Addiction, Awkward Moments, Bad Influences, Boys, Confessions, Girls, Open relationships, Sex, Writing, yoga

How Open Is Too Open?

images-75I never know how I will feel about things until they actually happen.

While I’m no longer chasing an open relationship (as in sex parties, multiple partners, monthly STD tests) I still need an open relationship (as in communication, trust, those other pervy emotional things I’ve only ever heard rumors about), and it feels kinky and dangerous, telling Connecticut everything. Especially this week, when everything includes the stimulating fact that I made out with an epically hot girl from yoga in the bathroom of a Cuban restaurant.

Openness. It’s a theme this week. A few days ago, I found out something about Sketch. I can’t write it here, because it’s a secret. A sad sex secret. His friend told me because he thought I knew already, and then I had to pretend to be cool while we finished dinner with my heart kicking at my ribcage. Nearly fifteen years I’ve been walking around not knowing this grubby piece of information, and when I found out, it felt like when you think there’s one more step at the top of staircase, but there’s not, and for a half-second you feel like you’re plummeting to your death. Sketch’s friend, realizing I didn’t know: Oh. Fuck. Don’t tell him that I told you. I wouldn’t want him to think that I was a tattletale. I fucking hate when someone has a sordid secret and they tell you and now it’s your sordid secret. And I can’t even follow up the way I want to, which at some elemental level would basically consist of me pointing my index finger at Sketch while making disbelief noises.

Clearly, it’s not something Sketch is advertising, so the compassionate thing is to let it go. But I need to tell someone, and so I tell Connecticut, and even though we are talking about my ex, he is able to listen and suggest a kinder perspective than the one I was initially able to take.

This is one reason why I am in love with him. I love you, I say right into the phone, right where he can hear me. Holy shit, I love you, waking up next to him in the middle of the night and realizing that he’s there with me. Texting: I loooooove yooooouuuuuu, because I think it’s funny that I get to say it all I want, after wanting to say it so badly all these weeks.

A relationship of openness. It’s amazing.  Because there are some things going on, and I need to talk about them.

 

images-76And now for a dirty confession: I have a weakness for small, beautiful women.  Back when I lived in New Orleans, I lived in a rented room over a bar, and I would sometimes go downstairs and look for the tiniest woman in the bar. If she didn’t protest too much, I would carry her upstairs where I could kiss her and squeeze her ass a lot in private. Women this small and beautiful and willing don’t wander into grabbing range that often, especially now that I don’t hang out in bars and strip clubs anymore, so I usually am just nursing one crush or another at my yoga studio. I’ve written about it before as being a pastime akin to a dog chasing rabbits in the backyard—it doesn’t expect to catch one. The playful chase is the point.

Well, one got close enough for me to grab this week. Beautiful, tiny, all taut stomach and dewy skin, the kind of shapely legs you want to get your knee between. Gorgeous.   The kind of girl you know will taste good.   And looking for something.   Looking for an experience.

Now, I have to tell you: this never happens. NEVER. N-E-V-E-R happens. But this one time, the thing that never happens actually happens and after a few drinks, there is an invitation to go lock the door of the single-occupant bathroom at the back of the restaurant and make out for a few delicious minutes next to the hand-dryer. Grabbing tight handfuls of this girl, grinding myself against her, touching her body not only on my behalf but on behalf of former Tippy, who I am mentally elbowing. Check it out, I say to my former self. Get a load of this.

She is tight and sexy and tastes wonderfully like girl, but when I head home, texting Connecticut goodnight, I feel a strange emotion that is not my usual acquisitive glee. It feels like guilt.   What the shit? It was just a kiss, and with a girl. To not kiss a girl this unbelievably hot would be like this would be like leaving money on the table. Wasteful. Right?

But the next day, the feeling is still there. I think I might feel better if I could just show everybody a picture of this girl in full-split on Instagram.  I mean, Connecticut and I are officially an item now, but come on. This girl is sex in yoga pants, and I am a sex addict, for fuck’s sake. Who could possibly blame me for wanting to push her up against a wall and touch her body?

So that happened is an expression I sort of hate. It makes it sound as if the events we set in motion are like weather patterns, ungovernable and unpredictable.   When I think about what I want to say to Connecticut about what happened with this girl in the bathroom, I write it just happened, and then cross it out three times.

What did you want to tell me? he asks the next night. He and I are on the phone and it’s late and I’m sitting on the floor. I read him my prepared statement, trying to sound like I’m not reading a prepared statement. I just wanted to let you know what happened, and hear about how you feel, I conclude, increasingly uneasy at the mounting silence on the other end of the line. Men are into this kind of shit, aren’t they?   Don’t they always want the details? I mean, it was a girl, not some dude. Not my ex.

Sexist goddamned double-standards, and I know it, too.

I’m not OK with that, he says quietly. And I know that I have fucked up. And it’s weird, because all I usually care about, ever, is whether or not I am in trouble, whether or not somebody is mad at me. And there’s a lot of that now, but mostly what I feel is horror when I realize that I have hurt him.

And I say all the things: I’m sorry, it won’t happen again, I didn’t know, we hadn’t gotten clear on what our rules were, I suck, I’m sorry.   And still he is hurt.

So basically this week, I told him I loved him for the first time, called him my boyfriend, and immediately went out and cheated on him. I am literal human garbage.

So yeah. That happened. Now I’m waiting to see if we’re going to be OK, and when I wake up this morning at 4:30 because some alarm is going off down the street, I pull the pillows over my head like I want to bury myself.

Giving up, I get out of bed and make my way to the kitchen with a drag-footed gallows walk. And there is a text waiting for me on my phone from Connecticut, from the night before. I’m about to go to sleep and these are things you might need to read in the morning. Breathe. You’re okay, I’m okay. We’re okay and going to be great. I love you.

My goal now is to figure out how to actually deserve this man. You’re okay, I tell myself. You’ll make better mistakes tomorrow. I try to believe it. There is air in the open space between us, and I breathe it, nervously.

 

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Addiction, Breakups, dating, Open relationships, Sex, Writing

What Size Is Average

FullSizeRender-24Connecticut, the love of my life, describes the size of his dick as average, and that’s when I realize I have no idea whatsoever what that means anymore.

My frame of reference is completely bent; I no longer know from normal. My ex-boyfriend Sketch has one of those dicks you tell your friends about in the hushed tones reserved for talking about men who come with a kickstand. The kind of dick to launch a blog over. Big. Too big for me, if I’m being totally honest. I know they say all cars fit in the garage, but I suspect that they are men who’ve never had something rammed against their cervix a few hundred times like a medieval war instrument.

A few weeks ago, back before I decided to stop making the same mistakes, I was over at Sketch’s studio, and he was telling me something I wasn’t particularly interested in, and eventually he asked why I was so distracted. He wasn’t wearing any pants, and even flaccid, there is a lot of him to consider. I told him truthfully that I was thinking about his dick, and he got annoyed. He says I’m too obvious sometimes.

I get home from Greece this week and Connecticut comes over to return my pet rabbit. He babysat her while I was away, because he’s a an actual nice person that you can trust with things. Upstairs, the rabbit does frantic homecoming laps of the familiar furniture, and Connecticut takes me to bed, and we don’t climb out until many, many orgasms later, when it is dark and my hair is a storm cloud, and we’re both so dehydrated that our legs cramp. Is it average to have four hours of sex on a Tuesday? I have a suspicion that the answer is no, but this is exactly how much attention I require. I also need sleep, jet-lagged all the way to my soul, but still we reach for each other, for one more orgasm, begging the clock for a few more minutes. In between rounds, we trade minutiae of the day, swap jokes. Why does a walrus like Tupperware? Answer: he’s always looking for a tight seal. I don’t want him to leave. I wrap my yoga-solid legs around him and squeeze. A tight seal.

He tells me that while I was in Greece, he went out with a girl for coffee. Sort of a test, he says. He’s trying to feel around the outlines of this unconfirmed, unlabeled relationship we have, to see what his own boundaries are. Does he want other people? I just want you, it’s mostly just you, he says in the dark.

I check to see if I am jealous of his coffee date, and I am not. Mostly. Mostly just you. That’s how I feel too. I called Sketch after I got back from Greece, and he bailed on a meeting to come out and talk to me. We exchange rapid-fire news until he has to go back in, promising to call me later. He doesn’t, and that’s fine, because I am in bed trying for a new record with Connecticut. After a certain number of orgasms, it kind of starts to hurt a little. And still, I need his skin on my skin, his body rocking mine.

It’s mostly Connecticut, and we are sliding towards a label here, but I will see Sketch on Saturday, and I haven’t decided if I will sleep with him or not.  I can’t get right with the thought that I may be saying goodbye to his ridiculously outsized penis. Or, of course, to him. When I think about not talking to him anymore, I feel the way you would feel if you had to watch your childhood home burn to the ground. It’s not that I needed to live in that place, it’s just that’s the place where I learned to write my name, where I keep all the totems of my smaller, clumsier self.

But it doesn’t matter. Sketch asked me a long time ago, back when we decided to see other people but to still sleep with each other, to let him know if things change, and things have changed.

I still haven’t told Connecticut that I love him; I may end up telling Sketch first. It would be easier, in some ways, to tell Sketch.

What I have with Connecticut is not an average relationship, but then my average relationship was always purportedly monogamous, the kind of monogamy where you claim someone hard and fast right up front at the beginning, mine, the way some kids will lick an entire candy bar so no one else can ask for a bite.   My average relationship: a chocolate shell of promises filled with a creamy nougat of serial cheating. Greedy and impatient, I’ve cheated on most of the people I’ve called boyfriends. Sketch has the same issue; we told one another right up front all those years ago, when we first met—I’m bad at fidelity.

Connecticut isn’t demanding monogamy. He’s not demanding anything. But I love him, and it makes me want to do things for him that are hard, like go out on epic quests where I wrestle sea monsters, or tougher still, where I don’t sleep with everyone. Behind his back, I secretly call him my boyfriend. He tells me that he told his dad about me, and I am inordinately proud of this fact, that someone’s dad knows my name. We tell each other: you are my favorite.

The things other people call normal can feel strangely subversive. Connecticut comes over on a Monday after work, and takes off his tie while I finish making dinner, and I may as well be wearing a latex tuxedo and a strap-on for how perverted and strange it feels, to do these regular domestic things. Part of my personality looks on in horror and dismay, wondering what is happening here, where I have gone and when I will be coming back, and  also why I am smiling so much these days.

They say the definition of insanity is repeating the same things and expecting different results.   A friend of mine has it needlepointed on a pillow: Make better mistakes tomorrow.

I want to tell you something, I tell him after dinner. But I want to tell you in my room, in bed. I want to tell him in the dark: that I don’t mean it anymore, what I told him two months ago about not wanting to be in a relationship, with him or with anyone.   Things are different now, I tell him. Because I love you.

Is it an average thing, to simply find someone you want to cook dinner for and be naked with, who will tell you that they love you too? Who will love you even after you declare that you are a monster, one who still wants to fuck girls and who thrives on attention from men like it’s sunlight, who hasn’t quite let her ex go all the way, who ruins things, who is crooked and weird and broken?.

Fuck it. If these are average things and wanting them makes me less interesting, so be it. There will still be stories. There will always be stories. And at least I know that if I ruin everything, and if he leaves me, I will write about it until I can breathe again.

 

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Animals, Awkward Moments, Books, dating, Death, essays, Grief, Open relationships, Sex, Uncategorized

Dig Up Your Pets

images-72My affair with Sketch is the longest, distance-est relationship I’ve ever had. He’s just across the river in Manhattan, but he may as well be ten thousand miles away, living in some place where the toilet flushes in the other direction and people eat with things that are not forks. It’s Distance: things happen over there and I only get the reportorial headlines. His cat died on Tuesday, that skinny black rag of a feline that for a decade jumped up and insinuated itself under the covers every time Sketch and I were done fucking, the cat that served as my favorite metaphor for our weird relationship and as a reason to be glad we no longer lived together. I never could sleep right with it walking on my pillow.

But it is sad, of course it is sad, and I should be there with him, but I’m not, I’m just working, and I get in trouble for using my cellphone before my students have left. After work I go uptown to find him, trying to strike the right balance of sympathy and nonchalance, knowing he will recoil if I overdo it. He’s hurting but I strike all the pathos from my voice, buy him a tuna melt at the diner, try not to cry. I think that the diner is playing all my favorite music, and I amazed that a midtown diner would have such an awesome playlist until I realize that actually the music is coming out the tinny speakers of my phone in my handbag, not from overhead. As with all things, it takes a disturbingly long time to realize this.

I’m planning to go home with him, to help him with all the depressing chores that one has to do after bringing home an empty cat carrier from the Humane Society, but he says he wants to be alone, and so I hug him and leave him on the corner and go back to my own selfish pursuits, trying not to think about the cat.

 

When Sketch and I first met, that cat was a kitten; the length of our relationship was something’s lifetime. But I guess that can be said of anything, even thimages-73e week I was wrapped up with the hot Roman journalist who lives down the street from me. There are plenty of things that only live for a few days.

But everyone’s favorite illusion is that you can find something with someone that will last forever. And there is irresistible sweetness to that idea; witness last Sunday, when I dance with Sketch at a close friend’s wedding. Our knees bump because I am a terrible dancer unless my partner is a pole. I tell Sketch that I love him, my throat a little tight, because I am oversensitive and I cry at sentimental things like weddings or when you put glasses on a baby and it sees clearly for the first time. I like to claim that I never cry, while unconsciously flexing my biceps, but this is a lie. I well up all the time, eyes big and wet, I’m just good at pushing that shit back down.

Sketch and I sneak off to go explore the reception hall, and to our delight we find the room for staged photographs: a fake fireplace with coat of arms, a bridge with mock foliage and trellis, a home with a white picket fence so that one person can pretend to be carrying the other over the phony threshold. I could stay in this room forever, pretending. Pretending that I am only pretending.

A friend sidles up to me after the bride and groom take the dance floor together and tells me, inclining her chin at Sketch, that I need to cut the cord, and I tell her that I can’t.   “He is disturbingly charming,” she admits. I love to watch how smoothly he enters and exits conversations; whatever table he is at, that will be the fun table. People defect from their own tables, carrying their chairs over. I asked him about it once, and he told me it’s because he is genuinely interested in people and people like it when you are interested in them.

The bride, her face so beautiful it looks airbrushed, tosses the bouquet over her shoulder and I stand on the side, out of range, partially because I am mortified when I try to catch something and miss and partially because these are not the things I long for, children and marriage. It’s kind of nice to go home alone and read this biography of Joan of Arc that I’m really into and fall asleep under the electric blanket without worrying that anyone else will dream they are burning to death. Joan of Arc: her virginity didn’t protect her from shit.

This week I will talk to Sketch and I will tell him a little about what’s going on with Connecticut, and we will see what is what. “We’re bad at being together,” Sketch says. “But we’re fucking horrible at being apart.”

What are you going to do, people have been asking me since my last blog post, as if I know the ending to this whole story and am just keeping everyone in suspense.   I do not know what I will do, and I do not know why I am not more bothered by not knowing.   Everything has an outcome eventually, and then I will be just as surprised as you. Maybe someone comes to a dramatic realization at the end while standing on a mountaintop. Maybe someone dies at the end, a person or a cat, or maybe everything explodes. Or maybe it is one of those endings where nothing really happens and you’re left with the sense that someone just got tired of writing about it, and stopped.

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Blogging, dating, Open relationships, Winning after a breakup, Writing

This Is the Exact Moment When You Blew It, Part I

images-50Everyone knows that dating after a breakup is totally a competition. Sketch is clearly winning; he’s been fielding a steady stream of offers from beautiful women who want him to forget about me. Why do I possess this information? Because Sketch finally read the blog, and because he shared with me in return; I had forgotten all about quid pro quo.

For the last year, I have been worrying about what Sketch would think, when he finally read my work. Would he think I had been fair to him? Would he feeI unjustly, if not unkindly, exposed? Would the outpouring of affection for his adorability embarrass him mightily, the way it does when I sometimes I hang off him in public, prompting people to say things like “He’s not going off to war”? Would he ask me to stop writing about him? Would he start generating if/then statements until I made a choice? And what would he think about all these other men I’ve applied verbs to, the ones I’ve been having sex with and it occasionally not being completely awful?

I need to say, I give him props for reading my work at all. I don’t think I would, were I in his position.   It’s not that I lack curiosity, it’s that my prevailing defense mechanism is one of willful ignorance. If I were Bluebeard’s wife, I would still be living in marital bliss, the forbidden cupboard full of heads unexplored.   I’m not one to go opening drawers or journals. Too scary.

“Well, what did you think?” I ask him faintly. My stomach has that we-just-crested-a-big- hill-in-our-car feeling. We are sitting in Union Square park by the statue of Lincoln, and mice and sparrows are peeping out of the hedges like something from a Disney cartoon, only more verminous. They want the croissant I am picking to pieces with my fingers.

He tells me that my writing is funny. He tells me it is good. He tells me it was hard to read about some of the things that happened to me, my misadventures in dating, the many people who disappear or who disappoint.   He then goes on to tell me about some of the people he’s been seeing, some of whom did not disappear, some of whom were not disappointing.

This is only fair. Everyone understands the playground rule: if I show you mine under the slide, you are obligated to show me yours.  I’m not sure what I even said back: a lot of “hmm!” and “wow” and “really!”

Of course, not being stupid, I knew he was seeing other people even after we started having this weekly Sunday meet-up.   Maybe it wouldn’t bother me so much if it wasn’t for the fact that I haven’t been seeing anyone since Dig, and that was nine million years ago. Or a month, take your pick.   All I know is that there is a howling void of WANT between my legs like something out of Lovecraft. It is going to grow tentacles and begin fending for itself. But I’ve been waiting, waiting to see what happens with Sketch. Now he shares enough details about these women that I can no longer pretend they are not real, details I will not share here because they are not my stories to tell.

We go to see The Martian, a movie about an astronaut who gets inconveniently left behind someplace harsh and uninhabitable, and even sitting cozily next to Sketch with my skinny fingers woven in between his thick ones, I identify with that abandoned feeling. Even with my leg against his leg, I am breathtakingly alone, and I can’t seem to get enough air.

I’m returning to my old worry, the one that says I am too selfish to be in a relationship with anyone. Sketch and I both need to pee, and as we don’t want to lose our seats in the hot and overcrowded Manhattan theater, he chivalrously offers that I go first. I stop for popcorn on the way back before leisurely returning sometime later, and he blinks incredulously at me; I realize I am basically a horrible person who deserves to be abandoned on Mars because I still only think about myself most of the time. I am the kind of person, it seems, who will leave you needing to pee while I dally at the self-serve butter station, and I find this deeply disappointing and depressing about myself.

Afterwards we go to Coffee Shop for dinner, where the waiters and waitresses are so good looking they make you kind of angry. You could trap one forever in a mirrored room; he would never want to leave. It’s the perfect backdrop for the ensuing conversation.

“So, what are we doing?” he asks.

“Finding salads, and eating them,” is not the answer he wants. Nor is he buying my whole idea, taken from a dear friend of mine, that maybe we don’t figure it out, that maybe we come and we get to find out. I like this idea, that the answers will just reveal themselves in the fullness of time.

I ask him what he thinks. He lets me know: he’s been enjoying spending time with women who are into him. He believes I’m not as into him as I so heartily profess, because if I were, then I would do more of what he wants me to do, and not be so irritatingly, stubbornly centered on doing the things that I want to do.

The open-relationship idea surfaces again, because maybe we are both so attached to the freedom that we have when we are not together. And maybe we need to make our own relationship model, because we sure as shit aren’t going to conform to anyone else’s. Or maybe I would agree to anything at this point to get his hands back on me again, some sense of him being mine again.

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In case your day did not have any fucking rabbits in it.

WYSD got picked up on Vol. 1 Brooklyn this week!   Check it out.

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