What's Slut Got To Do With It?

Time and time again, people (men mostly) have had some choice words to say about/to me regarding my sex life, or at least my openness about it. So frequently have I been called the very original term of "slut", the slightly more cruel-sounding "whore", and have even had past hookups and boyfriends openly tell me they get tested after being with me, that it has become, very sadly, routine. Some of you might say that I shouldn't be surprised, considering what I choose to write about. And maybe you're right, maybe I should expect that these judgements come with the territory of sleeping with many men and penning the experiences. But it sucks, because I write what I write:

a) to entertain, and

b) to give people a real, true, and brutally honest in-depth look as to what a woman really thinks, what women really do, and how they genuinely feel when it comes to sex and dating.

Many women may not tell you this, but I can fucking promise you, I am not in the minority when it comes to having a casual-sex sex life.

What I've come to realize though, is the minority I AM part of is that of women who have a casual sex life - because they actually enjoy sex. However, even that seems to still boggle peoples brains to an extent that makes me squint my eyes to try and understand their small-mindedness. But, this piece is not about the people are who stupid and annoy me. This piece is about defining what a "slut" ACTUALLY is. Because as much as I may fuck around, and as much as I'm open about it all, "slut" has absolutely nothing, NOTHING, to do with it.


THE BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY

A couple of years ago, when my work started to become more popular and, in effect, I started dealing with more negative reactions, was really when I started to want to define this word people kept calling me, this "slut" nonsense. According to the reactions to me and my blog, any woman who has sex at all, is a slut. Hahahahahahahaha. Sorry, but that was and is still hilarious to me that people are so insane when it comes to a woman being sexually liberated. I went through many phases over the course of the years, reacting differently to these reactions that I and my writing were inciting in others. I would get angry, or I would cry, or I would joke about it and laugh it about it all. Mostly, I would always get angry again. But ultimately, I remained puzzled. I began to try to piece together: what, in fact, IS a slut? Am I really one?

In the early stages of this journey, I thought, oh, a clever piece or Top Ten about "Things Sluts Say" might be funny. I was bored at work one night, and started to write it out. A couple of coworkers even joined in, and we all had a good laugh at the expense of slutty sayings. Because damn, the ludicrous things sluts say are really fucking funny:

1) Oh my god, I never do this
2) I am only doing this because I'm drunk
3) I never sleep with guys on the first date
4) I'm not that kind of girl
5) I only hang out with guys

And so on. (There were a bunch of others, but I couldn't find the original written copy and, after tearing my room apart for 20 minutes, I gave up. These five examples were the gist of it though.)

Well, as hilarious (and accurate) as that list may be, it didn't really help me define the term "slut" itself. That list may be the stupid, false words that come out of a slut's mouth before a dick goes in it, sure. But as to what a slut actually IS, that list...not so much. So, if even I didn't know how to define it, was everyone else in on something that I clearly out of the loop of? How were so many people calling me this word, this word that I was pretty damn sure they couldn't define properly if I had asked them? Was it really that simple? Is a slut just a person who has casual sex, sex maybe without emotions, certainly without love? A person who can fuck on a first date, and has done so, often? A person that has more than 30...40...50 partners in their lifetime? A person who maybe doesn't remember last names of past partners, sometimes not even first names? That seems so...unfair, and come on...be real, that's pretty much almost all of you.


A DIFFERENT JOURNEY THAT TIES IN TO THE FIRST JOURNEY AND SOLVES EVERYTHING

The answer didn't arrive until a couple of years later, during the course of a separate project. As many of you know, that was when I went through the now-infamous "100 Days Without Wang". During that experiment, if you haven't read it, I took a deeper plunge into myself than I ever thought possible. (I will dispense with the potential masturbation and/or dick jokes, because that project made me grow and evolve, DAMN IT.) It helped me to understand my patterns, and relationship, with and to both men and sex. I had to face a lot of harsh truths about my younger self, and my self back during the project. Those realizations helped me to move forward to be able to be ready to fully love and open up towards a man- beyond the shallow surface of sex, jokes, and "honeymoon phase" fun. The kicker was, even with all the things I learned about myself, it was never, ever that I used sex for validation, or because I thought it was what men want, or because I needed acceptance and I thought sex would provide that. Despite all my personal issues, I always had sex because holy shit, I love sex, I love men, and I love combining the two. I could talk for DAYS about it; I mean, clearly. After the project ended and I jumped back on the wagon (fell off the wagon? Eh, jumped on works better, euphemism-wise), it was some time before I felt the need to go back to addressing this "slut" dilemma. I had come to a conclusion over the course of that 100 Days project, but hadn't felt a need to write about it or be vocal about it anymore. Why? Because no one was calling me negative...anythings, anymore. I think, I hope, that through my writing about that sex-free journey, people finally, finally understood "it". I hope that was why they understood me, why they understood what I am attempting to do through my writing. I hope it was now why they better understood women, why they finally fucking get it that it's okay for women to feel and think about sex, to desire it, and to talk about it if they want to. It wasn't until recently, tonight actually, that I thought, shit, this...again? People calling me a whore...again? Granted, it was commentary on a Facebook status, so who knows, maybe it was meant in jest. But still, it filled me with a instant need to put this to rest, once and for all.


AND...THE ANSWER

What I concluded was, a slut yes, fucks around, yada yada yada, all those things you'd think. But, the difference between a sexually liberated woman and a slut is: self-awareness.

If you look back to that list from earlier, there's a pattern there. Every single one of them is an excuse, a justification, a lie, a crutch, something for them to hide their behavior behind. A sexually liberated woman doesn't hide behind SHIT. She doesn't excuse her actions, she doesn't apologize for them, and fuck you if you think she should. Actually, no, she would never fuck you if you're that much of an idiot that you think a slut is a woman who simply sleeps around and should be ashamed.

But, then there's a slut.

A slut is someone who sleeps around a lot, too, but they do it for all the wrong reasons. They have zero understanding of who they REALLY are. They sleep around and I bet, they don't even know why. They almost NEED to say those things on that list because they themselves don't even know their own truth. They have sex for validation, for acceptance, because it's how they think they will get men to like them and even stick around. They have sex because they think its what they should be doing, and that its what makes them sexy. I can almost guarantee you, most of them don't even enjoy sex. They may seem like it, in the moment, because its probably the one place in their life where they feel (as false as it may be) wanted and appreciated. But after its over, they feel empty and, well, like shit. Or maybe they don't, if its so bad that they are at the point where they can't even recognize or know that they feel that way. Because let's be real: one of the hardest things about the human experience is facing who we really are, and how we really feel. To lower the blinders, lift the veil, and to face our selves and our truth is one of the most painful, yet rewarding, things we can do. A sexually liberated woman has done that. They know themselves and their truth. They are having sex because they choose to, and because they love sex, too. Know the difference, and don't be bitter because someone is getting laid more than you.

The Rapid Diminishment of The "Man's Man"

So, those of you who know me, either from real life, Facebook, or last week's Elite Daily publication of my article, know that an article of mine was published... and COMPLETE FUCKING MADNESS ensued. People lost their shit over what I wrote, on a level that was hard for me to bear. In truth, this was only upsetting to me because, aside from the insanely brutal personal attacks from the readers, it wasn't even the article I submitted. My piece had undergone massive edits, all without my approval, and I was pretty fucking pissed at the complete butchery of my words. It was the first time I put my work in someone else's hands, and I had always believed that an editor does their best to make what they edit refined, clean, and the best version of what it can be. Sadly, that was not the case with this article. I understand that publications like Elite cater to a certain audience, and choose subject matter and titles that will make them *click* to read. But I never imagined, when they accept an article and publish it, that they would remove the writer's voice, and instead mold whatever the piece was to fit what they think will get more readers. Incredibly naive of me, I know, but I like to think my writing voice is appealing enough that it doesn't need dumbing down or editing in a way to make it attract more readers. So aside from changing the title, they also successfully extracted what my writing narrative voice is, and that in turn made the article seem like an attack, a mindless raving lunatic rant, rather than a conversation. And that sucked, because it should have opened the doors to having a discussion that should be had, and kinda needs to be had. But you know what? At the end of the day, as much as people fucking hated it, partially because it was an opinion piece and everyone hates people who have the ability to put their (often menial and stupid) opinions online, EVERYONE had something to say about this topic. And that (even though the bulk of it was pretty much skewering me) is ultimately what I dream of accomplishing with my writing. Yes, my first attempt was, well, a complete disaster in this regard. I hope now, that in my future work, it will lead to positive and constructive conversation about provocative topics, instead of everyone just losing their fucking minds in comment sections. At the request of many, and the necessity for my sanity (and to keep my name in the right light), here is what I ACTUALLY wrote, with the ACTUAL title.

Without further ado, I present to you the real "The Rapid Diminishment of the Man's Man":

As I look around, I seem to find myself drowning in a sea jam-packed with, oh, how do I say this - I believe Katt Williams describes them as "bitch n*ggas" - aimlessly swimming at every turn. It's an endless and very bad breakfast buffet of skinny jeans, excellent shoes, beards, man buns, and delicate leather satchels. Nothing wrong with being well-dressed, or even passably-groomed, but that aside, it's 2015, and as my friend Matt eloquently puts it, "the year of the emotional male". (He phrased it much more nicely than I did when I first began fiddling around with the idea of this article, so I'll leave my crass descriptions aside. For now.) But yes, nowadays, I've noticed this disturbing trend of weakness and being lost amongst the bulk of men. I don't even like to call them men. They aren't men. They are oblivious, whiny, and emotionally incapable boys. Maybe this is nothing new, maybe I've just gotten older and wiser and am only now realizing what women before me have known for centuries. But lately, I feel like it's more prevalent than it has ever been: men having an extraordinary need for coddling and ego stroking, all while wanting women to submit, submit, submit- and I don't get it. So why the steady decline of real men, that is to say, men who can handle an appreciate a strong woman? Where, true to 90's music form, have all the cowboys gone? Did they even ever truly exist?

Some might argue that I am biased. Perhaps, yes. My dad is pretty freaking awesome, and as far as manly men go, he's definitely on the manlier end of the spectrum. He's astoundingly capable for not being a blue collar dude; he hand made 80% of the furniture in our house. He plays sports, he can cook like a mofo, and he looks like Bruce Willis. But, really, so what? Yes, he was the first man in my life, and I'm sure that influences my views somewhat. But seriously, even if I had been raised by not him, I'd still look around today and be like, "Okay, umm for real though...what is going on?!" Why would I be asking this? Because I exist, and because I attempt to interact with guys. Granted, I am a very sexual person, so its hard to find a man secure enough to handle my writing (often about it), and my openness. But, even so, I've been patient about giving guys the benefit of the doubt. Partially because up until a few years ago, I was still acting like a kid myself. I was sort of an asshole to guys I dated, and was legit happy acting and thinking "like a guy". I saw myself and guys on the same page, mentally, sexually, dating-ly, relationship-ly speaking. But I'm gonna be 30 in a month. That number may not matter so much, if at all, but latter part of my 20's gave way to many things that changed me and forced me to grow as a person. Given these experiences, I've realized I am now miles ahead of the men, at least the ones I've interacted with, self-awareness wise. And in truth, aside from being able to compartmentalize, I've come to admit that me and them... really aren't alike at all (sad face.) I now find myself choking on the fumes of boys, who have stubbornly staunched hold in men's bodies, these sheep in wolves clothing, and I can't breathe. I need an explanation, and for the love of god, for someone to please crack open a fucking window.

So clearly something is awry here, and, pray tell, what is it? Let us take a brief look at the history of humans; maybe that will provide some onsight of the role men used to have, and how it has shifted to where it wound up today. We can probably skip to, say, the 20th century. So, up until then, as we know, men had their roles- they were the providers, held the top positions of power, plowed the earth, plowed the women. Not to say men were at the top just because they were naturally better than everyone else; though, in a primal sense, maybe they were. But overall, they ruled the roost because they kinda... deemed it so. And there they stayed. They had it goin' on for real, and for a decent stretch too. Even through the first half of the 1900's, this remained the case. Aside from ladies winning the right to vote in '20 (and starting to wear pants) not much else changed, gender-wise. The rest of the 20's and 30's still didn't see much of a shift in terms of why men wound up the hopeless mess they are today, either. But then the 1940's happened, and aside from Carole Lombard and her epic leopard print wardrobe, there was that thing called World War II. What happened there? Dudes in uniform, killing nazis and dropping bombs and shit. Okay, sounds like manliness was still prevalent. And when they came home? Unending sex in the city. Not Carrie Bradshaw, dear ones, just the zygotes of a million future baby boomers being made while listening to Glen Miller Band. Women went back to the kitchen, men went back to the workplace. Our still-powerful gender got busy drinking martinis, being classy, and smacking secretaries asses. So, still no answer.

But then, the 60's and 70's. You know what happened then? A ton of shit, yes, but also: The Pill. There's something to be said about gaining control over one's body in such a powerful way. And it was, I believe, the catalyst of something huge. Women, who had gained a taste of working only half a decade before, back while the men were fighting overseas, emerged from behind their suburban curtains, a la Hamlet, and wanted back in the offices and out of their Stepford fate. Odd, but somehow, they seemed to like not being chained to the kitchen oven, baking cookies while wearing pearls. The hippie movement gave more of an even ground, gender-wise, to that generation, what with communes and free love. And of course, the Civil Rights movement and Vietnam left people, ya know, slightly preoccupied. Then the 80's brought women even more to the workplace forefront, complete with shoulder pads and power suits. And...today. So, what's the answer? Is there an answer?

Well, the answer, at least in part, is surprisingly simple. If we look back to life post-WWII, at every advancement that took place afterwards, gender-role-wise, they all revolved around women. Nothing fun or interesting changed with guys, at least not in terms of defining their role. I feel that men today are insecure and cannot handle strong women because WOMEN, and women's role, have changed, yet men and theirs have not. Part of me thinks its because they are resistant to change. Part of me believes that maybe being manly isn't an inborn, natural thing, that they are raised with ideas of what being a man is, but never define it for themselves. And part of me is starting to think, man, do we even NEED gender roles to define us, and how we act, anymore? Perhaps no matter what, on a primal level, these definitions of our roles will always exist. But maybe, if all of us get in touch with our reality and who we truly are on an individual level, that's the way to break down these boundaries, and things like double standards.

But at the end of the day, I want to believe these men's men were always there, are still out there, that if anything, they're just on the endangered list. I mean shit, I hope they exist. Yes, ruggedness is great, sure, but more so, I want men to have a secure mindset and understand themselves. I want to believe that there are men out there who can match a strong woman and balance her, not try and talk her down and abuse her to submission. A man sure enough in himself and who he is as a person that a woman's past and strengths don't melt his ego. Men who don't blame feminists for not knowing what it means to be a man anymore, or how to act as a man. But for now, the only people not giving fucks about bothering to fit antiquated gender role molds these days are the ladies. And I say: go get it. Don't let pussy men stop you, hold you back, or make you afraid to be yourself for fear of being judged. Eventually, hopefully sooner rather than later, men will accept that roles in society are indeed shifting, quickly, and permanently. They will have to start to define who they are, apart from women. And until these guys come to terms with reality and who they are, well, try and learn to like hipsters.

Jailbird

I mulled over this story for a few days after it initially occurred. Considering its hilarity, it should've been a cakewalk to instantly put it onto paper. However, as with most of my crazier, “so-much-shit-went-down, son!" sagas, I usually pass on penning them at all. They always wind up more like a prattling off of a bullet point list than a well-put together piece. They’re too long, I get too excited and jumbled up in the details. This story though, goddamn it, needed to be written.

I spent the better part of a week trying to figure out the true essence of the night's events. Yeah, I did "drugs". Yeah, I got arrested. Yeah, I spent my first night in jail. But ...so what? What about that is an "Elena story" - where was my identity in all of that? I decided it boiled down to being my own version of a Chappelle's "When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong" skit. Except this was "When Trying To Get Over An Ex By Using Mind-Altering Substances Goes Awry". I had recently had my heart smashed to pieces, by a hipster living in Williamsburg, of all people. This pseudo-breakup was totally unexpected, it had come out of nowhere, and it had left me reeling and completely unsure of how to move forward.

This ex and I spent the next month or so trying to work things out, but then I discovered that he had already started seeing someone new. Some hipster kindred spirit who wasn't cute, even though she looked like him and HE was cute. But (and I say this extremely begrudgingly) she was very funny, at least according to my in-depth Facebook research (stalking.) I hated that she was funny; I'd rather she'd be hot and stupid. So, he tells me he can't commit. And then, bam- he's in a relationship with this girl less than two weeks after meeting her? Okay...awesome! I'm quite literally brimming with joy knowing that you found a partner who not only also gets boners over natural remedies and gardening, but jerks off with you while you both lay side-by-side listening to NPR.

I was tired of crying all the time. I was even more tired of being in that dark, terrible place: questioning my lack of hipster identity. So, I decided to give myself emotional and mental reprieve with, how you say, some "herbal remedy." I smoked all day and night for a week straight, and it was a beautiful thing. I realize, as I'm typing and reading back the words, that this was probably the complete wrong way to deal with emotional pain and a broken heart. But you know what? I didn't care. Sure, maybe using a drug like weed was only numbing the pain, not getting rid of it, and I'd have to deal with it eventually anyway. But whateva y'all. I had things to do. I couldn't keep showing to up places with puffy eyes and sniffling like a sad puppy. Weed was really, just... fantastic.

I say all this because it was the reason I was in my nightclub's smoking section the night of this story. Well, first, around 1:45 a.m., I was walking my little brother and a couple of his buddies who had stopped by earlier, back outside. I walked out with them, chatting with them briefly before they headed out. The three of them thanked me for a good night, and left.

I headed over to talk with the few security guys who stand at the entrance doors. I was feeling good. Super mellow and calm. I was still high as shit from a booty call smoking me up the night before; I felt like I hadn't even come down and it was 24 hours later. And goddamn if it wasn't glorious. Then one of my regulars, KD, came outside.

KD and I had been talking earlier in the night about some writing work he wanted me to do for his company. That conversation had turned to the topic of my ex-fueled emotional misery, and the resulting week of medicinal weed usage. He offered to smoke me up later, once the club died down a bit. That time seemed to have arrived at this moment, as he asked me if I felt like smoking now. Mind you, I was pretty much still stoned from my week-long bender. So I can't say I enthusiastically said YES!, or even mildly said yes. I just know I said, “Yes.”

We walked down the block to the smoking section. Located by an empty storefront under some scaffolding, it falls to the left of the unused back entrance of the club. It was just KD and I there, with a couple of random clubgoers scattered further down the block and across the street. It was quiet, most of the action of the night having happened earlier on. We started talking about the shittier aspects of my recent split, while he extracted a rather fat blunt from his pocket. And by halfway, I mean what every housewife says about the cabana boy's member: "It was the biggest thing I had ever seen!" About halfway through smoking it, he had passed it back to me. I was...really, really up there. So I put up a hand, and politely said, "Nah, I'm good." His blunt-holding hand didn't waver, and he looked at me. "Oh no," he said, "We're not finished. You wanted to smoke, so we're going to smoke." Well, damn. But what could I do? I don't know, I don't even think I replied, I was so goddman high. So I did what I had to do: mentally buckled down and prepared myself to be higher than I'd ever been in my life, “Fucking get your shit together, Elena. WE’RE SMOKING THIS SHIT TIL IT’S DONE.” So we continued, I think, I mean I'm pretty sure, just smoking that weed in plain view, and smell, of anyone who happened to pass by.

Which is exactly what happened when two black guys leaving the club walked past us a few minutes later. One of them shouted out, "Yo, is that weed?!" I looked up and miraculously managed to focus my eyes on him, and watched as this grinning, cuter version of Kid Cudi stopped in his tracks as soon as KD invited him to join us. This white-as-fuck black boy, "Nabisco", bounded over like a happy puppy and took the blunt from KD’s hand. His friend hung back, and left shortly after, but Nabisco was already into his second hit.

I was spacing the fuck out; you know, where you start to lose your hearing a little bit. But I heard KD, as if through a thick wall, start saying, "Yo, 5-0, 5-0." 5-0...I know what that means, I thought; I'm from Brooklyn. But wait...what? I was having trouble registering anything. I turned my head back from whatever direction it had been frozen in, and you'd think it had been frozen with how slowly I turned that half inch. I looked up past Nabisco's right shoulder, and saw a uniformed cop standing behind him. What the hell?! How did he get there? When did he get there? Officer had come out of the fucking wind. And, woo boy- he did not look happy. But with his far-sighted glasses and down-syndrome-esque facial features, I wasn't sure what to make of him. Or even if I should take him seriously. Or if this was really happening. All I know was I kept hearing KD continue to mutter, in my ear almost, "5-0 man, 5-0." My feet felt heavily rooted in the ground underneath me and I was too shocked, stoned, or both, to move. I was aware of my reality but at the same time, not. A rushing sound was filling my ears as the realization hit me- shit. This is it. I'm an after school special. This is really happening. It was as if all the air had gotten sucked out from where we were standing. Nabisco had still not seemed to register who/what had crept up behind him and was now breathing down his neck. In fact, Nabisco was still laughing and puffing away. It was like a bad horror movie, and I was about to watch my friend get killed. I stared as the cop asked him, "Hey, can I get a hit?" And Nabisco (who, again, is BLACK) extended his hand with the smoking gun to the cop. Brotha passed the blunt. To the cop. In uniform. I remember thinking, well, maybe he just knows we've been caught and there's no hiding it now. And for a wild moment, I thought it was all going to turn out to be one big joke. But as soon as the incriminating homegrown had exchanged hands, the cop said, "Thank you, now turn around please!" and Nabisco turned and went, “OH SHIT!"

KD nudged me, and said, "Go...go inside, now." My feet still felt heavy and leaden. I turned, verrrry slowly, (or maybe it was suspiciously fast- my sense of perception was long gone) and tried to start casually walking away. "No, you get back here!" shouted the arresting officer. There were two other cops with him, who up until now had both been standing, casually chillin’, arms crossed, against the unmarked car in front of the smoking section. They had clearly been there for awhile; the car was not even running. But seriously, what? Had this car seriously been there long enough to be PARKED AND TURNED OFF? How am I only just noticing it...and three cops...NOW? One of the two cops stepped on to the sidewalk next to me, on my right side. He blocked my escape route and said, "No, no. Come on miss, stay here," as he firmly put me in place. Sure. Because I was such a flight risk. I had just proved I was no more capable of fleeing than if my legs were broken. I stood in place, and the weirdest thing: I started shaking like crazy. Not out of fear; it was completely physical. But, I assume, because I was STONED OUT OF MY FUCKING MIND AND GETTING ARRESTED DURING MY WORK SHIFT. I could not believe this was really happening.

It was around 2:15 a.m. at this point. Generally, that's around the time when most people start to head home from the club. Of course. Just in time for the show. Man, we couldn't have planned this more perfectly. Very suddenly, it had gone from three cops standing next to three kids, to a legit scene. The arresting officer had since confiscated the half-smoked evidence, and was calling for back up. KD and Nabisco were being patted down, searched and questioned; KD had not stopped once at trying to tell the cops Nabisco and I had nothing to do with it. Throughout his unceasing attempts to take the fall, the AO kept brushing it off and instead told the other two cops to cuff the guys. "Her too," he said, "I saw her with it too." As I felt the cuffs slide and lock around my wrists, I finally found my voice. "Please," I begged, "I work here, please, please just let me go tell my boss because I'm on the clock right now. This is my shift. I have to tell him what's going on. I need to tell him, I can't just vanish and not have him know!" The prick AO refused. Well, thanks. This is just fucking great. So, I stood there, helpless, unsure of what to do, and starting to realize on top of it all I may be getting fired. The officer who was still standing on my right started asking me, "Why were you out here smoking with these guys? What were you thinking?" I said nothing. What was I going to say? Admit I had been doing exactly what they claim they saw? Own up to breaking the law? Explain to him my shitty romantic life, and how it had led me down the dark, albeit chilled out, weed path? Yeah. Exactly. So I just kept my mouth shut.

I heard, as if from a distance, the AO continuing to question KD and Nabisco, and KD kept insisting it was all him, and wanting the full blame. The AO continued to ignore him, and said we were all getting taken in. At the point, my GM came out. "Uhhh...what's going on Elena?" I think I whimpered in reply. Or croaked out, "Dan.." before my voice trailed off, unable to explain. Dan started talking to the two cops. I was hoping beyond hope that some sympathy might be taken on me, since I work here, and these are local cops who know the owners and my boss. I kept watching that man-trio for a glimmer of hope, but I couldn't hear or tell what was happening at all. I saw the two cops go over to the AO. They kept their backs to us and spoke in inaudible voices, but the AO made it obvious what was said when he replied, "No! No, I saw her with it too, she's coming to the precinct." Then backup came, in the form of a blaring, marked police car.

As the lights and sirens danced in the air, we stood there, the three most motley, un-intimidating crew ever assembled under arrest, and waited. Two male officers came out of the backup car and the five cops discussed, of all things, fucking seating arrangements. Really? You have to have a conversation about who is riding with who? KD, who still had not given up his vocalized attempts to take the blame, was walked over to the blaring vehicle, along with Nabisco, who kept pleading for freedom. "Oh, great," said the black backup cop, "Give US the ones that don't stop talking, thanks." "What," said the AO, "You want the girl?" He said, “girl” the way kindergarten boys who have a “Boys Only” club say it. Damn, I thought my slutty work outfit would at least make me somewhat desirable.
I was being walked over to the unmarked car, but before I could hear how the cop’s bickering concluded, I felt myself being placed into the backseat, with my cuffs digging into my back and wrists. The officer who had held me in place to prevent my escape / cuffed me was now waiting outside the other back car door, and glanced down at me through the open window. Weed had never made me feel bad or paranoid, but it also had never made me feel sexy. But for some reason, tonight, I don’t know man. I was feelin’ myself now. I knew I was looking cute or at least, half-naked, in my typical bottle girl work outfit. True, maybe I just looked like a clean and classy hooker who diets and exercises. But even the supposed sexiness couldn’t be trumped by the fact that I was still shaking like crazy. My muscles were all twitchy and I couldn’t control it. I was positive they could see me trembling like I someone who had just been rescued from hypothermia-temperature water. So I figured now they probably thought I was a junkie, in addition to being a pothead.

Despite all this, I was starting to find the whole thing hilarious. Oh no. But I couldn't help it. I blurted out, "So, is he just having a really bad day, or what?" "Nah," said the officer. He paused for a moment. "He's always like this." I replied, "Is that because he pretty much IS the fat loser cop from Supertroopers?" The officer cracked up, and I continued, "You know who I mean! You know I'm right! He is his clone! In personality, and appearance!" He kept laughing, and said, "Holy shit, that's too funny."

We both were still kind of laughing, and he leaned down and said, "So how old are you?" "28", I replied. "38?!" He practically shouted it. "Noooo, no, 28! God, I better not look 38!" "Yeah," he said, "You're way too pretty to be 38." A compliment, hmmm. Okay. Here we go. I can suck in my stomach, pose my legs enticingly, and play this game. "Well, you know," I said, "I have this thing that I plan on doing when I turn 30. I'm going to tell people I'm 40, so then they'll be like 'damn girl what's your secret? You look amazing!'" He laughed again. "Well I'm at an age that's too old, I just gotta tell people what the actual number is." "Really?" I said, feigning disbelief, "No way! How old could you really be?" "Old enough," he replied. Was he cute? I looked at him. His face was kinda hidden but he didn't look old to me. Ehhh, I didn't care. And fuck, I was so thirsty. And I kept smirking and almost laughing. And I was still shaking like a leaf. In short, I was a mental and physical disaster. Every time I'd attempt to get one bugging-out thing under control, something else would start up. So I gave up and looked out the window, thinking I was doing it in a very attractive manner. The cop was probably super into me, and thinking how this is like a scene out of a movie and I'm the hot convict who's also hilarious. Yeah, that's my brain on drugs. As unfounded as it may have been, my confidence in my appeal was unwavering. Sigh.

The cop cleared his throat, and spoke. "Dan says you're a good kid, never get into trouble huh?" I looked up at him and said, "Yeah. I just don't want to get fired. Please, please don't take this out on where I work. I don't care what happens to me. Just please tell Dan I am so, so sorry." He was quiet for a moment, then said, "Listen, this is probably going to get thrown out, so don't worry about it. You had nothing on you, you weren't doing anything when we pulled up. You'll probably have to go to court but...it'll just get thrown out." He explained the process, and I listened without interrupting. Basically, he was saying this was all bullshit. "So," I said, "Why the show? Why all this, for something that's going to get thrown out at the end of the road anyway?" I was being so logical, damn! "Wellll," said the cop, "It is still pot, that's still a serious thing New York. It's not as serious as it used to be, but it's not legal yet." He started talking about decriminalization, yada yada yada, but I couldn't get past the uselessness of this entire "bust" and getting hauled to lockup. Seemed silly to me, and a waste of everyone's time. But really, at that point I could care less about the law and my record. I was more concerned about whether or not I'd still have a job tomorrow. But, I was high baby, as soon as any stress creeped up in my brainwaves it vanished just as quickly. I was feeling pretty good, despite the unresolved dry mouth and muscle spasms. Oh well. At that moment, the arresting officer, "Farva", and the other cop got into the driver's and passenger seat, respectively, and we were off to the precinct.

We arrived at our destination in about two minutes, during which time I kept yelling at Farva that I was probably going to get fired thanks to this. He continued to have only asshole responses and things to say, and then he actually dropped a line that his movie character twin said. Me and Flirty Cop instantly cracked up, and tried to stifle our laughter since we were the only ones in on the joke. (I really wish I could remember what he said.) And then, before I could yell myself into more trouble, we arrived at the precinct. I was still in my towering platform heels, and when they opened the back door of the car, between my footwear and my shakiness I could barely stand. Finally one of them helped me out. Thanks, gentlemen. Your chivalry leaves a girl breathless. The other criminals, KD and Nabisco, were a few steps ahead, also still cuffed and being led through the entrance of the precinct.

The three of were guided into the processing room together. Man, not a single female cop anywhere. I was waiting the pat-down, but it never came. I wanted to make a “cop a feel” joke so badly. I was led into the large open processing room and every dude cop stopped and stared. I felt myself start to laugh, but I channeled it to shaking my head instead. Again, I was wearing pretty much nothing, but I look like I bathe so they were probably just trying to figure out what I could’ve done. It was the only explanation I had for each and every cop who passed the room double-taking, entering, and staying to watch. I was on stage, and it SUUUCKED. Farva called us up one at a time to get our basic info, especially mine, seeing as I had not had any ID on me at the time of the arrest. After a painfully long and uncomfortable period of standing and waiting, Farva walked the three of us through the doors on the other end of the large room and into a small room with our holding cells. But all I could think was: if I was at work my feet would be killing me at this point. Yet they are feeling fuh-reaking amazing right not! Even after all this standing. Maybe I should smoke before every shift because this. is. awesome.
So, how was jail? That was the question I got asked by everyone who heard the story. And they all asked it in a super casual way, with a hint of laughter. Because let's face it, I may be BK All Day, but...really? When you think of me it doesn't exactly evoke mental images of prison bars and mugshots (both of which I experienced that night.) KD and Nabisco were walking in front of me as the three of us took the march to what would become our new home for the next few hours. We were directed by Farva into a small room which had, at least in viewing distance from the doorway, one large jail cell. There were two guys there already, or so I was guessing. It was hard to get a good look at the exact number of lurching eyes peering out as The Cop Who Wasn't Farva Nor Flirty Cop shuffled me quickly past them. He led me to a smaller cell, further in the room. Once I was in, he removed my cuffs. Finally. They had been put on unnecessarily tightly and my wrists now had deep red marks on them. Spoiler alert: pins and needles of my fingers would be arriving imminently. Prison problems, am I right?

I looked out from behind my bars at my "surroundings." It was strange. It was jail, okay, but what with the lighting, bulletin boards, and desks along the opposite wall topped with a couple computers, it could've been a school classroom. Seriously. I'm almost positive 85% of public schools have rooms / offices matching the exact aesthetic of this one. Though perhaps minus the two prison cells. My cell was roughly half the width the boys', but at least the bench looked long enough that I could stretch my legs out later. It was narrow as fuck though; It's a good thing I'm petite otherwise it would've been like a hippo lying on a gymnastic beam. I put my hands in my pockets as I sat down, huddled. As I felt nothing but fabric, I realized my phone must have fallen out in the cop car. My new digs were so far into the room I couldn't see anything save what was in front of me. But I could hear the boys talking to Farva, who (also out of my sight line) was still in the room with us. "Excuse me," I said, “Hi, um, excuse me?" The cop who has taken me to cell came over. Aww, look at his dimples. Okay, "Dimples" came over. "What's up?" he said. "I think my phone fell out in the car." "No problem, we'll get it for you. And what about your stuff at the club? And how are you going to get home?" (They had gone into the club while I was cuffed outside and looked through my bag, in attempts to find my ID, since it hadn’t be on me at the time of arrest. My bike gear was there, so I explained to them that’s how I commute to work.) I hadn't been thinking of how I was getting home, least of all getting my stuff. Only things on my mind were where I was right now, and if I was going to get fired. "Oh no," I said. "Shit. Well, my bike is still locked up across the street from the club. I'm going to need my bag if I’m going to get home….” It was finally starting to hit me. I continued, “Shit. It had my clothes, shoes, keys, everything... Oh god, all my stuff I need to get back to Brooklyn!” I tried to take a deep breath. Dimples said, ”Well, don't worry. I mean, we can talk to Dan and see if we can get you your stuff, or maybe you can leave your bike locked up overnight and get it tomorrow. It's (he checked his watch) about 3:30 now, and the place might be closed when you get out." "Oh god," I said, "how late do you think I'll be here?" He replied, "Honestly? 6, minimum." "Shit, shit, shit. Yeah, they'll definitely be closed by then. They don't stay open past 4." I must have looked as upset and worried as I was feeling, because he continued, "Just let us know what you want to do." I blinked, and said, "Um, look, I mean if there's any way to get my stuff brought here...please?" "Okay, we'll see what we can do." "Thanks," I said, "And please, please tell him again that I am SO SORRY and I feel so bad about this whole thing!!" "Okay, we'll be back in a bit." said Dimples, smiled comfortingly at me, and left the room.

Farva also left, but came back in a little while later with my phone. He held it up, "This it?" so I could see. Yes!! "Ahhh yeah thank you, thank you so much!" He placed the phone the desk across from my cell. He went back over to the guy’s cell and continued talking to the boys when my phone actually started to ring. Hmmmm. "Hey, could you answer that for me?" I shouted. Pause. Farva shouted back an incredulous, “What?!" "Yeah would you mind getting that? Or could you just tell me who it is?? It might be my boss," I said. I watched as Farva walked over to my phone and looked at it. "It's ‘Brian'" "Oooh, that's my brother, could you pick up??" He gave me a look like I was completely insane. "Um, no...here, you can talk to him, I don't care," and handed me the still-ringing phone. I remember thinking the only reason Brian could be calling is because HE KNOWS!! But how could he know?? I answered, and the convo went sorta like this:

Me: Hello? Jake?
Brian: Yo. (super casual) What's going on? How was the rest of your night?
Me: Ummm. (Is he trying to fuck with me?) Well...I'm in jail. How about you?
Brian: Wait, (laughing a little) what?
Me: (Okay, soooo he didn't know) Um yeah, I got arrested tonight...
Brian: (he was very drunk, FYI) Holy shit!! Are you serious? No, are you joking right now??
Me: No I'm not joking!! I can text you a freaking picture if you want! I'm in a fucking jail cell!
Brian: Oh, my god. What happened?? Listen, are you okay??
Me: I think so. They're bringing me my stuff and it's a little cold here, but otherwise I'm fine. I just don't know what's going to happen with my job. This happened AT WORK.
Brian: Wait while you were working? Oh man, what happened exactly?? This is crazy!

I told him the story, and he went from calm, sweet brother checking in, into hood rat in about 10 seconds. Granted, he does get aggressive when he’s been drinking. And if I remember his exact words this night, they were something along the lines of, “I’m not goin’ to sleep till you out! You need money? I got money! I’ll come down there right now! I’m serious! I’ll be there! I’m here for you! Call me, let me know! I GOTCHU.” It. Was. Amazing. I made him calm down, convinced him it'd be way late when I got released so he shouldn't to wait up, but I'd keep him posted. He was still amped, so he said some more badass things, and, ever touched by his protectiveness, I thanked him again, and we hung up.

Meanwhile, Farva had started gathering basic info from my two co-criminals. I heard the rat-tat-tat of questions from my cell:

Farva: ”Name?"
Nabisco: ”Nabisco."
Farva: ”Weight?"
Nabisco:(long pause) "Uhhhh..."
Farva: ”Look I don't give a fuck, just give me a number"
Rest of The Cellmates: (Laughter)

I listened, and I was already mentally preparing my answers for when my turn came. Sort of like in Monty Python and The Holy Grail, when the knights of camelot are asked three questions by the bridge guard. And I was getting sooo amped; I felt my heart beating and all I could think was "I am going to OWN this line of questioning right now." I heard Farva move on to KD. My heart pumped even faster as he walked further into the room and stopped at my cell door. It was my turn, and man was I ready. Or so I thought. As I handed him back my phone, I nailed the name and weight questions, like a boss. Then Farva asked for my social. Oh no. Did my one week of smoking kill my brain cells like the PSA's claim they do?? Because I seriously could not remember it. "Um, crap. I can't...uhhh well I know the last four numbers are 7515!" Groans and shouts of "Are you serious right now?" "Come ON!" from the inmates next door. Farva propped himself against the bars with one hand, and sighed. "Well, I can't let you go without it. You're going to have to stay here longer, and I'll have to take you to central booking." I was panicking, not at the threat which I barely heard, but at the sheer shame of not being able to recall the first five fucking digits. At my age, and with my filling-out-of job applications experience. Oh, my god. THINK. "Ahhh wait! 150-89 are the first numbers! Yeah, that's it!" In my head I was like... right? That's right, right? Damn it! I'm still not sure! But all Farva said was, "Ah, congratulations. And you know, I wasn't really going to take you to central booking. That number would come up anyway when we put your name in. Thanks though!" Ugh. Well, gee buddy, you just made me feel more clunky and awkward than all three hellish years of junior high. But I was too busy still trying to think if I had remembered my social correctly to fully reflect on this guy who definitely hates girls. I think I was actually softly muttering number sequences to myself, like some Rainman nut. I was so distracted, I didn’t even notice that Farva had left the room. Because not 20 seconds later, I realized I had given him the right numbers, but the wrong order. I KNEW it didn't sound right. So I said to the adjoining-cell captives, "Oh no, is he gone? I mixed up the order of the numbers...shit." "Uhh, yeah, he's gone." I could actually FEEL them shaking their heads. I didn't need to see it to know it was happening: they officially thought I was retarded. Which I suppose a week of weed will do to ya. Don't do drugs, kids.

Then the five of us played the waiting game. It turns out there HAD been two other guys in the boys' cell, who, after we all "met" each other, were both 19 and had been arrested for, drum roll please: graffiti. The boys joked, "All we need right now is Lindsay Lohan to walk in here," to which I immediately replied, "I am NOT sharing my cell with that bitch. You guys can have her." We all laughed and continued talking. Mostly about how ridiculous all of our arrests were, and the stories behind them. It was funny, bonding with people when you could only hear them, not see them. Although finally, I got a glimpse when a new black cop came in to do their head shots. Shit, I mean mugshots. The first kid was oh my god...such a KID. He was freaking adorable, like an angelic blond Jesse Eisenberg. As the cop sat at the computer at the desk across from me, taking the pictures, my phone started ringing again. The cop paused from his typing and looked at my phone, which was on the desk next to him. "Brian from State Farm is calling." We all cracked up. "That was actually hilarious," I said. But he didn't let me answer it.

The rest of the night dragged. We chatted, we laughed, some of us drifted in and out of sleep (i.e., me. That means I’m guilty, right? Or is it not guilty?) There was our parade of mugshot-taking, the fingerprinting, and the waiting, waiting, waiting. Finally, at around 6:45, Farva came in and told us we'd be out shortly. The two graffiti artists spluttered their disbelief, since not only were they not being let out, they really were going to central booking. One of them asked, "Wait, so we have to go to central booking for graffiti, but they're free to go once their processed for smoking weed in public?" Farva replied, "Yes." And rambled on about some cop and law jargon. There was a pause. Kid Number One said, ”So you're telling me we'd have been better off getting caught smoking pot? That its better to smoke weed in public than tag up a building?" Farva replied, without skipping a beat, ”Absofuckinglutely.” I could almost see Kid Number One and Kid Number Two shaking their head. ”That,” Kid One said, “is fucked."

I, as well as KD and Nabisco, sympathized, but it was late, or rather, it was early, and it had been a long night. Dimples had actually come through- he had gone back to the club and gotten my stuff for me, so it was waiting right outside my cell to take, whenever we got out. When they opened our cell doors at 7:30 to release us, we said goodbye to our new, well, not friends, but companions in hell. We had all made comments throughout the night like, "Now we know what serving real time is like" (ummm, false), and bonded over things like the bullshit of The Law. It turned out to be a shared experience not most people get to have, let alone marginally enjoy, with each other. My fellow pot-smoking duo and I left the precinct together, got outside, felt the air, and laughed about the whole thing...for about 10 seconds. Then reality, and daylight, hit us hard in the face. It was Saturday, for real. I grabbed a cab back to my job, to change in a little corridor and get my bike to ride home.

My bike ride home was interesting. I had been through so many extreme highs and lows, so many crazy events, the last month and a half. I can't say I felt euphoric, and maybe this "high" of sorts was just a combination of the residual weed, and having not eaten a thing for 16 hours. But I'll tell you, getting arrested, followed by a night in jail, changes a person. Yeah, I could make a Shawshank reference here. But I didn’t hang myself, so it’d be a weak citation. But… it's true. At least it was, for me. This night had gained me new perspective on what's really important. Did I need to stay hung up on a guy, an ex boyfriend, who didn’t want to be with me? Absolutely not. I’m not saying weed is the way, but to throw oneself into new experiences, to allow oneself to have stories to tell that don’t revolve around dudes and sex, to be alone with your thoughts and realize what’s really important in life - that’s what’s up. Though, to be fair, through my “new experiences” I could now claim street cred; I did my time, and stayed cool. (Those aren’t my words, for the record; those were the exact words of the toughest bouncers when I got into work the next night.) Besides, this was bucket list material: I could now say I spent a night in jail. For almost a year, I had been secretly and not fully-admittedly feeling that I missed having lots of new, crazy stories to tell, and that my life had gotten too normal. This night had, in a way, given me everything I wanted and needed. Again, I’m not advocating getting locked up, or indulging in illegal substances. But I will say this: if you do go to jail, do it high on weed. You'll be calm as a motherfucker, and by the time you're released you'll be in a philosophical, sagacious state of mind that'll put all even the greatest of thinkers to shame. Okay, not really. But, close.


EPILOGUE

As great as this night was in terms of “have I got a story for YOU!” what happened afterwards was almost better. For one thing, when I got to work the next night, all the bouncers and security guys gave me pounds and nods of approval. They all remarked that they were impressed I hadn’t dropped names, I kept my mouth shut, I did my night in jail, and I survived it.

The next amazing part was, I still GOT PAID for my shift that night. My whole shift pay, including the tips I had made. I looked at the money when one of the managers handed it to me at work the next night, incredulous, and I believe I even said, “Really?!” I was expecting to get fired. Not only did I get to keep my job, I didn’t get yelled at, I got paid, and for an entire nights work, despite having, you know, being arrested with two hours remaining to my shift.

But the absolute best part happened in the weeks that followed. So, yes, Farva was an asshole, and is an asshole. But the two nice cops that were part of this little adventure rolled up to the club a couple weekends later, while on duty, and coincidentally, while I was working. I waved from the front entrance doorway, saying loudly, “HEY GUYS!”, making it clear that “o-m-g, we are so totally frenemies now.” But they weren't just there to say hi to me, you know, their new buddy, nor to the rest of the staff whom these cops clearly felt they had also bonded with on my arrest night. No, you see, I had written this piece by then, about the whole ordeal. As it turns out, of my beset friends, Rubi, knew one of the cops who worked at their precinct, THE SAME precinct where I had been processed and held. Rubi read the story, passed it to this cop buddy of his, and cop buddy passed it around to the ENTIRE PRECINCT. It even started to circulate to other precincts, to at least those who knew Farva, and could appreciate the tale. It became fairly famous, and in turn, so did I. In fact, Flirty Cop showed up a month later, on his off-night, and showed me what he had been working on: photoshopped Supertroopers promotional ads and movie stills, with Farva’s face skillfully grafted onto his movie’s counterparts face. I laughed very hard, because damn, it was fucking awesome. Flirty Cop told me, “Farva HATES you, like, he’s out for you. He promises to catch you one day on the street and make you suffer. But…to everyone else…you’re a goddamn hero.”

Does life get much better than that? Probably not. At least not until I find the right moment to tell my parents this story.

Deconstructing the Office: Fakeout

So this was the time I learned a little something new about the male orgasm. Or, more specifically, lack thereof. I suppose it’s not the STRANGEST thing in the world that guys fake too. But, given that I thought coming was one of the simplest things to get a guy to do, I was pretty baffled and confused that, sometimes, even a guy has to fake it.

So, why is this so strange that men could, and do, fake it? Women fake orgasms all the time, apparently. So often that it’s a joke in every bad sitcom, and a required line in every shitty Lifetime Television script. It's an interesting subject, whether faked or not, this whole female orgasm thing. For me, I've got two kinds of orgasm on my vaginal menu: clitoral, and internal. I didn't always have such a vast and thorough understanding of my nether regions. I used to know that, yeah, penetration feels awesome, but in my naivite I though the only way to achieve that peak of ultimate feely-goodness had to be all about the clit. And oral is super hard to get right, and even when its perfect and I’m relaxed and my mind shuts up, it takes a solid 10 minutes. Minimum. (Like, guys, you can’t make a girl orgasm in 2 minutes. You can’t. You can’t. I mean, I appreciate the effort you put in. And inwardly feel sorry for your silly delusion yet staunch belief of the words of girls who have told you that you have done so for them. But those girls are either too nice, too full of shit, or don’t know what an orgasm is.) Therefore I used to fake a lot when I was a young lass, whether because I didn’t know how to come through sex yet, or because I felt so bad the guy was working so hard for so long and I didn’t want his jaw to either lock up forever or fall off into my crotch.

But over time I learned that I could also come by internal stimulation, what it felt like to do so, and how to relax and tap into it. Or rather, be tapped into it. The point is, once I understood orgasm and satisfaction outside the clitoral realm, I never faked again. Unless out of necessity- i.e., the condom is killing me, or this guy doesn't understand angles, or I'm over it, or I have places to be, so could someone please get the hook for this guy? In those instances, I have no problem saying, "Yes, I came, now I want yours", or something along those lines to wrap it up. Complete with simulating the orgasm pulsing, which is sort of like doing kegels on a guys wang. But, it was easy to resort to faking in my early years (approx. ages 19-23) which was the period after I'd had my first clitoral orgasm via oral, but before this new level of understanding my vag. Because, let's be honest- having a partner successfully get you to clitoral orgasm is like capturing an elusive unicorn. Out of all the men I've been with, an exact handful have been able to bring me to that precipice and back. And it's glorious, of course, because those 10-15 (ugh, even 20-25) minutes of build-up lead to some serious, full-body, writhing-for-30-seconds intense payoff. However, for all the valiant soldiers who fell to the wayside, some not even close to bringing me to heaven, others to the 10 yard line but then failing: it sucked. Its super stressful, for both myself and the said guy('s jaw.) For me, all I can think of during is how long I'm taking, how many more directions can I give him, oh my god I'm taking FOREVER. Basically I can't mentally relax and enjoy it because I keep apologizing and hating myself for having such finnicky lady parts. And the guy is probably thinking every single thought I'm thinking, but is additionally burdened with an ever-tiring mandible that can chew through a 24-oz steak but doesn't have the stamina to lightly lick me into submission.

So. To sum up, I've faked. More during oral, occasionally during sex, and not really anymore nowadays. Men, however, do not have vaginas. The have a dick, and a brain, that is much more easily satiated and not nearly as complex as the ever-emotional lady parts. Despite this, however, men have also been in situations where they have faked. I know, I know, it's so ridiculous, for sooo many reasons. But it happens, and you know what, it's happened to me. With a supposedly very virile co-worker. When I think back on it, he was such a fucking weirdo but at the time, I was 21 and didn't know better and was pretty insulted that he faked. Granted, there are some details to the story that may explain it, which make me feel slightly less disappointed in myself. And it's a relief, because if a 21 year old tight-bod chick can't bring a 29-year old dude to orgasm, it's a serious blow to the ego. Generally speaking, I'd feel the same disappointment in myself with any guy I'm investing sexual energy into. I love making a guy come, and I can't leave him unsatisfied and sleep well at night. (Unless he's fucking terrible, then I couldn't care less.) But this co-worker, let's call him Dominic, was at the time for me a big coup and the fact that these events happened left me sort of shell-shocked, humbled, and in desperate need for a drink and understanding.


SUMMER 2006
Too soon to see the inevitable tragedy looming on the horizon

The price I paid for pursuing an opera performance degree was the bleak, devoid-of-straight-desirable-men, brown brick hell that is SUNY Purchase. Four years of being on an artsy, drugged-out campus drastically changed my taste in guys- hellooooo, hipsters- but luckily, my summers provided brief periods of reprieve. Working in NYC during my breaks was like a dream for me. I've been boy-crazy since the womb, but to be set loose in midtown with all those power execs in suits had my panties dropping so fast it was if they had weights attached. I mean, goddamn. Even now, just typing that, a series of mental images consumes my brain for several minutes. There's just something about a man in a great suit, or even a button down with dress pants. He doesn't need to be super fit or good-looking; that Manhattan-corporate-man uniform instantly transforms even the saddest-looking specimen into a demigod. Which, praise Buddah, my office had plenty of. Maybe my place of employ wasn't exactly crawling with hotties; namely, guys my age. But at the end of the day it's not like that mattered. The mere fact that I was working at a relatively large corporation surrounded by extremely hetero men that outnumbered the women, was enough. I repeat: arts college, hipsters. It was sort of comparable to not going shopping for four years, then being unleashed, as a 20 year old female, into a Forever 21 flagship store. Seriously. I needed to remind myself to breathe and not go out and buy all the merchandise at once just because it looked good on the hanger. Because Forever 21, even though lots of their stuff looks real cute, and their selection is huge, is not exactly known for quality products. You need to do a few laps round the store, really look at things first without even touching them, imagine if they fit into your wardrobe, etc. So, as in that analogy, in life I too needed to remind myself to breathe and not flirt with/sleep with all the merchandise.

Over the few years I worked in this infamous midtown office, I did wind up dating a few of my co-workers, but my only regret was my involvement with Dominic. For a variety of reasons, but mostly owing to the fact that he told basically all our coworkers we slept together (only he adorned this truth with lots of douchey lies thrown in). Yes, he might have also secretly been gay, but oddly enough I didn't care about that at all because shit son, I love the gays. One of my goals in life is to be a gay icon, should opera not pan out. Not that I really believed he was anything other than super straight, but I got tons of slack from a female coworker who had heard his gossip. To quote her, "Elena. He goes to Fire Island every weekend without his girlfriend. You do know what that means...right?" So if nothing else was gained from the whole experience, there were three valuable lessons I learned from him. One, gays apparently go to Fire Island. Two, men of all shapes, sizes, and ages, have faked/do fake orgasm. And three, hoo boy, do men love to talk- ladies, don't be fooled. They will run their mouths and you will not come out of it looking good.

Personally, I had no problem keeping our flirting, and eventual intimacy, quiet. For one thing, my dad worked in this office and was one of the top guys, so for multiple reasons I did not want word getting around and hitting his ears. For another, the women in this office all hated me and already spent their time talking shit behind my back. The last thing I needed was to give them real, legit proof that they were, at least on a small scale, right that I slept around. And for a third reason, I kinda like having a secret sometimes. Lure of the forbidden, illicit affair, all that crap. It can be fun and a big turn-on, especially knowing that the person it involves is mere cubicles away from you. And when you say, "Good morning" to them, you can say so much more with your eyes and they'll know exactly what those things are. So despite the fact that this story did not have the happiest of endings (or for him, any ending) it was actually very fun at first.

Our involvement began innocently enough. That summer, when I was about to turn 21, I was working with the contracts department. My station to proof-read, copy, and bind contracts took up way too much space for the little wing that this department was allotted, so I was forced to do my work on the counter right in front of his cubicle. Although this meant spending countless hours standing pretty much in front of his face, it still took me awhile to even talk to him. Not because my work was so endlessly fascinating- it was for a couple of reasons. For one thing, I didn't think of talking to him. I wasn't even interested in or attracted to him at first. But, the more time I spent there the more I took notice of him. His tan, golden skin that set off his sparkling blue-green eyes, the way they'd crinkle up whenever he'd smile, the way you could see just how fit he was under his shirts. The problem that came with this realization led to the second reason I didn't talk to him. I can be very, very shy around men I find attractive. Shy to the point where I come off mentally challenged and have rosacea from blushing non-stop. As my desire to interact with him gradually increased, it eventually trumped my awkwardness and I relaxed and normal Elena started to take over. It also didn't hurt that he proved to be very friendly and easy-going. However, after a couple of weeks of becoming friends, I still couldn't tell if he was interested in me. Not that it really mattered, but it was a slight annoyance that I couldn't get a clear read- its the emotional equivalent of standing on an ice floe, all shaky without solid grounding under your feet. But, I liked having a good-looking guy, relatively close to my age, to talk to and look at for the bulk of my workday. We'd joke, we'd play stupid pranks- I'd hide his cheerios box, he'd steal my paper clips- etc. If nothing else, it certainly helped the time pass and beat looking at the clock waiting for 5 p.m.. Besides, the contracting department consisted of me, two bitter middle-aged women and one extremely introverted gay guy, so Dominic's friendship was my only connection to lively social interaction.

By the time my birthday came around, we had become friendly enough that he joined the group that went out after work to help me celebrate my 21st. However, as opposed to when the two of us were in the office, here at the bar he was acting way more reserved than he had ever been at work, and barely talked to me. When he left after having only one drink, I felt kind of...rejected. After doing some casual questioning, it turned out he had a pretty serious girlfriend, which I thought explained everything. Why he wasn't blatantly open if he was interested in me, why he only had one drink and left, why he would be so held back when other coworkers who knew his deal were around. This information made me neither more nor less anything towards him; I liked the guy, period. So I changed nothing in my behavior towards and/or around him, and as far as I knew, we were simply friends. We started emailing each other jokes and bullshit chitchat during our days, and when lunch plans for a group of us fell through, he re-scheduled with me via email... for just the two of us. I was confused; my eyebrows raised internally and my dormant radar lit up slightly. Was this a sign that he wanted something more? Why else would he only invite me? I didn't want to assume anything or jump to any conclusions, especially since he really did seem committed to whoever this girlfriend was, judging by his consistently good behavior. However, when lunch got switched to drinks after work, still for just the two of us, I couldn't help but be slightly suspicious. And maybe a little excited.

We met at a sports bar his friend owned, and let's just say... he was not behaving now. It wasn't blatant, at first. The casual hug hello, the flirting- none of it set off any alarms. But man, he was throwing out these vibes, this energy that was saying way more than his words. And then, midway through his first beer, his body language spilled over into his actual language. He said he was extremely attracted to me, from the very first time he saw me, and had been forcing himself to control himself from day one because of the complicated circumstances at work (Read: my dad, liability, his possibly getting fired, my dad again.) He did not list his relationship as a reason he didn't act on his feelings. I don't know if he knew that I knew he had a girlfriend or not, but judging by what was happening I had to assume he didn't. And I didn't like that, him thinking he was getting away with withholding the whole truth and fooling me. I'm not a fool, sometimes, so I called him out on it. To my surprise, he was honest and fully confessed to being in a relationship, but he kept trying to persuade me to give in: "You know how much fun this could be... you don't want to look back on this with regret... all I'm saying is, if you want this to happen, it can happen." And so on. I looked at him, seated across from me in the booth, his face so expectant and eyebrows lifted, smiling, and holding my hands on the table. He was dancing in his seat a little to the sexy music that was playing, and somehow he was managing to simultaneously look so innocent, yet so cocky and sure I'd succumb to his charms. It made me feel like throwing up. Or maybe that's just me now, knowing what I know, overshadowing how I actually felt. Regardless, I turned him down. I said I wasn't comfortable getting involved not just with a coworker, but one who had a girlfriend of two years.

Okay, okay. I turned him down THAT night.

We hung out again, again for drinks after work, and the horny fool that I guess I really am, gave in. What can I say, I like to have sex and I like it more when I'm actually attracted to the guy. To me, this was akin to the "I win!" feeling. Here was a guy I had secretly crushed on for months, who as it turned out felt the same about me, and bam, nailed him. Literally. Well, not yet. We only made out and fooled around a few times, in cabs and back rooms of bars and anywhere else we could, but it wasn't until the following winter of 2006 that we actually had sex. Atop a shiny conference room table of his office (which, location-wise, made for an awesome story, but that was about as remarkable as it got. Seriously. Nothing else to say about that night.) Unfortunately, the story doesn't end here, or even after the winter when we did the deed. It should have been the end, since following the new year he got engaged, and I realized I was bored of him. But it wouldn't be an Elena story if it had anything remotely resembling a happy and sensible ending.


SUMMER 2007
When it all went wrong, and ended horribly

So, to catch up: summer of 2006 we became friends, wound up becoming slightly more. Summer break ended, I went back to school, that was it until winter break 2006. I came back to the office to work, and upon hearing I was back, Dominic emailed me within 3 hours of my first day and we resumed whatever this thing was. We did the damn thing on a smooth-as-glass tabletop, and after my break ended and I left for school, again, all communication ceased. Summer 2007 arrived, another break, another few months returned to work, and there I was, back at the office. And there he wasn't.

He was out on a jobsite, so no longer in the office nor someone I'd see on the daily. But without fail, he contacted me almost immediately on my first day, and we made plans to catch up. Eh. I was kind of over it. The sex hadn't really left much of an impression (let the penis size jokes ensue), and definitely not enough to explore it further. And the initial thrill, that whole rush of the forbidden and having a secret, crushing-on-some-unattainable-dude thing, had faded. It had dissolved into something that felt...routine. Which is slightly ridiculous to say, considering that we had hung out maybe seven or eight times, and only had sex once. But the whole "I'm back at work, he emails me, we get drinks, we make out" song-and-dance was old news. It had become, to use a work metaphor, like I was clocking in hours, rather than that enthusiastic rush filled with happily humming along through the day. I wasn't bummed out by this. I was surprised it had gone on this long. Lovin' and leavin', that was my MO back then and Dominic's number was up. Besides, the guy had freaking set the date for his wedding so this was for the best. But I suppose I had to see him one more time, just to make sure. And, whatever. It was a weekday and I was already in the city, so eh, why not.

We skipped the bar this time. Instead, I met him at his jobsite office in the late afternoon hours of a Thursday when everyone else had left for day. Sunlight was streaming in pre-sunset gold through the windows, and I was sitting naked in his swivel chair wearing only his tie and my cowgirl hat. We proceeded to do it right there, but after either 15 seconds or about 10 thrusts into it, give or take, he pulled out entirely, muttering something about "this stupid condom." I caught a quick glimpse at his crotchal region and saw not only was it limp, but there was also that tell-tale white stuff at the end of the condom. I figured, sweet, that was quick, painless, and shit, I’ll probably even beat the rush hour crowds home. He ran out of the room to the bathroom, still feigning condom-blame, and not realizing I had figured anything out. I stayed seated, laughing in my head. A lot. Mostly at myself for having sex with him again, even though I knew going into it this time I wasn't really into it, but also at his poor little man balls. 15 seconds. I mean, damn. But did he actually come? I couldn’t be sure. The signs seemed to have been there but that couldn’t be possible…could it?

He came back in the room after a couple of minutes, with a new condom (and a new boner), and we recommenced bumping uglies. Welp, so much for getting out of here early. About half an hour later, he now had me bent over a small, blueprint-covered desk. I was about as into it as I am when I bind contracts; if I had been wearing a watch, I'd have been checking it. And you know it's bad when you actually start to read the blueprints in front of your face, while throwing in the obligatory sound effects for him every few seconds. It's a good thing I had my back to him, because I doubt my facial expression and drumming fingers would have helped him speed up the process. But as if all this wasn't bad enough, he had started shouting and carrying on that he's "going to come", but not actually doing it. Okay, now, hold on, here's the thing about that. I used to always say I hated when guys made a big, vocal show about how they're about to come, and it is immediate grounds for me making fun of you forever, but that's no longer entirely accurate. I've recently concluded it's all in the delivery (no pun intended.) I've had guys whisper "I'm gonna come" in my ear, or somehow manage to make it really sexy, and turn me on. Dominic, however, is a loser, and failed miserably at everything. It started with the fifteen solid minutes of loudly-voiced announcements that he was going to come. This in itself was enough to turn my vagina into the Sahara, but then, in between shouting it over and over again, he would make little high-pitched, nasal yelps, which was just... confusing. He sounded like a bitch Pomeranian. That took doggy-style to a new and literal level I never wanted to, nor want to ever again, experience. With every second ticking by, with every shout and yelp and thrust, all I could think was, oh dear god in heaven, I just want to go home. Can he wrap this up already, like he's been promising to do for the last quarter hour of my life?! Finally, he did the jerk-stiff/collapse thing, accompanied by whiny moans, and laid on top of me for a few moments (I had already started eyeballing the floor for my underwear so I could get the hell outta there without delay). But then, after he pulled out, I turned and stood up and saw - he was still hard. Which isn't too unusual, but there was definitely NOTHING in the condom this time around. And that's when it hit me... did I just get faked on?

I must have been. It was my only answer to everything that had just happened. We already know he has no control over his boys, so I'm sure if he can't hold back from coming too quickly, he'd have just as much difficulty summoning his seed. Additionally, that whole final act of him coming was way too overly-dramatic and theatrical to be real. Combine that with the physical evidence, and well, I rest my case.

The second I got out of there, I called my three closest male confidantes to get their expert opinions. And as it turns out, they have all faked an orgasm with a girl at some point, or several points (so now this is a common thing for guys? Strangest trend ever.) But for the most part, as they usually do upon hearing my latest predicaments, they all yelled at me for sleeping with yet another awful guy. After I hung up with the third buddy, and had to acknowledge the consensus that I had indeed been on the receiving end of a fake big O, I felt pretty bummed. And like less of a woman. I wanted to ask Dominic why he had felt the need to fake at all, if he had. I wanted to understand, and damn it, I wanted to immediately eradicate whatever I had done or not done to make him not come. I'm sure if the roles were reversed in this situation, the dude would not be spending the entire night wondering why she had faked on him, mentally consumed by analyzing and exploring the notion that it had even happened to him. He’d be asleep.

The next day at work, I had an email from Dominic, saying “Good-morning!” and blah, blah, blah. I was still irked about the whole thing, and, needing some sort of answer or closure on the mentally ever-pervading issue, called him, and asked him, point-blank, if he had well, fired a blank. He admitted that, while he did come the first time (as I had suspected!), he couldn't manage to come a second time, so yes, round two was faked. He apologized and said, "I'm not like those college guys you date... I can't do it twice in a row, so fast." Excuses, excuses. Cue the eye-roll. But, whatever; I'm glad I'm not the one marrying you.

Of course this whole fakeout fiasco was served with a side of drama, because for whatever reason, Dominic felt the need to stir some up. I had previously mentioned that Dominic took it upon himself to tell the guys at his jobsite about us. Not the truth of us, of course, but more how I was a desperate slut that chased him for half a year, and forced him to sleep with me. Because obviously, that's the only way him and I hooking up could ever have happened, ever. It was hard to hear, especially from a third party who informed me that along with Dominic gossiping non-stop, all the guys at his jobsite now hated me, my name was now "dirt over there", and these guys, who used to be, were no longer my friends. So, all the while when I had been diligently deleting all our emails, texts, phone records, and not telling a soul about us, as per his request, he had been going around claiming to have nude pics of me and that I practically paid him to let me suck him off. I don't like having regrets, and I could very easily say I regretted ever even talking to Dominic. But there were plenty of lessons to be gleaned from an otherwise fruitless situation, though sometimes that still doesn't help me not regret sleeping with him when I was already over it. I mean, I could've avoided the whole second half of this story. But then I would've gone on down this road called life, maybe never knowing that a guy faking it is not only a feasible, but very real thing. And that men have wayyyyy bigger mouths than women, and this probably goes without saying, but they will not be honest about the details. And that gays go to Fire Island. So, there you have it. The silver linings to me not being lined with Dominic's white love juice. But of all these lessons, I have to say, the real moral for me was this: if you're a chick and decide to sleep with a co-worker, at least be wiser than me and have standards. Because with all the things that could go wrong, with all the consequences that action can have, you wanna make damn sure, at the very least, that the sex is worth it.

How Far Would YOU Go To Get Laid? A Poem in A Lot of Verses

One of my favorite ladies, Jas, and I were lunching recently. We work together at the same nightclub, and she mentioned a conversation she'd had with a mutual male coworker. I had been the topic of their talk, so naturally as a middle child I was on the edge of my seat to hear the details. Not because I'm attracted to this particular guy or anything like that; more so I just need to know at all times what people say about me. Anyway, he had told her that he believes "every girl should carry themselves like Elena, because she goes out and gets hers, and is real about it. She should be a role model for women". Well, cheers, lovely words, but sadly its only guy friends who say that. It's never men that I date or am interested in who view me in such a positive light. No, when it comes to guys I may be or am involved with, they just call me a slut. But anyway. This coworker had also said that while most women try to cover up their sexuality and just come off as fake, I'm apparently an inspiration because I straight up don't care what people think and am simply myself. I never need to get wasted before blowing a dude, unless he's ugly or sucks as a human being. But in any case, I'm genuinely able to compartmentalize and am a fan getting mine. Yet maybe sometimes, this is to a fault. I do have a tendency to go above and beyond what mere mortals would consider normal in regards to maintaining an active sex life. So maybe to some, I deserve to be judged. But you know what, its hard enough dealing with all the weird crap that inevitably happens in a casual sex lifestyle. Especially when you're as impulsive as I am, and have no regard or concern for consequences. I flip off double-standards because I have enough problems to deal with thanks to all my poor decision making. This story is a perfect example of "weird crap that inevitably happens" when a gal just wants to get her booty call on. Granted, none of it HAD to happen. I could've not gone, and I had se-ver-ral chances to turn around and just GO HOME. But, I'm not Steve Erkel. I'm me. So, I guess this could also be a "How Horny Are You REALLY?" quiz, but I think the title is pretty fitting. Basically, it was a night like almost any other. I was at work at my club job, and after making eyes with an unbelievably hot guy for about 4 hours of my shift, a girl from his group introduced us and we wound up talking for two hours, until closing. And then we made out, etc., and the rest was, well, history. Perhaps not The Iliad but I'm sure Homer would agree an epic nonetheless:


Without further ado,

"How Far Would You Go To Get Laid? A Poem in A Lot of Verses"


Would you bike 150 blocks
At 4:45am
On a Saturday
After a 7 hour club shift
Which you'd done in 5" heels?
Would you rally your energy
To meet some guy
you had just met two hours earlier
Who,
granted,
Was smoking hot
And had been checking you out
during your shift
But was kiiiiind of a douche
throughout the 2 hour conversation you'd had
But!
Was an AMAZING kisser
No
Seriously
AMAZING
And tall (mmmmm)
with great hands
And had no problem telling you
how hot your body was
Nor with hitting the emergency stop button in the elevator
just so he could get
those gorgeous hands
all over you
All
Over

But you have no cell phone
because you're in between plans
and getting your new one tomorrow.
So he gives you his address
And you both promise
to follow through
You, to bike there
Him, to stay conscious

But even if you go
You can't call upon arrival
Or
If the buzzer isn't working
Or
If it's one of those weird ass intercoms
Or
If he falls asleep
because you won't even be there until at least 5:15 a.m., you can't call to wake him up
Or
If you get the address mixed up
Or
If he gave you the wrong address
Or
If you get lost...
You'll still have no phone
And then
You'll be FUCKED

But forget all that.

You brush all that aside and go, and get there easily enough
But then once you arrive
you realize
it's... The Projects.
And you can't find the building
Because none of them have numbers
And as a small white girl
There is no way you're dismounting to peruse around a Projects complex.
Oh
And did I mention
it's the dead of winter?
Soooo, 20 degrees out
Plus wind chill.
Would you even bother to try and figure it out,
or head home?

Okay, so you stay.
Now you're at
the supposed destination,
corner of 97th street & 3rd avenue
But
You can't find the damn building
And your horniness starts to dwindle
As panic sets in
Because you're realizing that your bike ride
Your rallied efforts
might have all been for naught.
You might have to turn around
And bike the two hours back home
Because again,
No phone
No one around to ask
No building numbers
And you're fucking freezing
And hungry
But luckily, don't have to pee.
So, that silver lining
might carry you through

Then lo!
there's a guy walking up 3rd avenue
You ask him where 230 is
He says, "Oh, just stay on 3rd ave
and take it
All the way down"

Hmmm. All the way down? You think,
That seems....
Wrong
I mean,
I definitely remember he said the place was on 97th and 3rd
it has to be around here,
very close to where I am currently standing...

But you trust this stranger's word
And start walking
down 3rd avenue
pushing your insanely heavy bike alongside you
You reach 98th street
but
it just doesn't feel right
You turn back
to re-ask the guy,
(who is now a good 20 feet behind you)
(he's a slow walker, damn)
"Sorry, which way is 230?"
And he says,
"You mean 230th street, right?"

Uhhhhh.

No.

I didn't.

I would not be walking
and pushing my bike
instead of riding it
if I was on 97th street
and needed to be on 230th.

I'd be killing myself.

So you turn around
and head back to 97th.

You are now close to tears
Mostly out of frustration
But also fatigue, because damn girl,
You bike everywhere.
But then
You see two cops
in front of a college dorm
(that apparently exists there)
And you figure,
who better to ask?

They say
what you've been hoping
isn't the reality

That building number 230 is
...dum dum dum...
INSIDE the projects.

But you think,
dude was white
Like, whiiiite,
and rich-looking!
From Westchester!
I'm not racist but
he was not exactly hood-rat mmmkay?

So I ask,
kinda rhetorically,
if they'd advise me to just go home
if it really is in The Projects.

"Well...yeah."

Would you STILL continue
to try and get laid at this point,
or throw in the towel?

If you gave up, you are not me.

But if you're a horny idiot
whose vaginal urges
Cannot be silenced
aka me
Oh yeah you stayed!

Because I had come too damn far at this point.

And I was looking forward to crawling into a warm bed
With a hot guy
And passing the fuck out.

But, gotta get there first.

Okay.

Breathe.

Long story short,
One of the cops offers
to drive alongside you
to check for the building numbers
You cruise down 97th street together, heading east
Him in his car
You on your bike,
legs reaching a point of complete mutiny,
And there it was!
A new building
totally hidden by other construction
that you'd completely miss
if you weren't looking very carefully

You lock up your bike
The cop waits
until you are safely inside
Intercom = normal
Buzzer = working
Apartment number = correct
Boy = still awake, and VERY happy to see you
You = finally indoors, and ready for sex,

Or death.
Not sure.

Still thinking about it.

Finally, in the duplex apartment
its dark, except the kitchen.
Boy tells you to keep quiet
(There's a dog)
(Oh and like 5 people passed out in the living room)
He leads you to the kitchen,
which is not its own room
just at the end of the living room.
So really,
You pretty much just walked about five feet to the left.
He offers you
some sparkling cider crap
that might have been Kombucha
(from the Projects to sipping Kombucha out of wine glasses. Where the fuck am I?)

You converse for a bit
And as he pulls you to him, you make out and he starts to undress you.
He is totally
unable to comprehend
why you have
eighty layers of clothes on
and
why they are all sweaty

BITCH, I JUST BIKED 150 BLOCKS
AND IT'S 20 DEGREES OUT

Ugh.

He continues to question
your layers and your sweaty state
every single time
he removes another article of clothing.
So after the fifth time he asks the same thing,
you give him the same answer
somehow managing to still keep it laugh-y and cute
But on the inside
you're seething
because
Shit's gettin' tired son
Either jizz in the pot or pass out, come on

Speaking of passing out,
You inquire about sleeping arrangements
His answer?
"Oh, I'm not sure yet"

You're not sure yet?

Umm, it's 6:00 in the morning.
If you don't know now, then when?

Because I don't do
this "up in the air, we'll figure it out later" bullshit
when it comes to sleeping.
Call me stuck up, call me high maintenance
but if I'm doing you
the favor of doing you
I expect a goddamn bed.

Not a kitchen floor.

I'm not a 20 year old frat boy.

And you kinda made it seem like this was your apartment

Not the girl's from the group you'd been hanging with

Hmmmm.

Who really invites someone
To come home with them
when it's not their crib
And they are most likely sleeping on a spare patch of rug?

What is this?

A Grimm's fucking fairy tale?

Am I some orphan character, a pauper creation from the brain of Hans Christian Andersen,
That sleeps in the ashes and sells match sticks?

While you may not be those things,

If you are me,

You don't say, "PEACE."

You make out with him.

And then when your final bottom layer is removed
You are too sober
To ignore any longer
that you are in a very well-lit kitchen
And the five people in the darkened audience
aka, the living room
Could wake up at any time
And may in fact already BE awake, or never have fallen asleep,
But it's way too awkward now to reveal that information
to the two morons shamelessly getting busy
in a kitchen.
So, couch person, you stay quiet and still as possible
With your eyes clenched
(Or not, if you're into voyeurism)
And figure, eh, you'll make fun of your friend the next day

Sigh.

So, after voicing your concern of being literally butt-naked
in clear sight of anyone who cared to see
He offers the very classy option
Of adjourning to the bathroom
Which did have the amenities of a washer and dryer
So there was that

Well. Yet another point where you could fold your hand
Get dressed
and get out
So how badly do you want to get laid?

Apparently, badly enough that you're totes ok using a toilet for leverage.
(Dude really was tall.)
You and he are in there
for about an hour
And do the damn thing.
Which was,
all things considered,
Not too terrible
(At least your butt cheeks have warmed up by now)

Then it's over,
and you guys indulge
in some rather charming pillow talk for about half an hour
Him, sitting on the bathtub ledge
You, on the toilet

Somehow, you are now wide-awake.
Maybe some of you would see this
as a terrible thing
an inconvenience
a dread of knowing that all that lies in your immediate future
is a sleepless, uncomfortable few hours pretending you're passed out until you "wake up" to go to brunch looking only slightly better than a hag's bowel movement.
Oh
and you have your contacts in
and no solution is anywhere in this apartment.
(So much for amenities.)

But no. If you're like me, you are amped.
You're wide awake bitch.
You got yours.
And now you get to get outta there.
And so you tell him
that you are going to head home.

He looks disappointed, but really
is more amazed that you're seriously about to bike
all the way back to Brooklyn.
Now.
In the cold.
After already biking to work, then working, then biking to him,
and then fucking for an hour.
Well.
He clearly knows nothing about you.
In an attempt to convince you to stay,
He offers you a chair to sleep in
No, not your own chair
A single armchair
to share WITH HIM
not a loveseat
not a wide seat
a fucking goddamned chair
You mentally slap your forehead
And smile at him, politely declining yet another delightful offer
But
You put his mind at ease
and you tell him "Oh its okay, don't worry, I'll take the train"
and give him something to do
by asking him to check train times.

And then he takes a picture of you in your 800 layers of clothing
which even at 7:32 a.m.,
with makeup long gone,
you still manage to look cute
(That's how Brooklyn do)

So, how far would you go? Maybe the distances I travelled that night are too far for some, yes. Even Homer is probably going "God-dayum!" from beyond the grave. Helen may have been the face that launched 1,000 ships, but I'm the bottle girl that burned 1,000 calories. So if there's ever any doubt, at least you can smile knowing that your still-toned butt will thank you in 30 years.

Vodka, with a Threesome Back

When I turned 9, my little kid cuteness vanished. My perfectly straight dark brown hair and adorable tilted smile got replaced with an ugly, awkward-looking girl whose winning features included frizzy curls, braces, and overly large glasses. Needless to say, these aesthetic charms weren’t bringing all the boys to the party. Unfortunately, I, as far back as I can recall, have had an off-the-charts libido. So because I was too physically unappealing to get any guys, my constant crushes, daydreams about boys, fantasies about getting down with them all went unfulfilled and instead stayed within my brain (and maybe a finger or two.) At the end of the day, that was eleven long years of pent-up sexual frustrations I had no way of releasing. At least, not until I hit the big 2-0. That’s when I finally shed my hideous skin and morphed into, comparatively speaking, a goddess. And finally, finally I was able to unleash these feelings I had been holding inside in both my mind and my vagina. The delay of man-on-girl action, combined with my better-late-than-never blossoming of my looks (i.e., puberty) was like opening the goddamn floodgates. I had years of un-had experiences to catch up on, due to my prolonged puberty preventing me from having the ability to act on my feelings of desire. The result of this man-eating marathon was a vast amount of, um, "interesting" experiences that only increased in number as I got older. Generally with these stories any one of my good friends, or even people I’ve just met, will say, “Elena, this only happens to you… this does not happen to anybody else.” The reactions to this one in particular were no different. After my first threesome had ended up in an emergency room, people were rather surprised when I willingly (all right, and drunkenly) gave it another go. But I have never been one to give up, especially not when it comes to my ever-expanding sexual curiosity. So when something that in my mind could be so good goes that badly, and the opportunity comes along to try it again with a new pair of penii, I was game. It couldn't be any worse than last time… right? But clearly the Gods of Ménage do not like me, or simply enjoy having a laugh at my expense. Or maybe it's just my childlike naiveté to think that my two-on-ones would be as magical as they are on the big screen. But like Mama always said, "Life isn't like the movies." Oh well, I guess I gotta keep searching...

"Roof" was a college guy I picked up during my senior year of high school. It was a sort of two-night-stand, except once was during the daytime. Post-park picnic, and on a make-shift bed on a Brooklyn brownstone rooftop (hence his nickname.) We embarked on a 3-hour love-making sesh that left me with very strange tan lines. A couple of nights later, we hung out again before he went back home for his final year of undergrad. Suffice to say, we didn't keep in touch. Then one random day, after I had graduated college, I jokingly looked him up on Facebook and there he was! I sent him a message, we wound up talking a bit, exchanged numbers, met up in the city a couple of times, etc., etc. He had gotten an amazing job straight out college that had him travelling all over the world seeing clients. Whenever his job sent him to New York, he’d call me up and we’d hang out. All in all, it was a pretty sweet deal considering his ridiculous salary, company credit card, access to 5-star hotels and restaurants, not to mention his prowess in the bedroom and well... his gorgeous face and bangin’ body. So on this occasion, he called me to meet up with him and his best friend from Cali, "Jackson", at the Russian Samovar one Friday night. I happily accepted (despite being on my period that week), and arranged to meet up with them after my voice lesson. Despite already making the sale, Roof also mentioned that Jackson was very hot and that I would like him. Well, I thought, that remains to be seen... but... bring on the drinks!

It was a warm night, and since the bar wasn't too far I decided to walk the 20 minutes uptown. When I got to what I thought was the bar I paused inside the front door. I was unsure if I was in the right place because I couldn't see Roof anywhere. All of a sudden, the path in front of me became blackened by shadow. I looked up from my bag, which I had opened to get out my phone, and when I looked up my eyes came level with a gigantic man’s belly. As I continued looking upward another good three feet, I found myself staring into the eyes of a HUGE 6'8, 300+lb white Russian man blocking my way into the bar. He was looking down at me (way down actually; I was wearing flats), and not exactly understanding what was going on, I smiled and tried to walk around him. But he shifted over and cut me off (or maybe he just leaned a little, given that his girth was pretty much equivalent to the space between the wall and the bar stools.) I tried again to get past him; again, he blocked me. It looked like we had reached a stalemate, since even I, petite as I am, couldn't possibly inch around his impressive width-span or protruding gut. Um, relax dude. This isn't basketball. I'm not a small forward, so stop setting picks! Maybe he was joking around or something, which I found odd since we weren't friends, but then he asked, "Can I help you?" I told him I was here to meet some friends at the bar. He looked at me, and it was unnerving because he wasn’t lowering his head to do it, just his eyeballs. He started stroking his chin, sizing me up. "Really?” he asked. "Are you sure you’re in the right place?" I said, "I think so... I mean, I'm pretty sure..." Before I could stutter or stammer further, he replied, "Well, I think you're mistaken, you should try the bar across the street." And he pointed to some seedy pub through the window. With a strangled attempt at a laugh, I said, gesturing to my phone, "I just need to check my messages to make sure," to which he said, unsmiling, "Yeah, right, why don't you do that- outside?" He opened the door and pushed me out, I think using only his index finger.

Momentarily stunned and feeling like a confused kitten thrown inexplicably out of the house, I thought, "Wait…did I just get BOUNCED?" And the answer to that is yes, yes I did. What was this? I'm not Polish! I'm not tan in the winter either, so I totally look like my Jewish-Russian half of my genes! We share the same motherland buddy! Jews gotta stick together, not go bouncing each other from bars and shit. Shaking my head, I figured I might as well check my phone to see if this was indeed the right place. Just as I started to go through my text messages, I got an incoming call from Roof. I picked up and he started saying, "Elena, come inside, I can see you through the window." Relieved, I hung up and went back in. Like a stray dog to raw meat, the bouncer immediately tried to cut me off, AGAIN (seriously, what was up with this guy?) but Roof came up to him and said, "Dude, it's ok, she's with us."

I sat down and dropped my heavy music-book-laden bag at my feet, grateful to have made it at last. I was introduced to Jackson (lanky and blonde, at the time NOT my type; I used to hate blondes and stuck with athletic brown-haired guys, for the most part). I looked around the place, having never been before, and immediately regretted dressing down as much as I did. Russian women look like real women; like straight out of classic art pieces, or a Tolstoy description. They are generally quite voluptuous and even on my most dressed-up of days by comparison I would indeed look like a prepubescent girl, but on a casual day like this I could easily look like a fifth-grade boy lost in a sea of giant boobs that could take out an eye. Whatever; no back problems for me. Turning back to the drink menu that Roof had handed me, I was surprised; they served ONLY straight vodka at this place, infused with over 50 different flavors and served by the double shot. (Everything about that sentence only got better and better as it went on.) We ordered a round (my first and the boys’ third), which I quickly threw back, even though I was told you’re supposed to sip on it. But I had to catch up.

While we were all talking, in between Jackson’s attempts to hit on our bartender, Roof brought up that I'm an opera singer. He decided to also tell the restaurant’s resident pianist (this was actually a really nice place, complete with a Russian guy that sits in the middle, playing a white Baby Grand and singing songs.) They were talking for a bit actually, and after several minutes Roof motioned for me to come over and join them at the 88’s. I unwillingly pulled myself away from my second drink and walked up to the piano to introduce myself. The pianist barely spoke English but it was clear he was practically wetting himself with excitement over the understanding that I sang classical music (Roof spent enough time in Russia to converse) and his hands started playing the chords of Mozart’s Queen of the Night aria (aria = a song from an opera.) It’s a bitch of piece, in any situation, and having just had a 2-hour voice lesson plus two double shots of vodka, I didn’t want to kill myself piping off high F’s (although that wouldn’t be the worst way to go out.) I laughed and shook my head, and he started to grandly play the opening of “O Mio Babbino Caro.” Most people recognize it as the Italian aria grandmas sing in the kitchen as they’re making their family's recipe of marinara. I figured, well this is really going to happen isn’t it. Immensely thankful that I was all warmed up, I quickly downed another double shot and took my place at the piano, half-singing, half-laughing through the whole thing. I bowed to the roar of applause after my last note, and headed back to the bar for another drink.

A couple more double shots later, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around, surprised to see the pianist there. He asked if I had any other music to sing, because people were requesting that I do another piece. "Well," I said, "As a matter of fact...!" and whipped out my music binder from my backpack. I picked one of my best, most show-off-y arias and, after we both got back to the piano, I proceeded to sing the crap out of it. I hammed it up like crazy, taking little bits from all the recordings of various divas I had listened to and singing every word like I truly was Gilda in her garden, smitten with the Duke and overwhelmed with exciting yet unfamiliar emotions. After I spun off the final note, a high E, the whole place erupted and shouts of BRAVI! filled the air. The audience jumped to its feet, throwing $20's in the tip jar, and coming up to me to talk and offer career advice, business cards, and other networking-type information. And that's when I downed my sixth and fatal double shot. May I remind you that I had only been there for MAYBE an hour and a half, and weighed about 105 pounds? Oh dear. This was not going to end well. We were about to leave when the pianist started playing classic, "Summertime."

When I am drunk, I apparently think I am a big black woman full of soul who can sing Gershwin, not a tiny white girl from Brooklyn who can barely manage to sing in chest voice. But all awareness of vocal reality gone, I shouted to the boys, "Wait, wait, I LOVE this song!" (Isn't that sad? I scream this in a bar at a pianist playing Gershwin. Every other 20-something female is screaming it in a nightclub at the DJ.) I grabbed the mic and started to sing- only I couldn’t remember the lyrics, probably because I had never actually sung it before. There I was, drunkenly hanging on to the mic stand for support, and "singing" the song on what would have been "la la la" (words only came out because Roof, Jackson and the pianist were all prompting me.) Roof very gracefully helped me off the stage area after one verse before anything too terrible happened (aside from massacring American opera.) He and Jackson were supporting me as we walked to the door, but we were stopped by a tableful of girls on the way out because one of them asked me, "OMG like are you a singer? Because you are just so amazing like wow you're voice is sooooo beautiful!" I untangled myself from the boys with much difficulty, slapped the table really hard and slurred out, "Why yes, yes I am!" then fell over into the only empty chair at their table with such momentum I almost slid out of it, onto the floor. Apparently my ass forgets how to do things, like sit down, when I’ve had one (or five) too many. I started talking to the girls about random things, like toasters and species counterpoint, but I don't really remember it too well. All I know is that I felt myself being hoisted up and out of the restaurant into a cab.

Once we were in the cab, everything I had drunk caught up with me all too fast, sending me spiraling into the dreaded world of the spins. Roof said to just hold on until we made it into his hotel room, which I was able to do, thank god. After I had finished puking up my existence (and perhaps my pride) I was so tired that I started to fall asleep right there, in fetal position, on the cold marble of the bathroom floor. Roof came in, took one look at me, and said, "Elena, you are not sleeping in here." He helped me stand, wash up, and we crawled into his bed. I heard him say something about how Jackson wasn't feeling too great, either. Too exhausted to reply, I started to pass out but then felt Roof start spooning me and kissing my neck. I wasn't too shocked, even after he had just seen me hugging a toilet and helped me brush my teeth only minutes before. After all, this is what Roof and I do. However...


*****WARNING: THE FOLLOWING IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART AND/OR MALES.
PROCEED WITH CAUTION*****


I don't remember when he got into bed with us, let alone if it was even really happening, but all of a sudden out of nowhere, Jackson was lying on my other side facing me and kissing me. SURPRISE! I was not about to say no, but... I had just thrown up all my fluids, was physically drained, and I was on my period. Aside from having no energy to move, I had no idea what the hell was going on, or if I could even try to comprehend it at this point. I mumbled something about being on my monthly time out to Jackson, but he merely let out some masculine grunt, RIPPED OUT MY TAMPON and threw across the room. I was amazed. Well, I guess he didn't care about that sort of thing, which was cool? I kept wondering if that had actually just happened, or if I had dozed off and was crossing over into delirium (can't really call whatever this was a dream, even if it was one; the connotation for that word is far too pleasant). I also kept wondering where my vaginal-cotton-plug might have landed, all while I was being caressed (or rather, being drunkenly yet gently mauled) on both sides by two men. I forced my still-dizzy head back into the moment, told my mind to shut up, and the three of us did, well, whatever it was that we did. For the most part, the events that happened between our three bodies remain a somewhat hazy, blurred memory in my brain bank. We all sort of wrestled and thrust our way through the better of an hour or so. I would literally turn to one side for one penis, then roll back over for the other, if there was even that much movement. I might as well have been asleep, given how lazy this threesome was. Although my previous foray into the land of “two men, one girl” one did wind up in an emergency room, which of course made it quite different from this go-around, the physical efforts were also eons apart. Those two boys treated me like I was a goddamn goddess, the center of attention: it was all about me. I can’t tell you how amazing that is for someone who suffers from middle-child syndrome. I may have been the center of attention here, but that was only because I was literally located in the middle. And that just happened to be how we kind of landed, so it’s not even like we were in our positions on purpose. Hey, maybe this only went down because we happened to be lying in a threesome-conducive way. It’s funny when I think back on it now, how it probably could have been a really awesome roll in the king-sized hay, but we were all such a mess we might have been three curious kids with Down syndrome. I do remember being surprised at how quickly Jackson finished, but then again my perception of time was probably not seeing its finest hour. He stumbled out of the room in attempts to make it back to his own bed, while Roof and I kept going until he finished, or actually I think was really until we just passed out.


THE MORNING AFTER

Roof had to be up at 6 for a meeting, but told Jackson and I to take our time, get breakfast, etc. So, we did. It was kind of hilarious, trying to have a conversation and share the Times with this guy, who was actually very nice and gave me his card, telling me to give him a call if I'm ever out in Cali. (Right.) Afterwards, we went back up to the room so I could grab my stuff and go to work, and I said, "Well it was really great meeting you!" And he laughed and shook his head, saying, "Sure, yeah, that's what this was."