Are You There, Jewish Identity? It's Me, Elena

We’re living in interesting times - to say the least.

Times which have led me to question many things since 2016: my sanity, my patience, my willingness to accept that I know people who believe the earth is flat - just to name a few. But unexpectedly, I began questioning something else: my Jewish identity.

It had never been something I sat down and defined for myself, in permanent marker, on my proverbial drawing board of an inner self. It was simply a part of my identity that I had always understood, almost innately. I had felt it, I knew it. It was part of who I was. Maybe that stems from growing up in a Jewish household. Shuttling to shul on Saturdays, then back for Hebrew school on Sundays. Being happily and proudly Bat Mitzvahed at 13. Or maybe it was continuing to take Jewish classes well into high school, exploring things like Jewish philosophy and appreciating that I was blessed with a religion that not only allowed, but encouraged me, to question everything.

But then 2016 happened, and the tectonic plates of my religious confidence were shook.

Not because of what I believe in, or because I stopped believing in something. It was because of the astounding behavior and hypocrisy I began to see from people with whom I had always felt some sort of connection, and in whom I had always felt a community. Suddenly, they were launching into posts and articles and conversations fully supporting an administration that was ugly and hateful, and I felt the rug pulled out from under me. After Charlottesville, when their support grew only more fiery and intense, their sourcing of Fox News and Breitbart became only more prominent, I felt myself pulling even further away.

I was totally unable to understand.

But for me, I needed to. I ran down the list of all the possible reasons why they could support what they were supporting. No, these were not devoutly religious people, they were reform, maybe Conservative at best. No, they were not single issue voters in regard to Israel, a plethora of issues determined their political stance. No, they were not of boomer age, they were my age. No, they were not raised with extreme privilege, they were of middle class backgrounds. No, they were not from secluded communities, they were from the five boroughs. No, they were…I don’t know what they were, or who they even are, apparently. Because the parallels between myself and them seem countless in number, and yet here I stand, and there they do.

I supposed, ultimately, it’s not that important for me to understand. Live and let live, right? They want to read their right-wing publications and bend at the knee of Ben Shapiro, I mean…I’ll vomit a little bit thinking about it, but sure, go nuts. And, to be fair, they probably feel the same way about me listening to Pod Save America and watching The Young Turks. However, there was a recent “scandal” in the news where the hypocrisy was taken to new levels, and made me want to write something where I could ask: how can this one be explained? How can this be justified in Jewish people’s minds? And in a conversation from just yesterday, I was shown: it can’t.

This conversation was with a good friend, a Jewish friend. She is someone I love very much, and she was begging me to reconsider my admiration for the new, progressive members of this Congress’ class. I wasn’t sure why, not at first, but as the conversation began to open up and reveal itself to me, a sinking suspicion crept across my gut. Yeah, I knew why. Because of that “scandal”. Because of Ilhan Omar, and that tweet.

The tweet criticized the clout of AIPAC in regard to policy. In other words, the problem of money in politics. I had read the tweet (now deleted), I understood what Omar was talking about (policy, not the Jewish people), and I was fine with it. However, the media apparently, was not. The tweet blew up. It’s still blowing up. It’s been in the news for over a month. One tweet. Over a month.

Now. I am sure all of you have opinions about this tweet. Have scrounged up whatever about Omar’s past, read into her other tweets and quotes, etc etc. But I am not here to write about her (in my opinion, completely misinterpreted) tweet. I’m writing about my inability to grasp how the Jewish community – including my very, very upset friend - and the whole goddamn news media could rally behind that one tweet. And yet, not around other things. Countless, actual anti-Semitic things, that the Republicans have demonstrated over and over and over again. I’m writing this piece to try to understand why Omar was so quick to be deemed an anti-Semite, an enemy, someone who needed to resign, while:

Steve King has been in the House, is still in the House, yet he has voiced repeatedly his white supremacist views. How many times, over the course of his career, has the Jewish community been up in arms about him, and what he stands for?

Republicans, Fox News, Breitbart, and countless right wingers have cited George Soros, a Jewish liberal donor, as an enemy. (And when it comes to money in politics, btw, I am not disagreeing there.) However, his Jewish faith is often the basis of the hatred towards him, and his name has become a rallying point for the Alt-Right. So how many times, over the course of all of those mentions, have the Jewish Community called for resolutions against those news sources, and those Republicans?

Right wingers just love using the term “globalist”. It’s a noted anti-Semitic slur, by the way. How many Jewish people have been outraged over that?

David Duke has come out, on multiple occasions, lauding President Trump. David Duke. Former Grand Dragon, or whatever LARPer term the KKK uses, leader of the KKK, known for their hatred and desired wiping out of the Jewish population. David Duke and the KKK endorsed, and still endorse, Donald Trump. Funny. Didn’t hear much from the Jewish community then, nor did or have the Jewish community recoil an inch from Trump.

Kinda odd, isn’t it, that this time, this tweet, it just happens to be involving a woman who wears a Hijab. It just happens to be over a woman who isn’t white.

Now, to be fair to this dear friend of mine, and to all of the Tribe, my friend did admit that both sides are guilty, that Jews have the hate coming from both the left, and the right. But my question to her then was, well, if it’s the same, then where was this text to me about Steve King? Where were these vocalized fears when Trump made his infamous “both sides” remark? Where’s this concern when I hear people on MSNBC defending leaders who claim to be pro-Israel yet support White Nationalists? In one hand we have a Congresswoman stating her disagreement with lobbying power and power of money in politics. And in the other is a man vocally, publicly, supporting a group who chants “Blood and Soil” in the streets. You say that, because of that one tweet, Omar and all of her fellow freshman congresspeople on the left “wants us gone”. But what about the man who outright says he supports a hate group who actually does want the Jewish people gone?

Well, I still don’t get it, not as a Jewish person (nor as a rationally thinking human being, for that matter). And maybe it’s not important that I do. Like I said, we’re living in interesting times. So, what I have to hold on to - if I’m going to come out of this mess of a time with my Jewish identity still intact - is what I loved about it from the beginning. That being Jewish is what you make it for yourself. And that just because many of your own community is far removed from where you are, doesn’t mean it’s no longer a community where you can feel at home.

Not Just Another Bad Date

Sex.

Or in other words, the one ring to rule them all. And yes, while the strength of the power sex has over each of us is unique to the individual, we can’t deny it’s something we all do, want, need, and have. But based on a recent article, it’s something that still isn’t going very well.

I'm sure you've all read it by now: Aziz and Grace's Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Date. Accusations aside, all it really revealed to me about Aziz (and sadly, to the the world - womp womp) was that he (by all cringeworthy descriptions of his foreplay) is most likely a very bad lay. Yes, I know, I know; it also suggested he was far, far worse than that. And while I respect and can very much relate to the horrible way Grace felt during the course of their evening, having lousy bedroom moves does not a Weinstein make. But I'm not here to talk about his side or hers, at least not in regard to, “Was it assault?" Because that was the unfortunate, immediate place the conversation and debate jumped to. And oh, how it raged over the interwebs and cable news. Sadly, it also happens to be the completely wrong discussion to be having. But, I understand why it was the place to which people pounced:

1) Well. Babe basically painted it that way.
2) The #metoo movement had already been pushing too many buttons. Namely, that there were men who maybe acted in a less-than-desirable manner, but were undeservedly lumped into that giant pile-of-ended-careers with actual monsters. That these men had no fair chance against the tsunami of clap-back that was coming for ALL of them after years and years of women being forced to stay silent. So, it was only a matter of time before something happened and that brewing murmur of discontent and silent head-shaking burst into a full-on flames of shouts and dissents. Babe's article was that final straw.

And in the nay-sayers defense, Aziz shouldn’t be in that giant pile - at least, not exactly. Because regardless of whether or not you think / Aziz actually did commit assault, something in Grace’s recounting of her night struck a chord in women. And I gotta say, something certainly struck a chord in me. So, why? Why the hell did I get so upset on her behalf when reading that article?

Listen, I've been sexually assaulted. I had a horrible night with a horrible boss who forced himself upon me. And with all the #metoo articles and reports that have filled my eyes and ears in the weeks leading up to the Babe piece, none had quite brought me to tears or really gave me pause quite like the Aziz article did. At first, I just chalked it up to triggering a very painful memory of mine that I tend to not revisit and have barely discussed at all. But then I started to read the backlash. The comment sections. The opinion pieces. And I thought, wait, so...she wasn't assaulted? Am I crazy for reacting the way I am? Are these feelings just me being stupid or silly? But these tears are fucking real. Why did it hit me so strongly, then?

It was her description of her panic, her feelings of being cornered and pressured despite being not reeeeally being cornered or pressured. Of going through with the touching and being touched despite not enjoying it. Of the going along with everything, from the drinks she didn't want / to an invite upstairs that she didn't want / to a cab ride home that felt, at best, like the moldy cherry on top of a night of shame.

How often have I been there?

How often have all of us women been there?

I can't even count.

But... and here's the real question here, the question that should have been asked right from the beginning. (And seriously, Babe, fuck yourself for making it about assault when there was such a different, but just as necessary, topic that should have been the basis and fully-mined expedition of your article.) The question is: WHY? Why have we found, and continue to find, ourselves in Grace’s shoes? In those countless uncomfortable situations? In that place of silent panic where we feel like someone is crushing our chest, unable to say to them, "No, you’re actually a terrible kisser, or “No, I actually DON’T like when you touch my pussy like that", or "No, that actually WASNT remotely satisfying." We all see it, in movies and sitcoms and the like. You know the jokes. The man not knowing where the clit is. The female orgasm being referred to in quotations. But...but. How's it go? "It's funny because it's true"?

And that IS the sad truth - how many women truly know what and have no qualms in saying what satisfying sex for them is, and how many men are in tune enough to be part of it? If you're in a committed relationship, I would hope that's you. That you guys are rocking it. But in other couples, and certainly in the "hook up" culture, I can't imagine it's the majority. So what is it? Do people just… like unfulfilling sex? Do people enjoy just going to some distant mental place, hoping their partner finishes soon, because nothing that is happening feels good? Do people like getting bunny-fucked for 20 seconds and then…that’s it? Do people enjoy “The Claw”?

The answer is: no. No one likes sex like that.

When I looked at Grace’s experience, I couldn’t help but wonder to myself: if Aziz had been really good at foreplay - you know, one of those guys who just loves women’s bodies and knows alllll the right ways to touch and kiss and etc - would she still have felt the way she did? Who knows, but…if this wasn’t just about sex, how much broader does the problem stretch?

I could understand why people were blowing it off, giving her shit, defending Aziz. And you know what, if you belong to that group, fine. But…if that was you, and I’m speaking to the men here: have you ever pulled an Aziz? I’m gonna guess most of you have. You know: went out, had some drinks, brought the girl back to your place, tried your “moves”, got a little head, tried your moves again, didn’t look like sex was happening, sent her off on her carriage home. How many girls had you done that with before? And after? And as for the women who defended Aziz: why were you, especially the female news reporters, so furious? Writing it off as "just another bad date"? Telling her to just “get over it”? I’m sorry, but that’s not the solution here. Making substandard dates and poor excuses for intimacy something to just “write off", to suck it up and move on, doesn’t fucking fix anything.

I was sort of hoping with the younger generations who seem to have more liberal views, and be more open-minded overall, that women would know what they want and be more vocal about it, and that men’s egos had subsided a bit and in effect, made them humbled enough to be more aware. But when I hear stories like Grace’s, it only shows me this: women AREN’T being more vocal, and men continue to lack awareness. So how can we change this?

It comes down to two things: women’s insecurities, and societal standards.

Grace’s experience triggered a multitude of memories within me, times when I had felt the way she felt that night - that feeling of helplessness and just wanting to go home. What it kept bubbling to my surface was that whole high school / college / post-college period in my life, and in my female friends’ lives. You know, back when boys on the streets would catcall, honk their car horns, run down the subway platform after staring at you to sit next to you and then talk to you for a very uncomfortable 45 minutes. Times when they would follow you on your walk home from school, follow you on your run in the evening, try to get your number, try to give you theirs. They wouldn’t accept “I have a boyfriend” “I have a fiancee” or even a flat “No, I’m not interested” as an answer. They would push and persist, call you ungrateful, and even when they finally left you to both go your separate ways, you’d still be on edge, your alerts on high as you nervously kept your back in their direction. Those moments were full of that feeling, that “I can’t breathe” or “I don't know how to just shut this down and get away” feeling. I mean, of course, as you get older you get used to it, you deal with it. Maybe you were fortunate enough to have some wiser female friend give you their foolproof method of getting those guys to leave you alone. But I’ll tell ya, even now sometimes, I’ll still kinda feel like I don’t know how to reject a man (i.e., clearly voice how I feel) when I’m cornered. And that’s a societally engrained thing for three reasons:

1) It’s barely ever addressed or talked about from one generation of women to the next. Not in school, not by our mothers, nothing. We don’t ever get taught, not outright, of how to voice our pleasures or our discomforts in a clear way, or that it’s perfectly acceptable to do so. So, in turn, how can we ever voice it, in any situation? At work, at a bar, on the street, on dates, during sex…it perpetuates and bleeds a submissive manner into all aspects of our lives, one that society has deemed the way for us to act.
2) When and if women do get assertive, they’re considered a bitch, or worse, called one. That’s something that sticks, okay? You might think we forget it, brush it off, but that shit doesn’t stop smelling for us. Whether we feel it consciously or it’s in the back of our minds as we continue on through life, that’s the lesson we learn from speaking our minds. And those should not be the two choices: submissive, or cunt. What is this, a U.S. Presidential election?
3) Women learn that being desired by men is a desirable trait. And what develops from that is this subconscious ticker tape of validation and self-worth that comes with being pursued and wanted by men. This causes a couple of problems. For one, we often don't feel valuable for who and what we are on our own - intelligent, accomplished, strong, kind, whatever it is. We feel value because men want us. And if our value is determined by that, why on earth would we ever feel brave or secure enough to reject a man, to tell him he’s doing something wrong, to tell him we feel uncomfortable?

So what needs to change? I think women need better role models. Which, thankfully, has started to - and I am optimistic will continue to be - the trend. Women need to feel more brave and comfortable talking about these sorts of things in frank and open terms. So when we are approached, are cornered, have a date, have sex, and it isn’t to our liking, we have the strength and have been equipped with the tools to say so. I don’t think things like that should be confined to the pages of a dated Cosmo Top Ten list, either. The forum should be broader, and we women should embrace that we have the absolute right to make this happen for ourselves: to evolve from an antiquated societal standard and into a more assured, self-valued model. I do see that happening, more and more, and I am encouraged by it.

And then that whole mindset that a woman who speaks in and for her best interest makes her a “feminazi” needs to fucking stop. Men, grow a pair: a pair of ears, and LISTEN. We are not trying to dictate at you, or make you feel small, or cut you down. So stop jumping to the defensive, and stop trying to talk over us to tell us what we’re trying to say. Just sit back and calm down. Understand that for centuries, we’ve been silenced. We’ve been painted as less than you. We’ve been pushed down. We’ve been told who we are, dictated how to act. So when we try to explain, when we open up to you, all we need you to do is listen.

But it's more than just turning an ear and hearing words. I mean, how do I say, “Just…be more aware, okay?” I guess I just said it, but, really. How do you fix that within someone who may not know they aren't?

My theory on this whole bad-male-behavior thing: the conscious ego for most, the subconscious ego for others. If one can argue ego is the motivation behind self-centric goals, then if that ego were to be less sensitive and more humble, then in theory, it would increase awareness of others around it and affected by it. Now, don’t get me wrong. I'm not saying every man is some dick-pic sending douchebag who attacks womens DM's like they're getting paid to do it. I think, like women’s submissive tendencies, it’s something more subtle that been instilled and engrained in men since, well, forever. So, no, I don’t think all of you are egomaniacs out to American Psycho all over the rosebushes. But, if you could perhaps take a step back, and wonder about someone else in the moment, it might make a huge difference. I agree, it's up to us women to be more straight-forward and clear about how we feel / are feeling. But until that shift happens where women feel capable and powerful enough to do so, we need you to listen, we need you to be aware. If your motivation is self-serving, maybe don’t focus so hard on just your end-goal. Take a minute. Take a real look. Listen and comprehend what is happening in the moment, with whoever it is you’re interacting with. Not only will this help with men and women understanding and getting on together as a whole, but I can promise you this: it will make you one hell of a better lover.

So, my ultimate wonder at all of this is: can we do it? Are we capable? Can women evolve beyond what society has deemed their identity? Can men allow them to comfortably shift into this new evolution of what the female identity is, while themselves in turn becoming more aware? At the end of the day, changes like this take time. Gender behavior as dictated and manifested by society is something that doesn’t get fixed overnight. But I am hopeful. I am hopeful that women will continue to see that their own worth, and teach their daughters that theirs, too, is something that comes from within and definitely deserves to be heard. I am also hopeful that men become more willing to see and hear outside of themselves (I just hope it’s not merely because their balls are may be next on the proverbial #metoo guillotine.) It comes down to balance between the genders: we all have to be willing to revolutionize each other, together.

Expectation vs. Reality, and Human Behavior - With Some Sex Club on the Side

It sounds like the opening of a bad joke, really. "So a Jewish girl walks into a sex club..." But I did. I went to a sex club (to be fair, not solo, but with my then-boyfriend) and came out the other end, if not, um, totally satisfied, then at least a little more enlightened than when I had first walked in.

This whole "expectation versus reality" is a thing which has fascinated me for years. Because we ALL FUCKING DO IT. Whether any of us like to admit it or not, let alone be conscious that we are, we all share this detrimental habit of creating, and living in, our own fantasies. I don’t mean casual daydreams or benign mind-wanderings: fantasy can be a marvelous and powerfully positive thing. It can motivate us, help us shape our goals and dreams, and even, well, get us off.

I'm talking about, for example, how, hey - remember when that guy you really like didn't text you back that time for three days, even though he normally texts you back within minutes? How did those three days go for ya? I can tell you how they would normally have gone for me in the past: 72 hours of coming up with ALL THE REASONS WHY and driving myself absolutely fucking nuts trying to figure it out. Or how about how when you start dating someone and everything is fucking perfect and beautiful and how is it possible - they are all you want! And more! And then it all goes to shit, right? Because far too often, we aren't dating who someone is, we are dating who we want them to be - stubbornly sticking to our ideals and practically refusing to see the real person. And as time passes and the veil falls off, things don't "go to shit" so much as they "become a reality".

It's so, so goddamn easy to fall into fantasy; to create our little stories in our minds and project the crap out of them on to everything and everyone around us. It's easy to live in that place because in its own weird way, it feels safe and almost natural. But it's not living. Something I stress in my writing, and in life, is the value and necessity of self-awareness while also living in reality / in the moment. And it's tough, because often, who we really are, and what reality really is, isn't who we want to be, nor what we want to see. We can't imagine that he didn't text back because he simply lost his charger. We don't want to accept that we're dating yet another person it won't work out with. So, many of us stay in fantasy land. But it is so much more exciting and interesting when you stop and get into real life. Yeah, sure, things suck and get harder and aren't nearly as pretty, but, hey, even if you don't grow and evolve as a human, you may just wind up at a sex club on a total whim. I don't know if that's goals exactly, but it makes for a heck of an interesting story. Which leads us to...

The most recent example I lived, of this “expectation versus reality” phenomenon. It came and slapped me in the face harder than, ahem, anything else ever has (I'm looking at you, anonymous peens) during the night I went to a sex club. Oh, the irony that no dick-to-face slappage actually happened on this particular eve, but hey, you gotta pick your battles, right? So how did I manage to wind up at one, anyway? I suppose since it's me we're talking about, that's probably not the one burning question you have, but. A couple of months before the night of these events, I had found myself heavily involved in a whirlwind of an intensely romantic relationship. One of the things this man and I shared, if nothing else, was our view on sex, and sex in the confines of a committed, monogamous couple. In short: we were both self-described whores, and if not entirely-reformed whores, then at least whores who wanted to be more and share more with the opposite sex than just being a whore. (Yes, that was an unintentional yet decidedly happy wink to the Supertroopers “meow” game.) Point is, as much as we had both realized in the months leading up to our meeting that we wanted substance in any future partnerships, we still had our mutually insatiable and indefatigable sexual appetites to deal with, too. Finding and having each other seemed to be working out beautifully, for both of us- we each needed it, all the time, and were now with a partner who, too, had an unquenchable thirst.

Now, I do not bring all this up to make you feel badly about your sex lives, nor to tout myself as some sex goddess (although...) But it is important to know that both my then-boyfriend and myself were totally on the same page, sexually. If there was anyone I felt super secure with, safe, accepted and desired by, it was him. And same for him with me. But it was interesting, how differently, as it turns out, that both of us approached and went into a situation as sexual as this one.

I went into it something like this:
The Boyfriend, let’s call him, “9 Inches” - haha, no, I kid. I mean, I don’t really kid, but let’s call him, “Arnold”, casually mentions, ”Hey, wanna go to a sex club tonight?" I immediately respond with, "Sure, let's go!", despite the fact that the last thing I'm picturing is a bevy of pornstar-doppelgangers that will tooootally be there, and tooootally wanna bang both of us. I am dating someone who is down for whatever, I'm down for whatever, neither of us have ever been to a sex club, and Arnold is someone I would feel good about trying it with. Would it be fun if the place was packed with smoking hot couples and singles open and willing to try anything? Of course. But, seeing as it was:

a) a Wednesday, and
b) a Wednesday,

I have my doubts. Does it really even matter though? Not at all, potential hot people or not. I just wanna try something new.

And... I'm pretty tipsy.

Arnold, on the other hand, went into it something like this:
1) I really want a FFM threesome, and Elena has said again and again that she's totally down,
2) We've been trying to find a third for weeks to no avail,
3) I also really want to have sex with Elena right now, but we already got kicked out of the last bar for trying to in the bathroom, so...
4) Let's just go to a sex club and kill two birds, right?
5) I bet there are gonna be hot people there, and Elena is so hot all the hot girls are going to want her.

I'd say I'm exaggerating his inner monologue but - I'm not.

So there were Arnold's expectations, shallow as they may be. Though to be fair, he was blinded by a burgeoning boner and his libido. And jesus, I still find it a little ridiculous how hot he thought I was. But, yes. His reality check was over and done with rather quickly: as it turned out, of course there weren't any smoking hot people at this random sex club on a WEDNESDAY.

My reality check, that I didn't even realize would be coming, happened later - as you'll see. Although, in hindsight, I almost wish mine was as superficial as Arnold's was. So what if there are no hot people to look at? If that was the worst news of the night for me, it'd be super easy to accept and adjust to. But unfortunately, I would up coming face-to-face with learning something more about my sexual self, and - gasp - boundaries, with someone I love. And it wasn't an easy thing to confront, nor accept. That's easily the hardest part of leaving behind the "living in fantasy" mindset, and being in the moment. You have to deal with a lot of things about yourself that you don't necessarily want to, are almost always, aren't ready to. But based on my experiences, that's one of the only real, real ways to grow as a person.

Anyway, after a quick perusal on Google (yes, we googled "sex clubs”, because no, he didn’t, like, have a list of places to go - I say this because people have asked if he did), several options popped up, and we picked one out based on location (yes, very practical.) We were out the bar in a beat and in a cab within minutes. One short ride later, we had arrived at The Sex Club (and no, that's not the actual name.) Our destination was nondescript yet not, nearly hidden up some short steps on a street lined with endless and darkened shiny-windowed businesses. It had the facade of a brownstone, and its front steps led directly to the main entrance door, while a flag with the club's name was fluttering slightly in the nighttime's gentle summer breeze. We walked up those steps, off and away from the sidewalk, and seemingly, the world. Before pulling open the heavy door, we both looked at each other, chuckling a bit: we were really doing this. 

We walked inside, and found ourselves in a dimly, lavender-lit vestibule. To the left was a window, blocked off by sliding glass, with a girl seated inside of it. ”Like a movie ticket booth," I thought, "Welcome to the show, indeed." The girl politely explained that this was a couples-only club, and the price for entry was $120 per couple, to be paid in cash only. Arnold and I went to the side to have an aside. "Couples only, hmmm", he said. I didn't know how much of a difference it would make, couples or not. I was here, and I was ready to have an experience and say yes to goddamn everything. You know that zone. After some brief discussion, we decided: let’s go in.

I paid the ticket girl, and we turned to go inside (though not before Arnold asked her, "There's a bar, right?”)

And so in we went. We opened the small doors out of the vestibule and into the club. It was a weird and broad room to walk into: ridiculously-neon colored soft lights were everywhere, like a cheesy, bad 80's-nightclub. There was a tiny bar, seriously, 3 bottles of liquor maybe, with drinks being served in plastic cups. The room was decorated with furniture akin to a school cafeteria: tons of little formica tables and chairs. It was confusing, which direction to head in or what to do. I mean, beyond the obvious. So we did what probably anyone would do, and what there should be a Monopoly card for in life: Go Directly To The Bar.

The bartender was quite nice and poured us basically straight vodka in our “vodka sprites”. Cocktails in hand, we wandered into the depths. This strange dining room seemed to lead only one way, if not back out the exit- down a long hallway lined with dark, medieval looking doors that were all closed. Because yes, Arnold attempted to open a few, but they were locked. We walked past a bench where two extremely tall, thin, attractive blonde girls were siting, with one guy in between them. They were all clothed, but his zipper was open and they were both jerking him off. Dude was about 70 years old - no wonder he had such a shit-eating grin on his face. At the end of the hallway was a thin spiral staircase leading up, and past that, a doorway into a huge seemingly-empty room that we couldn't quite get a clear look into from where we were standing, since the windows on it had thick screens. 

We went to go up the spiral stairs, when a voice stopped us. It was the locker room attendant. He made a bit of a speech, but the gist was:

- No drinks past this point, you fucking alcoholics
- This is a sex club. You kinda need to be naked if you're gonna be here.

And so we adjourned to right, into a guarded locker room. We got naked, conveniently just as another first-time couple was doing the same, so we were all able to joke a bit. I blushed slightly at the comments I was getting about my body, but, whatever. We were given towels, and, as we wrapped them around our bodies, headed back out.

It was oddly quiet, and the air felt dense. We finally were about to get a peek into that huge room at the end of the hallway. We were nearly on tip-toe as we migrated towards that doorway, and at the threshhold we proceeded to peer in like a typical nutjob nosy old lady does, into her neighbor's yard. And then it was just like, "Oh. Duh. Orgy room." A quick-once over revealed a ceiling paneled entirely with mirrors, and a huge floor lined with so many mattresses it was quite literally one massive daddy mattress - it made me think of an adult bouncy house. Bouncy House: After Dark. (Sorry, I've been watching too much How I Met Your Mother and yet I am still only good for those two play-on-words. Sad. Sad.) There were maybe 5 or 6 couples in there, max, but not mixing and matching, nor even pairing up. It was pretty much rotund, fat-roll covered dudes getting blown / having gentle make-out sessions with their partners. Like an oddly surreal, yet very real-life rubenesque painting.  

Since we aren't 17th century upperclassmen, we passed on that room, and went for the spiral staircase. I was leading the way in this strange and barely-lit, live-action “Choose Your Own Adventure: Manhattan Sex Club” expedition. Upstairs was almost claustrophobic in its layout: tiny, low-ceilinged, narrow hallways, breaking off into tinier rooms, one after another, all padded with mattresses and the occasional pillow. All empty. “Where the fuck is everyone?” I found myself thinking, and coincidentally, just as we turned to maybe head back, we practically bumped into another couple. I'm telling you, it was dark in there. The guy looked at me, then asked, "Would you like to join us?"

I remember looking at his eyes, a pale and watery blue set, his round nose, and thinking of sad older-male character actors. All I remember about his wife was her very curly hair. I forget if we cracked a joke or simply silently nodded, but we wound up following this couple into one of the rooms- still tiny, but the largest of those we had seen on this floor so far.

The woman mounted, then started to caress and kiss, her dude, while I straddled and did the same with Arnold. I liked letting my towel drop, my body reveal, and how the cloth material draped around my hips as Arnold, sitting upright, pulled me towards him. As couples, we were definitely separate, but the room was small enough that there wasn't much space in between us. As my towel fell further off of my body, I felt Blue Eyes start to touch me a bit, EXTREMELY gently; it almost tickled. As the famous Matthew Mcconaughey quote goes, my brain went, "All right, all right, all right!" And then Curly Haired Wifey joined in...I didn't recoil from or stop either of their fingers on my skin, because I figured, yeah, this is what's supposed to happen here. During random and passing quick glimpses towards the doorway, I could see a lot of people starting to form a rather large group, all silent and motionless, watching us. One of the voyeurs, another couple, got tired of window-shopping and entered the room, laying down on the other side of Arnold and me.

It was a younger Asian couple, and I thought, "Oh dang, she's actually passably cute and not 600 years old - I can get into this. THANK GOD. I mean wait what, no, I was totally having a great time." Like I mentioned earlier, I wasn't going into this evening expecting anything, certainly not, "Ohhh man, I am totally going to have a hot experience with a hot woman." But... I might have maybe sort of slightly hoped. Or at least get a chance to see a really beautiful pair of boobs; I don't ask for much in life, really. Anyway, I stole looks at Asian Girl to gain an assessment of her, while she assumed the same position as us other ladies: on top of her guy, and she promptly started grinding on him. You would've thought her riding his pelvis into submission would've distracted him a bit, but holy hell, his hands were on my ass REAL QUICK. Again - I didn't think much of it, since this was, as I might have mentioned once or twice, a sex club, but I could sense that Arnold was getting annoyed, or at the least, feeling left out. So I did what any good girlfriend would do: I went in to go in on Asian Girl.

I don't know what I expected her reaction to be, but seeing as her boyfriend's hands were literally on my bare butt cheeks, I figured I could at least kiss her and she would reciprocate and a good time would be had by all. But alas. This chick reacted in the MOST ASIAN WAY I COULD HAVE EVER DREAMED OF. She literally covered her mouth, turned/bowed her head, and went, "Tee hee hee". You know. That stereotypical Asian giggle thing that everyone makes fun of. I would've laughed out loud or simply have been amazed that that JUST HAPPENED FOR REAL, but mostly I was a little insulted that she didn't want to have anything to do with my affections. Ooooookay then. Fine. Your porn is weird as fuck anyway. I'm going back to my boyfriend now.

After awhile the room emptied out, couples and watchers and all, so Arnold and I adjourned as well, back downstairs. We were recapping the actions of the last room, play-by-play, as we had each perceived it. I was right about him being annoyed with the affections and attention I was getting, and I said even I was suprised by it. Arnold admitted, "Elena, you're the kind of girl people come here hoping to see." I meeeean. Shit. Ha! I don't know how much it means to be the best of the Wednesday Night Swingers Crew. But, I'll take it.

We walked down the hallway, wondering if we were going to spot anything we really liked for the both of us, and I said, "Hey, remember those blonde girls from when we first walked in? They were cute." And closest to my type, generally speaking. And just as we turned to walk back to the cafeteria-room, we saw them. Two blonde gazelles, with legs seemingly as long as my entire body. They were still with that Old Man, and not to downplay his game, but particularly upon closer inspection I could only assume he HAD to be paying them. I can't remember the last time two girls like that would willingly and simultaneously blow a dude like him, unless it was for a career move.

I saw one of the blondes walk off, and my eyes drifted quickly back to the other one. She was wearing nothing but black lingerie, her hair cut in a short bob, laughing and playfully touching her Daddy's arm. Arnold nudged me, seeing me look at her, "Go talk to her." "No, I'm shy!" I said, still looking at her. She saw me and immediately and warmly waved to me, motioning for me to come over to her. You guys, I was like the nerdy sic-fi junior high school male geek with braces and acne in that moment. But almost as if in a hypnotic state, I made my way to her side.

She was pretty, and all smiles when we started talking. I asked her where she was from, unable to place her accent, and she said, "Portugal." I don't remember how, I think Arnold did it, but all of a sudden my towel was off. Still feeling shy, even more so seeing my fully naked body reflected in a room whose walls were covered with mirrors, I wanted to cover myself with my hands or huddle into myself. But Blondie simply gazed approvingly at me, and upon seeing my body revealed, the Old Man came over and joined in the admiring. Good god I felt gloriously awkward. Both of them were exclaiming over my body, especially my booty, practically shouting, "You must be Brazilian!" They were hilariously excited. Blondie ran her hands across my flat stomach, murmuring. She then started to bashfully hide her own stomach, saying, "I'm getting my period later this week." Leave it to the females to bond over PMS and menstrual cycles and bloating at a sex club. 

She and I started dancing together, while Arnold stood on my left and her Old Man on my right, both of them watching us. Her bra came off, and I started to touch her- my hands felt slightly clunky and unsure of even how to. She was so thin and feminine, and I couldn't tell if feeling her arms around my waist were making me more or less at ease. I moved in even closer and kissed her, and her lips were remarkably soft. I wondered if she liked how I was kissing her; I've been told by women before that they think I kiss "aggressively". I've got that Italian Passion, I can't help it DAMN IT. But I tried to adjust to her style anyway, which was incredibly gentle and light, like wings to my lips, and completely not what I'm used to feeling.

Next thing I know, we're both sliding down and touching Arnold, her being coaxed by her man. She looked up at Old Man before actually doing anything to Arnold, and I could hear him give her permission. So me and her continued, both of us kissing and licking Arnold's dick. I felt my right hand, almost habitually / instinctually, latch on to Old Man's wang. To be honest, it was pretty much for leverage; I had no real intention of doing anything to him. But then he placed one of his hands on the back of my head, pressing it forward and towards his (very tiny) penis. I do NOT do, nor respond to, "The Ten Pound Hand", and I certainly wasn't going to put up with it now. But, etiquette. I pulled back and looked up at Arnold to see what he thought about this. Yeah, there were pretty much FLAMES shooting out of his eyes from fury. "Non permiso?" Old Man asked, to both Arnold and me. I hesitated, not knowing the boundaries here, but Arnold, practically choking, said, "No man, sorry." Blondie  got to her feet, and the two faded off and away, into the walls.

Shortly after, Arnold and I left that room, and went to the one room we hadn't done it in: the orgy room. Our favorite Asian couple was already in there, and we lay down directly to the left of them. Once again, she was on top of her guy, riding away, moaning in her tiny, girlish, if slightly-nasal, voice. Arnold was on top of me this time, and I felt myself almost bothered at him watching her; like he was getting off on that and that alone, while he just happened to be fucking me.

It was an odd moment.

This, for me, was a particular boundary I had never really let myself, let alone needed to, explore. I know guys watch porn, check out other women, and fantasize about, well, every female they see. And it doesn't bother me, because it's human. I mean shit, I do it myself, with other men. But man, when you live it out - actually see your significant other, especially one who you're in love with, watching another girl ride another guy, right next to you, while he’s actually inside of you, and then he comes? Like...there's no way my vagina was what got him off in that climax. And it's a bizarre feeling. This was a boyfriend who never once made me feel unloved, unwanted, or anything other than fiercely and entirely desired. I had no reason to feel invisible, or that I wasn't a part of that experience in that room. And yet, for a brief and terrible instant, I did. That's when I realized MY "fantasy", my expectation, that I still hold on to. And the funny thing is, it has nothing to do with whoever my partner is or what’s going on around me, and everything to do with who I am.

I know I've resolved and moved forward from a lot of shit about myself over the years that I've discovered and had to come to terms with in order to grow. But, my sexual side, which I have come to accept is and will always be such a strong and integral part of my make-up, had never been the thing to trip me up in this way. I pride myself in being able to understand and fully accept human behavior, and live in reality while in the context of relationships and sex. But that night, I saw and experienced something I was pretty sure I was not okay with. Generally, yes: I don't like feeling invisible. I don't like feeling used. I don't like to admit that even I, sex goddess, could possibly have sexual boundaries or insecurities - its a place where I always feel strong and sure of myself. I didn't like that my mind went to "that” place, the “creating a story” place, in a sexual moment. I'm sure Arnold was getting off simply because of the whole energy of the night, not because of some random Asian chick's whiny O noises. But still. For a short pause in time, my mind dived out of reality and into a story.


But then, I dug a little more. And that’s when I remembered something I have an unfortunate tendency to do. When I feel insecure or threatened, I revert to a very bad place: where I feel ugly, unwanted, awkward, and like I fucked up, that I’m to blame for whatever happened in whatever the current situation is. Call it Jewish Neuroticism, call it whatever you want. But that’s the story I create. And what blew my mind that night is that I never, ever, ever in a million years thought sex could be the thing trigger it. Sex is one of the few places where I know I fucking own it, where my “story” has no business being and never has. The fact that an arena where I feel so sure of myself could have set off those feelings completely threw me for a loop.

But that’s the thing about fantasy: you learn to recognize it. And then and only then, can you stop it and regain control of your true reality. See your patterns, understand the stories you create, realize why you create them. And then you’ll be able to fully live in situations, in the moment, and completely enjoy them for what they are. Love, friendships, vacations, or - fuck it - even a random excursion to a sex club.

The Curious Case of Bad Timing

Timing.

For such a simple word, it sure can fuck things up, and with serious flair. I had a taste of just how horrible the power of timing is this very summer, when I had a brief but intense affair with a man who was and is not single. And yeah, that was a bitter fucking pill to swallow, knowing how different things could have been had we met 5 months sooner. But goddamn, nothing could have prepared me for what happened to me 3 weekends ago, when I casually hung out with the love of my life.

It probably surprises some, if not most, people to know that I have a love of my life. Because yeah, it's true, I’m a sexual fucking beast, a serial non-monogamist, a wild child; so believe me, I understand the incredulousness towards such a strong statement. However, it's true: when I was 22, I met “Dean”. I haven't written about him before, nor our incredible relationship, though I have verbally summed up the then-affair for close friends. But even in those oral recounts, the details of the intense love and connection that I shared with Dean isn’t usually what people remember about the story. It’s the fact I was simultaneously carrying on a relationship with another man. That all three of us knew each other due to work-related connections. That I had to kind of keep both of them a secret from the other. Oh, and the other man was kind of Dean's boss. And they were both kind of older than I was. say, 19 years for Dean and 30 years for the other man. So it was all sort of, oh, what’s the word, kind of fucking ridiculous.

By the time summer was over (this all started in very early spring of that year), it all came to a head when both of them wanted me to move in with them, marry them, and in Dean’s case, bear him a child.

GUYS, I WAS FUCKING 22.

I was not super lost in life, per se, but I knew I was definitely not ready to embark down that path. I mean; if you’ve read my stories, you know I had a hell of a lot of oats to sow. So, I did what I knew and instinctually felt that I had to do.

It was easy enough to break things off with the Other Man. Yes, I did share a lovely connection with him as well, but I did not love him. Plus, he was painfully older than I was, which was starting to feel more and more awkward when we were out and people would stare. Ultimately, Other Man was really more of a - how do I put this delicately - “novelty experience” for me (read: serious sugar daddy.) By mid-July, the pseudo-romance had run its course, and I ended our relationship.

Dean, on the other hand, was a revelation. I don’t know how important the details are of how we got together. All I know is that my life, nor I, have ever been the same since. Within a week of first talking, as just friends of course, he KNEW me. I had never met a man who was able to get me, dissect me, understand me, to such a capacity and with such astuteness. I was a bit blown away, but I wasn’t scared. In truth, it was probably so easy for him because he and I were astoundingly similar people. Even then, I remember thinking, damn, he and I are the SAME PERSON - he just happens to be an older man. We went on to share an absolutely magical few months together - like I said, he wanted marriage, babies, me for life - but I wasn’t ready. I told him that if I did commit to all those things, I already knew that 10 years down the road I would grow to resent him. I told him that I had too much life I wanted to live on my own, things I wanted to do. I still needed to truly discover and understand who I was as a person. So, I broke things off with him, too.

It was fairly devastating, and within months, I was reaching back out to him.

We met for dinner one late autumn evening, at our restaurant. I confessed though I wasn’t ready for certain things, I missed him too much. I told him I loved him and wanted to try to make it work. He sighed and said that I had been right though, that ending things was the best and smartest decision for both of our long-term happiness. I left the dinner in a daze, not sure how to feel. How could I love someone so much yet not be able to give him what he wanted and needed? But I knew, deep down, that my initial instinct and decision was the right one, as much as it sucked. So, I accepted, eventually and 30 pounds of weight gain later, that this was it.

Within two years, he was married to someone else, and they had had a child together.

I guess I should have felt rebuffed, like maybe it wasn’t me he wanted, but simply marriage and kids in general. But even if that had been true, for years, he continued to remain all too presently in my heart. I dubbed him the “one that got away”, and my thoughts were constantly consumed by him, by the loss of us.

Over time, it got covered up and buried by layers of new loves, new men, new experiences. But I never forgot him. It was impossible to. Even something as small as those rare moments he would reach out to me on Facebook, even if just to wish me a happy birthday, my heart would race and my breath would momentarily halt. I didn’t want to read in between the few and sparse lines in his messages, but I couldn’t help but secretly hope that that meant he missed me, too. That maybe he still loved me and I was for him, what he was for me, all these years. But it never became anything. He would simply not respond to my responses.

Then, about a month ago now, he invited me out to a bar crawl. I had work late, and a baby shower early, with a few hours to kill in between. So I accepted the invitation.

It had been 8 years since we had seen each other, let alone had a full on conversation. Enough time had passed, and enough dicks had been sucked, that all my subconscious / conscious hopes that maybe this meant SOMETHING had been dulled-down, and finally and fully put aside. I had long since accepted his marriage and come to terms that we were not ever going to be together. So I got to the bar he said they were at, fully expecting to, a) meet his wife, and b) 40-50 people to be there.

Ummm, it was him and one other guy, a best friend/neighbor of his who I had known while Dean and I dated.

I was confused, thinking I missed the crawl. When I inquired, Dean replied it was just them the whole time. I responded with, “Do you know what a bar crawl is?” And then he said something that I thought was surely a joke at first, “Don’t you know this was all just an excuse to see you?” I was flabbergasted. And you KNOW I really was fucking flabbergasted, because I NEVER USE THAT WORD. “Wait, what?” I said, half-laughing, half-choking on my breath and trying not pass out. “Yeah,” he said, totally matter-of-fact and unabashedly, “You know you're a part of me, right? You’re a piece of me. Right here, always.” and pointed to his heart. I was, I’m sure, gaping like a fish, with my half-raised glass of Jameson frozen mid-air in my halted hand. He continued, “I was completely enamored with you. You were my whole life for a time, my whole existence. I didn’t know how to get over you. You’re the one that got away.” Well, right then and there, you could've knocked me over with a feather. I know it took, what, 5 seconds, tops, for my ears to hear and register this declaration, but it felt like a decade once the words got in there because my mind and heart were completely overwhelmed. It was like time stopped in our immediate vicinity, yet continued to move at normal speed beyond our two-person globe. Those words, those words that echoed every sentiment that had rang in my own heart and soul for him for a near-decade, the words I had for 8 years longed to hear but didn’t deign to hope for, were just uttered by his lips. Here they were. Here he was, saying he felt the same I felt for him, that he missed me too, that I was for him what he was for me. And it was the strangest thing.

We all have our friends tell us not to read into texts, calls, whatevers, from ex’s. That it’s all fantasy, an ideal, and not the reality. And for years, I told myself not to do that with him, with his abbreviated and blunt Facebook messages and random, rare comments on my statuses. And yet, every hope I had buried and convinced myself would be silly to believe in, was now here, being professed to me. I honestly did not know how to handle it.

But really, it didnt even matter. The next few hours were pure electricity. We may not have seen each other for 8 years, but it was as if it had only been since yesterday. We’re two peas in a pod, Dean and I; always were, always will be. He, Neighbor Guy, and I shortly thereafter left that bar and hit the town. It was a hilarious night, filled with crazy bartenders named Guido grabbing my butt, bar hopping, getting stoned off our asses from some ridiculously good weed in a cab ride, stumbling into some weird West Village haunt for burgers and fries, and me having to dash off in an Uber to get to work on time. It was a lifetime in those 2 hours, and a beautifully sad and wonderful realization of how powerful we are together, and how that was probably the one last, little window of joy we will share.

Afterwards, I was in euphoria; it lasted nearly a week. But, it wasn’t quite euphoria. I couldn’t, and still cannot, place the feeling. It was closure, in the sense that I learned my feelings were requited. It was rejoicing, in reconnecting with a soul mate. It was sadness, in knowing that though I am ready now for what I was not ready for at 22, that is no longer something Dean and I can have. Though we are, were, and will always be incredible together, us as a couple is a future that simply does not exist in reality. It was happiness, in knowing that someone out there loved and continues to love me in that star-crossed, storybook, Frank-Sinatra-and-Ava-Garnder way that I always dreamed of. But I couldn’t think of a simple, single word to capture that rush of emotions into one. I don’t know if one exists.

What I did know, even that night, was that I didn't have to convince myself that Dean and I will never be together. I know he adores, and is devoted to, his wife and child. But I did have to try to understand why this night happened; why we reconnected and why he was brought back into my life, even if for a few absolutely perfect hours.

The only explanation I could come up with (other than me accepting his “bar crawl” invite, duh) was that I must have been in need of some perspective on my love life. I don’t want to say that after seeing Dean that night, that I looked back on the past 8 years of my romantic involvements and realized it was all a fucking joke. But yeah, I kinda looked back on the past 8 years of my romantic involvements and realized it was all a fucking joke. Here’s the thing: when I was 22, Dean made an indelible mark on my life and soul. He was the first man, even the first person, that made me realize what I am looking for in a life partner: someone who accepts and appreciates the entirety of my being, the good and the terrible, no matter what. No one had ever given me that before. He was also the first man that made me even realize that I am looking for things in a man, outside of sex, that there are other things that I need and want in a relationship.

After we ended, I certainly did not forget that, but I think over time, definitely in recent years, I sort of forgot what that real magic feels like, and I was willing to overlook what’s important to me for the merest semblance of that feeling. Being with Dean that night slapped me in the face that way. It sharpened my clouded, blurred vision and put me back on track: THAT is what I am looking for, that connection and chemistry, and not just with anyone, but with the right one, someone who is actually a good person. THAT is how I want to be treated; like a lady, with care, with love and adoration til it’s coming out of both our ears, and not to make concessions or sacrifices. THAT is what I want to share- that banter, that wit, no holds barred and no fear, understanding each other and appreciating every second that we have together, because we both appreciate and accept who the other person is.

This is something I’ve known for some time now, but my night with Dean sort of reaffirmed it: just because they are the love of your life, does not mean you physically spend your lives together. I know that is the unfortunate case for Dean and myself; I’ve tried to cry about it since then, and find that I cannot bring myself to tears. Because that knowledge doesn’t have to be sad, tragic, or something to mourn; experiencing something that incredible and special is something to be treasured and something to fill your heart, not break it. Some people are lucky; they get the timing right and spend their lives in every way with that person. But if you happen to be one of the unlucky bastards who doesn’t, let the experience fill you and build you. It’s a pretty wonderful thing knowing that you and another person will always be a part of each other, in a beautiful and indelible way.

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.