Posts tagged ‘Sexual intercourse’

The Green Eyed Monster

A bowl of kalamata olives.

Image via Wikipedia

It’s raining outside – finally we received some much needed rain this week. Rain seems appropriate for my mopey weekend. I am allowing myself an entire weekend to mope. It’s a luxury. I am going to sit around the house and do nothing but feel sorry for myself for the next two days. I am going to sleep late, neglect to shower, nap often. I ate an entire can of black olives, using nothing but my fingers, out of the can. I’ve eaten Triscuits with Easy Cheese. Later, I plan to pop microwave popcorn with real butter and eat the entire bag by myself. I will not so much as share a kernel with my dog. I may watch Legends of the Fall three times back to back just to purposely make myself good and miserable. I would cry, but in truth, I am not a very good cryer. I can’t do it to avoid speeding tickets or to show heartache. I sleep a lot when I’m upset, so I will do a lot of sleeping this weekend, and when I get done sleeping I will get ready to at least act happy again on Monday morning.

You might be curious as to what prompted Self Pity Fest. Well, it goes something like this. Have you ever had a friend of the opposite sex that you thought there was a mutual attraction going on with and then found out rather suddenly and abruptly that the attraction was more on your end than on his? Or perhaps even totally one sided? I just bet you have. I bet this has happened to you more than once. I usually consider myself to be a very intelligent and intuitive woman. And now I am feeling foolish because I will admit that in my previous ignorance and arrogance I actually imagined that my friend liked me more than I liked him.

There were plenty of “signs.” A friend of mine who had seen us interact would have sworn on a stack of bibles that he was nuts about me. And as long as I felt like I had the upper hand, so to speak, emotionally, I was supremely confident about the friendship. I could have continued to live in this state of rosy oblivion for months or years. In truth, when it comes to these things I am not any more intuitive than anyone else. I see what I want to see, and I hear what I want to hear. This blindsided me. Not only was I completely oblivious to my friend’s actual feelings, I was not even self-aware. Until it happened.

I won’t get into details, but over Labor Day weekend, my friend ended up flirting with a girlfriend of mine who was visiting from out of town. If we were really “just” friends this shouldn’t have bothered me, but the truth was that it did. Very much. I thought I had done a good job of hiding my distress. On the cab ride home from downtown, me tipsy, him drunky drunk, he accused me of pimping him out to my girlfriend. I imagined that he had wanted to make me jealous. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

I went home the next day and stewed over my jealousy. What did it mean? Was I going to have to confront it? Should I? Would our friendship survive a confrontation of this nature? Regardless, after seeking the counsel of both Katina and another male friend I came to the conclusion that a confession was necessary, and that if the friendship were to survive, I would need some space. Trust me. Space is necessary because I do not take rejection at all well. I will say something so hurtful to you that you will wish I would have skinned you alive and dropped you into a cauldron of boiling hot oil instead. I especially do not like feeling foolish, and if I am scorned in a manner that makes me feel foolish, then I pity the man who ever changes his mind and decides he wants me. Because you only fool me once.

The confession went like this. I embarrassed myself and then humiliated myself while he sat there and listened. That was pretty much how it worked. Awkward doesn’t begin to describe it. Naturally, since I inspire undying platonic devotion in both straight and gay men (a blessing and a curse), he was hurt by the idea that he wouldn’t be able to see me for awhile. And worried that awhile might translate into forever. It won’t be forever. Just long enough for me to gain perspective, maybe get a little crush going on someone else, possibly get laid, although I gotta say that I have offers but the prospects in that department are less than satisfactory.

And that is the story of my mopey weekend. It’s nothing new or original, something people the world over have gone through probably since cavemen “invented” fire. The good news is that this time the guy I wasted my affections on wasn’t gay or a jerk. I consider that progress. Maybe at the rate I’m going I will find a man who isn’t gay or a jerk and who actually returns my feelings by the age of fifty. One can dare to dream.

September 13, 2009 at 2:00 pm Leave a comment

Sex Among Friends

Cover of "The Stud"

Cover of The Stud

Some of you are no doubt wondering what happened with the stud from The Morning After (see There’s Got to Be a Morning After). The answer to that question is that he’s still around, just hanging out and remaining anonymous, and I have a certain duty to protect his identity. Otherwise there’d be a line around the block for his services. I’m certain he couldn’t handle all the attention my tiny blog would get him.

Seriously, I broke that cardinal rule of all rules that you aren’t supposed to have sex with your friends. According to “When Harry Met Sally,” it changes everything. According to the prevailing belief structure of the moment, it has a tendency to ruin everything. I am familiar with the concept of Friends with Benefits, having done the concept on a couple different occasions. To be honest, however, my first Friend with Benefits was a friend in name only, someone with whom I did not feel I could converse with on my level and someone for whom I, sadly, had little respect.

The second experience with Friends with Benefits was better from the standpoint of the quality of the conversation and the relationship, but being honest I realize that the level of affection in that relationship was hideously skewed. He was one of those rare animals that should be studied in cages at a zoo: a man who was incapable of having a sexual relationship with a woman without falling in love with her. I guess that makes me a heartless, calculating, opportunistic young woman who was only out for one thing.

For those of you that haven’t maybe talked with me in a while, what happened with The Stud was this. Neither of us wanted to be in a serious relationship. We were very good friends, something we had been worried about preserving both before and after IT happened. So, even though I offered The Stud the supposed Holy Grail of All Relationships – Sex Without Strings – he turned me down flat. I’m not certain whether it was to preserve his feelings or mine. Regardless, it was the right call. Having sex with someone can produce feelings, and it does change things. Maybe not everything. But enough. Now when I look at my friend I see someone with whom I’ve had sex. I see him in that context. What’s done cannot be undone.

Have things been awkward on occasion since then? I think that’s to be expected. Once, an unfortunate turn of phrase he made when I was suffering from pre-menstrual syndrome threatened to make me weepy during a phone conversation. I am very fortunate in that my friend makes the effort to communicate with me and clear the air whenever he thinks it needs to be done. With a few minor hiccups, we’ve been able to maintain the quality of our friendship and move on. Am I sorry IT happened? Would I take it back if I could? No, it was a very beautiful memory. It was, for me, a moving experience. The second time it happened it was the end of a perfect day. Even though I know that we are not compatible as a couple AND (what really pisses me off) there will be no more good nookie, I am not sorry it happened. I cannot tell a lie.

June 27, 2009 at 2:52 pm Leave a comment

The Rat Bastard – The Final Chapter

Jason Castro warming up in the batter's box fo...

Image via Wikipedia

Soon after our next to the last breakup I moved in with my last roommate, a woman I will refer to as The Train Wreck. Before we were going to move in together she insisted on meeting me for drinks at Baby A’s because she had something to tell me. By that time, Rat and I hadn’t been broken up for very long, and I think this was our second breakup. We maintained a friendship. Maybe you can guess what Train just had to tell me before I moved in with her, but I did not see this coming. She told me that she wanted me to know that during our last breakup, she and Rat had slept together.

Since we were broken up at the time, he was perfectly free to have sex with whomever he wanted, and since it was a one time thing I wondered why Train didn’t just keep this news to herself. Just why was a purging of her conscience necessary? And the truth is that it wasn’t. This woman wanted to hurt me. And she was successful on that score.

I did get upset. Besides the obvious, I got upset that when we had gotten back together after that breakup, I had questioned him, in the interest of my sexual health, about whether or not he had had sex with someone while we were broken up. He told me he hadn’t, and when I called him from my cell phone at Baby A’s to chew his ass out, he insisted that the only reason that he never mentioned it was because it would have upset me for no reason. Call me cynical, but I think the reason he failed to mention it was because he didn’t want to wear condoms again for the next six months. The truth is that if he had just been upfront with me in the first place I wouldn’t have been that upset. Would I have been a teensy bit jealous? Yeah. That’s normal. But I would have gotten over it.

And even after this fiasco/soap opera scene, Rat and I did get back together one last time. It didn’t last long. Maybe two months. And during that time, he got down on bended knee and asked me to marry him. There was no ring. I didn’t need or want one, but Rat insisted that I would have one. Even right after this happened, in my state of happiness at the prospect of spending the rest of my life with the Rat Bastard I loved, I told The Train Wreck that he would never marry me. I’m psychic like that.

The end came like this. The Rat Bastard was over at Train’s and my place for an evening meal. Afterward we were sitting in the courtyard together, enjoying the autumn weather at sunset. I was sipping on a glass of white wine. He said he had something to tell me. I wondered if it was along the lines of the time that he admitted to having told me some whopper lies when we first got together. Lies like the one about the non-existent older brother who died in Vietnam or the time he spent playing minor league baseball were what I was expecting.

What he had to tell me was that he would still marry me and that he loved me, but that he was pretty sure now that he was gay. Lately, he felt almost exclusively sexually attracted to men. He had to have sex with another man. He had to have the freedom to do that. So, if I would just look the other way, he promised he would never have sex with another woman. Only men.

In truth, this should not have shocked me. Our sex life had been lacking one thing for me recently: frequency. I had bitched about it and bitched about it. I could have done it every day. More often than not, he had an excuse for why he couldn’t. He was tired. The headache cliché for us was when he started getting these whopper headaches whenever he came. That dried us up for awhile, as did the stroke he thought he nearly had once while we were fucking.

If he was exclusively sexually attracted to men, I questioned him, then just how did he manage what must have been the chore of having sex with me? Did he have to close his eyes and pretend I was someone else? He admitted to something along those lines and then when I continued to dig for more information, he said, “Why are you torturing yourself?” It was a good point. I gotta wonder. After all, the issue was his. It wasn’t mine. My only crime in this scenario was being a woman, something that in and of itself makes me desirable to approximately 90% of the male population. But to me there was something particularly hurtful about the idea of him having to imagine someone else in order to perform. To this day, I’ve never had to imagine that I was having sex with anyone other than the person with whom I was actually having sex.

I told him to get out. So, he left. He came back five minutes later because he left his wallet inside the house. Even losing the love of your life becomes a comical moment. On this week’s episode of, “Here’s Lucy,” Lucy breaks up with her gay boyfriend after he asks her to look the other way while he has anonymous public restroom sex with strangers. I didn’t say a word to him. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I never did. I sipped my white wine and read my book. Then I slipped quietly back into the house and went to sleep. A week later he was sleeping with the same ex girlfriend whose garage he had once lived in.

June 9, 2009 at 10:54 am 1 comment

There’s Got to Be A Morning After

I had sex. And by that I mean that I had sex recently, not that I’ve had sex in my lifetime. I had sex for the first time in a really long time. It happened about a month ago. And then again another week or so later. Not just two times but two incidents. Just to clarify. And it had been so long since that sort of thing had happened to me that there was something surreal about the whole experience, both times. It unfolded like a dream, and I don’t think I can blame that entirely on the drugs. Unless the prescriptions I’m on for being a walking genetic time bomb can cause one to hallucinate.

I had sex. Did I mention that I had sex? I think I may have typed something about it, but I feel the need to repeat it in order to solidify the concept. I had sex. I had great sex. Knock the cobwebs out of my hoo-ha, send the bats flying out of my love cave, first time in a long time, Glory, Glory, Hallelujah sex. I feel like I should write, seal, stamp and mail the guy a Thank You note. That’s how good it was.

Obviously, this event was unplanned, and as it would happen, my partner had not had sex in a while, either. The most obvious evidence that this event was unplanned was the quality of the underwear I was not wearing as I was having sex. I am so not the planned seductress. When the time came for the actual big moment, I felt the need to disclose that I am not on hormonal birth control (see reference above about walking genetic time bomb status if you were wondering why), or, indeed, any birth control at all. So, there we are in the heat of the moment, in the middle of this lovely, cloudy, warm erotic dream, on the cusp of doing it (Please, God, now!) when we discover that neither one of us actually owns a condom. This is bad.

So, we did what most people usually do in situations like this, unless they decide to scrap having sex altogether, or, rather, he did what most couples in this situation do. And at some point during our evening, which was multi-eventful, if you catch my drift, it occurred to me that there was always Plan B, or the Morning After Pill. This was something I would have purchased anyway, being the sort of person who is generally a responsible person, all evidence to the contrary thus far not withstanding. Not only do I not want to get pregnant, I cannot get pregnant on any of the medicines I take (see again, reference to being a walking genetic time bomb, from both paragraphs one and three above). I would most likely deliver THE THING THAT LOOKS LIKE A HORRIBLE MUTATION OF THE LAWS OF NATURE. Do you remember V: The Miniseries? Enough said.

So, the next morning, having thought of this pharmaceutical solution to our dilemma, I encouraged my partner to enjoy himself fully. He did not, which I am truly sorry for, but I understand why he didn’t. He may not have even heard me mention my fabulous idea or he may not have wanted to have to trust the next eighteen years of his life on my ability to buy and swallow two tiny pills within the next 72 hours. Don’t blame him. I don’t want to raise the lizard baby from V, either.

Buy the pills and swallow them I did. The next day, not even a full twenty-four hours later, I was at my neighborhood Walgreens, walking to the counter to whisper, shamefacedly, that I needed that Plan B thing. The girl behind the counter must have been used to this, because she smiled in a reassuring manner and asked to see my identification to prove that I am at least eighteen years of age. I find this comforting. I might be a walking genetic time bomb but still look young enough to be too young to decide whether or not I want to become a mother. My actual age is old enough to be the mother of a daughter who can legally purchase her own Plan B.

You might ask, what does peace of mind cost you in this situation? For $50 I purchased my period for the month of May, 2009. That’s not counting hygiene products. While I was at the drug store I also purchased condoms just in case I should get lucky again in the future. Three of them cost me less than $5, and you can purchase them over the counter without having to show your ID. I’m really glad there is a Plan B, but I hope I never have to take it again.

June 6, 2009 at 1:10 pm Leave a comment


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