to the train, he kept pulling me towards him to make out. I was drunk-ish, sure, and that usually carries me through situations like these where the guy is the worst kisser ever. But even now, with my inebriated lips and my attraction to his personality, it just wasn't enough to silence my doubts (and the "throw up feeling" was in full effect. It's a term I named in college- you know, when you're with someone of the opposite sex and for whatever reason, whether you are hanging out with them or just thinking about them, you feel the overwhelming urge to throw up.) My sensible brain was screaming at me to go home, go home NOW, if he's a bad kisser how can he be good at anything else, we've been through this before and have you learned nothing?? But do I ever listen to that brain? Lucky for you, dear reader, I don't. So I suffered with the PDA, and with sitting on his lap on the subway (where I pretended my position made it too difficult to continue kissing him), and hoped that maybe things would get better once we got down to the business...serious sex doesn't leave much room for lip action. Right?

He had warned me on the train that his place was a mess but I didn't think too much of it; I mean, everyone says that to excuse the fact that their room may not be to the other person's standards. I figured, what, it's not vacuumed, bed unmade, clothes on the floor- who really cares??? But I was completely stunned when I walked through the doorway. Just...wow. He had told me the place was being renovated, and the boy was not kidding around. It didn't hit you right away though; first you had to walk past the kitchen and down a short hallway, which both looked relatively normal, maybe a bit dingy but this building wasn't exactly a Manhattan high-rise condo. But then... we got to the what I assume in a normal life was once a living room area. It was now being used as some form of a bedroom. What a nightmare. There was chipped and peeling paint coming off the walls, windows on one wall with dirty, ragged curtains, garbage bags filled and overflowing with clothes all around the corners of the room, loose piles of laundry stacked 2 feet high all around the bed which was in the center of the room, strewn papers everywhere. The bed itself was a bare mattress on a bed frame, covered with a crumpled-up sheet and some dirty pillows. There was no furniture, except a dresser and table with a laptop right by the head of the bed. And I genuinely feared for my life when I realized I had to pee, because I didn't know what was waiting in the bathroom. Imagine a beautiful, pristine, tile-lined bathroom with white marble sink and toilet, fresh flowers perfuming the air, and a gorgeous gold-gilded mirror. Now take that image and move it to a deep south bumblefuck town gas station that had been burned down, peeled away, and pissed on by a troupe of homeless men with syphilis. That was the bathroom. Everything just looked, for lack of a better word, grimey...never before had I squatted above a toilet in a private home before to keep my ass cheeks off the seat.

Fast forward about 10 minutes- as I tried to find some spot to park myself in the "living room" that didn't look like it would give me a disease, he found clean sheets to cover the bed, lit some candles, and put on some opera to listen to. We spent the next fifteen minutes or so just lying down while he showed me some stuff on his computer for his opera company and checked some emails. Finally, before I inhaled too much asbestos, he made a move (thank god, because my buzz was fading FAST.)

I had fantasized a great deal as to what the sex was going to be like, and again like the kiss at the bar, he started off exactly what I had pictured in my head, but then crashed and burned, horribly. I pictured it like... I'd be lying on the bed face-down, my hands resting underneath my head, and he'd crawl slowly up my body, kissing my back and then my neck, turn me over gently... so on and so forth. But no. He couldn't even get that freaking part right. I was lying down, on my stomach, just like I had pictured. He started off perfectly- at my feet, crawling up my body, but then he launched into doing things that seemed more awkward then arousing. It was like a love scene straight out of a parody movie or an early Steve Martin flick where the girl is literally getting thrown around and the guy is just being ridiculous. I almost wished someone had filmed it because maybe at least someone could have had a laugh; I definitely did not find it funny at the time. Not even now either, really. I'm sure his attempts at love-making were meant to be aggressive and powerful, but his idea of this was to switch back and forth into positions at an uncomfortable speed, press against me way too hard, bend his body oddly so his back was curved in and his stomach was sticking way out like a crescent moon, kiss me constantly in that zero-pressure-lips style; pretty soon my face and neck were covered in his nasty smelling spit. I felt like I couldn't even catch my breath- not that could if I wanted to, I'd just be inhaling the horrible fumes of his halitosis-infused saliva. It was almost a relief to move into the 69 position but that's when things got REALLY bad.

As he went to work with much enthusiasm (but little skill) on me, I made my way down to do the same, at a much slower pace since I was feeling a bit shell-shocked. Generally I'm not a huge fan of 69 on the first date, except for that one time when it was amazing; it's an incredibly intimate position that needs a certain comfort level (or blood alcohol level) to enjoy. But nevertheless, I decided to battle on in this never-ending romp that felt like an asthma attack during a sprint race. As I was bracing myself and about to begin, I noticed something that almost made me throw-up for real: the answer to why he was in the bathroom for 20 minutes. TOILET PAPER IN HIS ASS CRACK. I was lucky that Ben kept switching positions every five seconds- I didn't have to go any nearer to the danger zone than his torso before he flipped me over again.

BUT HOLD ON, TIME OUT, SERIOUSLY- You're bringing a girl back to your place. If you have to shit, you have to shit. Fine, whatever, it's understandable. I'm thrilled that you have regular bowel movements. But at least have the freaking decency to clean out your butthole! Especially if you're expecting someone to practically have their nose all up on your taint!!!! Good god. I thought, as a species, we were all past this as a pre-requisite for hooking up.

Sadly, because he was such a massive failure in every other aspect, this boy was blessed with equipment that I wish I could have molded and kept for my own use. Or at least measured, to use as a standard before heading to bed with any future hook-ups. You know, so I could make Random Guy X whip it out to see if his penis would be worth any of my time. God-dayum! What a colossal waste of a beautiful penis on such an unfortunate man. Ben's dick really was a gift of God. Something to be bowed down to, worshipped, and adored. I'd buy it presents, I'd buy it dinner, I'd be it's goddamn sugarmama to keep it around. It was unbelievable, really; no matter the position, his dick was the perfect size to hit my spot every-single-time. Unfortunately, it was attached to Ben. Not just his dirty, dirty butthole but his arrhythmic hips, stinky spit and skinny arms. As a lover, he was not in tune to me at ALL and despite my valiant efforts to follow and adapt to his style, he was just sloppy and floppy and ugh, AWFUL.

Finally, it was over. He wanted to cuddle and oh god. I tried to turn over so he would spoon me, because his breath was so god-awful, but he got incredibly offended and made me face him, which I gave in to because I didn't want the poor boy to start crying. So now on top of everything else, I was stuck here, being held in his sweaty arms in a smelly room; he was a bad sweater, too, the kind that gets all cold and clammy. Finally, after waiting a decent grace period, I said I should be getting home. He offered to pay for my cab, and when he handed me about a pound of quarters, I declined his gesture and said I would just pay for it myself. Needless to say, I did not ever sleep with him again- even though he tried several times.

As much as I consider myself to be a worthy opponent in the bedroom, Ben had me beat. There are just certain levels of awfulness that are impossible to defeat.

Squats are a Girl's Best Friend

Both during college and for the two years after I graduated, I put in some time working at a midtown construction company. I wound up quitting for a variety of reasons, including ridiculous invasions of my personal life and a band of women with a vendetta against me. But through pain comes payoff, since I walked away with a handful of amazing stories. Which is always a plus, but even more so when they are about the very same things that led you to quit. I managed to find a new job, working as an office manager for a marketing firm, also in midtown. My job title may have been office manager, but the only thing I had to manage was my mental health thanks to my boss. Or better know to mankind as Satan Incarnated, founder and CEO. I didn't so much as “work” there, as I was more of a “slave” to my boss, who practically got off on making people cry. I know, I know, we all have horror stories from our places of employ, but that’s not what this story is about. This is about the actual single funny moment that I had happened to experience in the short two months I lasted there before I was fired. So, this marketing firm / my new hell, was the polar opposite from the construction company in terms of size; I went from working at a 500+ employee, six-billion-dollar a year corporation to a 12-person, 3-year old private business. So naturally, along with the supplies budget, the office size was correspondingly smaller. Most relevant to know for this story was that my new job locale was snuggled into a single, 5-room suite in a floor with other firms, and all the suites shared a community bathroom. The bathrooms were located all the way on the opposite end of the hallway, past the elevators and other suites. I actually didn’t mind it as much as I thought I would. It at least gave me the chance to escape the never-blinking Sauron-type eye of boss that seemed to stretch even into the elevators when I was heading home.

I was walking back through the empty hallway one day, back from the bathroom. It happened to me one of my better-looking days (rare as they are in the humid summer months.) I was looking all cute in my short flowing summer dress and hot heels. So, obviously, I switched into Fierce Mode, complete with club music thumping in my head and me sashaying like all the world was my catwalk. Then, as if from an echo-y distance, I head the men’s bathroom door open and shut from behind me, causing the DJ’s record to come to a scratching halt. I quickly came crashing back down into my fluorescent-lit reality, and without turning around I reverted to walking like a normal person back to my office. It wasn’t until I sat down and felt the cool leather of my desk chair hit my bare ass that I realized my dress had been tucked very neatly into my thong underwear.

Honestly, this didn’t immediately strike me as that big of a deal. In fact my initial reaction was laughter. Like my friends always say, this sort of thing always happens to me, so I’m used to it and wasn’t even terribly surprised by this latest event. But then it dawned on me: this wasn’t some private moment of hilarity. The replay of my walk back to the office started up in my mind and I remembered the men’s bathroom door. Oh crap. Some guy had just gotten a free show and I had no idea who it was, or which office he blonged to, or if he even worked in an office in the building at all. He could’ve been a janitor, a delivery guy, a caterer, who the hell knows. For the next two days, I became a walking tomato with legs. No matter where I was- the lobby, elevator, my floor- I would turn bright red and avert my eyes at the sight of every guy I saw.

Later that same week, however, I was walking down the hall, once again, to use the bathroom. When I opened my office door I saw a bunch of the law guys standing around outside their office, which was next door to ours. The only reason I could’ve been happy to see them, and not feel my stomach lurch upon discovering their presence, was the “Hot Guy” who worked there. I would occasionally catch glimpses of him, like a unicorn or other beautiful mythical beast, entering/leaving the office. I found myself praying we would serendipitously find ourselves sharing an elevator ride one day. But alas, this was not that day, as he was nowhere to be found. All to be seen blocking my pathway to the ladies room was this sad bunch of nerdy-looking miscreants standing around talking, and who knows, playing hackey-sack. I was still feeling incredibly awkward and self-concious, even minus-Hot Guy, because in the back of my mind all I was thinking about was the thong/ass-showing incident (I had never figured out who was walking behind me.) Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I tried to walk past them as quickly as possible without being noticed, even going so far as to practically suck my stomach in as I inched my way around their sewing circle. My attempts proved futile as this clearly didn’t make me invisible, especially when one of the guys stopped me. He said, “Hi! Listen, I know I look like shit; I haven’t slept in 36 hours. But you! You are gorgeous, I mean… wow!” I felt ill. I don’t dislike getting compliments but why do they always have to come from guys like this? He was like Fred Flinstone in a suit, with blonde hair and blue eyes. His huge lantern-jaw was only more obvious thanks to his odd way of talking like he had marbles and too much spit in his mouth.

Since that time of my life, I’ve become a hostess at a nightclub and have learned to deal with these sorts of situations. Namely, the incredibly unattractive men who seem to think I will not only interested but a proud recipient of their lines and other assorted hit-on attempts. I’ve grown up a bit too, so when I find myself in these painfully awkward and potentially horrendous moments I don’t freak out about turning them down, or being truthful and upfront. For instance, two years ago I may have even given him my number just to get out of there but then never answer his calls. Had I met him today it would have ended very differently. I would’ve agreed with him that yes, you look like a hot mess and I would never give you my number in a million years. Because let’s be honest here; I would never want to ride what you’ve got and I have zero curiosity in finding out what magic that giant jaw could work on my lady parts.

Sadly, back then I was not able to voice these thoughts which unfortunately stayed within the confines of my brain. So instead of being rude (honest?) to him to get him to leave me alone, I said, “Well, thanks, excuse me though…” I tried to continue down the hallway as if I was in a rush, but he stopped me again and wouldn’t stop talking to me so I patiently made small talk and pretended to be fascinated by what he had to say. My interest, already at zero, was rapidly hitting the negative quadruple digits but then I came rushing to the surface when I heard him utter, “I saw you a couple of days ago,” (oh noooo) “Right here in this hallway actually; but you were walking ahead of me and I didn’t get a chance to say anything. You were wearing a great blue dress though.” Oh mother of god. Why? Just… why, of all the men on this earth, was he the one to see me? To see my ass? Why him, and not The Hot Guy? Is it my fate to have these types of men, with comb-overs in their 30's, see me at my best while hot guys always seem to see me at my worst? It’s times like these that make me convinced I am destined to wind up with a man I don’t really want to be with, a man like this, named Dwayne and from goddamn New Jersey. Dwayne? Really? Are we in 1993 Oklahoma? If we went out on a date, you’d probably show up in acid wash Jordache jeans and sneakers that strap shut with velcro.

My only consolation here was that the mystery as to who had seen my bare booty was finally solved, however unhappy the result that closed the case was. He even got to shake my hand. Although I never did let him take me out, at least I felt good about knowing that my bare ass, even under fluorescent lighting, is considered gorgeous.

Why There Aren't Porn Site Categories Dedicated to College Boys, I: Slob & Knob

Impulsive I am; it’s quite, quite true. In fact, I don’t know if anything else in this world is truer than that single-word self-description. I've often wondered, is this impulsiveness the culprit responsible for getting me into more trouble than anything else? That has so many times left me asking myself, often on the train home, or two minutes later in the bedroom, “What is wrong with me?” or “How did I wind up here, again?” or simply, “Why?” I've had to come to terms with the fact that, yes. I am an impulsive fool that acts in the moment, despite being blessed with instinct strong enough to counteract this foolhardiness. So pretty much, me on my own can, and does, lead to tragic ends and things that are the opposite of deserving bragging rights. But combine me, with boys, a little alcohol, and bam. We have hit the trifecta, better known as Elena's Theory of Shame. A memorable test of this hypothesis was an impromptu threesome. In fact, it was my first threesome, and it occurred the summer I graduated college, with two male college juniors. None of us went to the same college, but the two of them had gone to high school together, and I grew up with one of them. Clearly, our destinies had aligned, so that on the night of this story the three of us, joined by alcohol, a touch of mary J, and heat-seeking genitalia, would come together (no pun intended.) Then, well, since it is an Elena story after all, it would all go downhill from there. And I mean all the way down, probably as far down as three kids who just complete a menage could go: to the emergency room. Yes. My first threesome, not only completely unplanned, wound up in the emergency room, at 3:30 a.m. The same summer morning I had to be up at 9 a.m. to leave for my first professional music gig, a summer-long musical festival. So clearly the financial investment of a 4-year college had paid off, since I had matured and grown into a sensible adult who had her priorities straight and was totally capable of being responsible and thinking before she acted. Not.

Let us call these two boys “Slob” and “Knob”, which despite being only slightly obnoxiously obvious, and not that funny of a joke, are actually quite fitting aliases. You see, Slob was, well, a slob during the general kissing/foreplay/intercourse, and sweated a lot. So to avoid face time, lip action, or anything except his thankfully very nice dick inside me, I wound up with Knob, mostly, well, slobbing his knob. Names explained, now moving on. It all started out at a neighboring girl’s house, "Ashmo", who actually grew up next door to me, and both of us down the block from Knob. Her house was the usual meeting place for our block's little crew (“WRC” is what we dubbed ourselves), since it was the most central of all our houses, but more for her fully stocked bar and/or her parents being the most lax of all our moms and dads. So this night it was just the four of us, drinking, hanging in her kitchen and acting silly, taking pictures and toasting my sendoff, since I would be leaving for over two months the very next day. The conversation varied, as always, and at one point drifted towards Slob and Knob mentioning something called, “Penis puppets.” Neither I nor Ashmo had any idea what they were talking about, but whereas Ashmo wasn’t interested in exploring this particular topic, I wanted to know more. Not just because of the stupid and provocative name, but also because I generally have a curious and inquisitive nature. You know, like a scientist. But the boys, instead of revealing the secret behind this oh-so-fascinating alliterated pair of words, acted very mysterious and said they would only tell me later, “if I wanted to have some fun.” Ashmo paid them no mind, ignoring everything that was happening and just continued to pour us all drinks as fast as we finished them. But I, known-sufferer of middle child i.e., "don't leave me out" syndrome, can be persistent with the dumbest of things. This was one of those times. So I continued to ask, and they continued to not tell me. Still wanting to know but realizing they really weren’t going to explain it, I begrudgingly dropped my requests that they explain it, and the conversation moved on.

Eventually, the energy of our little foursome died down and Ashmo, around midnight or so, kicked us out so she could go to sleep. The boys left while I was in the other room getting my shoes on. While Ashmo was walking me to the door, I asked where they'd gone and she said to Knob’s house, to smoke. I wasn’t interested in smoking, but I wasn’t tired yet either. So I went to my house to grab a sweater, and then headed over to Knob’s to hang out for a little longer. They were outside when I was walking down the block, and as I approached them, it was clear from the droopiness and redness of their eyes they had just smoked a shit ton of something good. We hung out a little in front of Knob’s house, and I, figuring they would be in more open of a mindset to explain it now, I brought up the Penis Puppets thing. The boys exchanged glances, and Knob said, “Well, if you’re down to have some fun, we can show you.” I had no idea what he was talking about or why a physical demonstration was necessary but, undeterred, I said, “Sure, let’s go,” I said, and off the three of us went into Knob’s house.

We went into his living room, which was a decent sized, rug-lined room, with two couches along two walls and a couple of armchairs. I sat on the couch in front of the windows, and Knob closed all curtains / doors / possible means of entrance into the room. I was starting to feel a real sense of anticipation here, with all this preparation and things happening, like moving the coffee table out of the way. The boys, stoned off their asses, seemed to be collecting themselves for the big moment where all my questions would be apparently get answered. Next thing I know, they were naked, and folding their dicks into a hamburger shape. I guess it was from some "after dark" TV show, where guys would take their dicks and mold them into different things, like a clown does with balloon animals. How interesting. Although, I guess if I had a penis, and was bored on a random Tuesday, it may have been something I would have tried in the course of my lifetime. Anyway, the show was over and even though I hadn’t signed up to be the headliner, somehow I turned into the main event. I forget how it was initiated. But next thing I know I was stripping my own clothes off and lying on the living room floor rug. The two boys were all over my body, devouring me with their kisses. Sounds almost romantic when it’s written that way, doesn’t it? Sadly, it was not a sweet and tender Danielle Steele book come to life as much as it was a semi-drunken, horny grope-fest. No, that’s not fair of me to say. It wasn’t that bad really, all things considered. Both boys were flying high in the erect department. Slob’s dick felt pretty damn good, and it was comfortable and almost fun. I don’t know if they were as surprised as I was that it was happening, but in the moment, I didn’t really think about any of that. It was happening, and honestly, my biggest concern was how to avoid kissing Slob, who was just awful.

Finally, the real big moment was about to "come", so to speak. Slob was getting pretty close, and for some reason, perhaps maybe my annunciation wasn’t that clear with Knob’s dick in my mouth, he apparently thought I told him to take the condom off. Because while Slob WAS wearing a condom the whole time, he, for some reason, thought I told him to remove it at the fast-apporaching moment that condoms are pretty much made for. Okay, a) in what world could that possibly be dirty talk and b) it makes zero sense. I know sex feels better without a condom, but, coming without a condom? Weed is apparently a hell of a drug, because that conclusion would have no place in a sober, logical brain. Lack of good sense long gone, next thing I know, he comes. When I turn around, or rather, peer back from my still-on-all-fours position, I see the condom on the floor. But he was still inside me. So naturally, I freaked the fuck out. This must have set off the paranoia side-effect of the THC in the boys' systems, because then they started freaking out, too. At 3 a.m. In the living room of Knob’s parent’s house. Who were home. This continued for a good five minutes, all three of us simultaneously shouting and trying to figure out what the hell just happened and what to do. Finally, Knob, the voice of reason, cleared the noise in the air by saying the only thing to do now was get the morning-after pill. Unfortunately, nothing around us was open, and we had no idea where to go. So Knob called his twin sister, one of our crew who was away for the weekend, for her advice. She suggested the hospital (of course, naturally), so within ten minutes we had rallied together, piled into Knob’s car, and driving out to the Brooklyn neighborhood of Park Slope, the closest hospital we knew of.

We rolled into that emergency room (which was completely empty, except for two male cracky homeless types talking to each other in one corner) like your token teen movie good kids who know they did something bad, and whose guilty facial expressions give it away. Granted, in our case, we hadn’t simply been drinking or smoking pot, but had also indulged in a 2-hour long threesome in one of our parent’s houses, not used a condom at the most critical moment, and drove to the ER while still intoxicated. You can see why we’d be a little nervous, although at the time I was definitely more nervous at the prospect of having Slob’s lovechild, than anything else. But unwanted babies aside, there was the whole embarrassing prospect of it being completely obvious as to what the three of us had just done. None of us were too thrilled at the idea of the hospital nurses / doctors giving us smirks or headshakes of all-too-knowing understanding. But, sucking up our pride as hard as I had done to Knob less than an hour before, we made our way up to the reception desk to ask for the pill. There was really no subtle way to do that, nor any way to make it sound classy, so we just laid it out flat. We were told to wait until there was a doctor available to see us. Amazing, an empty emergency room and still told to wait. Hospitals are such a fucking scam.

We sat and waited until the throes and masses of people ahead of us, a.k.a. nobody, were seen by the doctors on duty. Our nerves mounting, we were casually trying to shoot the shit and make light of the situation. Finally, we were called in to go see the doctor. She closed the door behind us, and we briefly explained why we were there. She seemed shocked that pregnancy was our main concern here, asking us, “Well what about disease?! When was the last time any of you got tested for STDs? Have any of you EVER been tested?” The three of us looked at each other, and it was like a scene out of a comedy where we all simultaneously read each other’s minds and lied in unison, “Yeah, we’ve been tested.” Myself, it had been about a year so I wasn’t being entirely untruthful but as for the boys, I could tell by their expressions they were telling a lie, a whole lie, and nothing but a lie (so help them god.) We proceeded to get lectured for about a century about STDs and the importance of getting tested, our lovely caring doctor doing everything to terrify us aside from whipping out a Clockwork Orange-style slideshow, with eye-machines to prevent us from blinking. Fear now indelibly etched into our souls and minds, she wrapped up her quarter of an hour long tirade of terror with the question, “So you wanted the pill? You do know there is a 24-hour pharmacy three blocks away, right?” Speechless and dumbfounded by the past 15 minutes we shared in that little room, and that it could’ve been avoided entirely, the three of us mumbled thanks and got the hell out of that fluorescent lit, windowless dungeon of an examination room. Knob said he’d drive over to the pharmacy, pick up the anti-baby maker, and pick us up outside on the way back.

Slob and I decided to wait outside, it being a nice summer night (er, early morning) and the awkward fest continued. First off, Slob, like a gallant prince decided it was the perfect time to ask me about my sexual history. Apparently the doctor's STD speech had made him positive that he was now positive. He started accusing me of having something, and that he must have caught it. He even stood a few feet away from me, since he seemed disgusted by my presence, and because I guess he still believes that girls have cooties. What a jackass. But before I could punch him in the face, Knob pulled up in his car and revealed yet another thickener of the evening’s plotline: the pharmacy wouldn’t sell him the pill because I had to be there. So the three of us got into his car, drove to the pharmacy, and to make everything even better they wouldn’t sell it to me because I didn’t have ID to prove I was over 18. Not bad, considering I was 22. Naturally I had left my wallet at home, I mean, I didn’t think I would need it at all. So we had to drive all the way back to our block. I had to quietly sneak back into my house, Mission Impossible style so as to not wake anyone up, and grab my ID. Then we had to drive all the way back to the pharmacy where finally, my uterine lining and mind could both be put at ease. Slob refused to let me pay and whipped out his own plastic to foot the pill, which didn’t completely erase my current standpoint that he was an asshole. We drove home, either making jokes or in silence, I can't recall. Once again we pulled up onto the block where Slob's neglect to pull out started all this trouble. We exited the car and left to go to our corresponding homes, to pass out and try to forget about the entire experience.

It was about 5 a.m. by the time the whole affair ended and I crept quietly into my house. I crawled into bed and attempted to get four hours of sleep in before I had to be up at 9 a.m. to leave for my first professional music job. Well, if anything could kill stage fright or nerves that I sometimes suffered from, it was the distraction only that last night in Brooklyn could have provided.