So I've been in Spain and have neglected this blog (for a reason I will mention in a minute) and the tumblr blog I created SOLELY for my Spain experience. I just suck at this stuff.
But the reason that I haven't posted on here is because...I've been a nun for the past semester.
Seriously though.
I flew off to Europe looking for adventure, and I got it, but whilst wearing a pretty thick chastity belt.
I had sex for about 5 minutes with a guy (plays the guitar, so I'm 10 for 10 now?), and he looked frighteningly similar to another partner I've had. He was in some of my classes, so we stayed friends for the rest of the semester. I like that stuff. I get uncomfortable if a guy is weird after we do it. Be chill, man.
Before I left though, at the end of the summer, I had sex with the Irishman who had taken care of me after July. It was probably the greatest sex I've ever had (I'm biased- the Irish are the greatest in everything). But, uh, we had sex on a ship. A pirate ship, to be specific. The boat was made for touring kids around the bay, and the Irishman happened to work as a pirate on the ship. This was one of the riskiest things I've ever done, to be honest.
But it was quite romantic; we drunkenly walked down the empty streets of Hyannis, talking of Henry James and James Joyce, stopping to kiss, and found ourselves down at the marina. We stood on the dock, looked out at the water and the full moon (fuck, this shit's getting mushy), and then we snuck on the boat and had wicked wonderful intercourse. And right as he was finishing, a flashlight shined over us.
Shit.
The harbor patrol.
We froze, and I prepared for my first arrest and the horror on my parents' faces.
But, the young guard (God bless 'im), just shook his head and said,
"It's fine guys, just...get off the boat".
We pulled on our clothes and ran for our lives.
When we got back to the house full of all the Irish friends, we got in bed and he spooned me until I had to leave for work the next day. It was probably the biggest movie-like romance sequence I've ever had in my life. One of my favorites, hands down.
I probably fell in love with him.
Anyway, the goodbye we had at the end of the summer was a bit anti-climactic; it was a phone call and I was in the entryway of a Bank of America. He said goodbye, it was nice meeting me, and I should visit Ireland sometime (no shit, my family lives there, sooo).
I flew off to Spain and had 5 minute sex blah blah blah. Then I went to Ireland for the All-Ireland Hurling Final. I would be staying with one of the Irish girls I had worked with this summer, and I'd be seeing a lot of them during the weekend. I'd messaged the Irishman about my visit, weeks before, and he never responded. Oh well.
So we go to Dublin, where the population is a little over a million.
We're walking down some random street to get a cab to the stadium, and who do I make eye contact with?
The fucking Irishman. We're crossing the crosswalk to him. Both my friend and I are absolutely, utterly, shocked. I was shocked and all I could do was laugh. What were the chances? So we chat for a few minutes, and he agrees to take me on a tour of the city after the game. I get his number and get in the cab with the girls. We start to drive away, and I look down at my phone.
I had forgotten to save the number.
I didn't save the number.
I didn't. Save. The fucking. Number.
Because I had just singlehandedly fucked up an unbelievably serendipitous event, I went into a catatonic shock I had never experienced before. My limbs went numb, I could only say the word, "fuck" (literally, I was stuttering "ffffuck, f-uuck, FUCK" for the whole taxi ride), and when we arrived at the stadium, I felt sick to my stomach. Completely ill.
No one we were with really knew him, let alone his phone number or any sort of mutual friends. He didn't use Facebook regularly, so social media wasn't an option either.
The game was finished and I went off to my hostel while my friends went back to their home counties. They told me they'd keep trying to find a way to find his number. These girls really are some of the greatest friends.
Meanwhile, I'm getting scuttered on cider in a pub, by myself. I waltz out of the bar and walk to the university where the Irishman attends. I'm wandering aimlessly around the beautiful campus, I travel down Grafton Street, and continue to have a drunk existential crisis in St. Stephen's Green. I really was a James Joyce character- lovesick, drunk, and wayward.
My friend somehow managed to find his number. I call him at 11 pm. My flight is at 6 am that next morning. He tells me it's too late to hang out, and he'll see me next time. Like I visit Dublin every fucking weekend or something.
This was an interesting moment for me. I no longer felt panicky, sick, or upset. Why? Because I had done everything in my control to communicate, and that's as much as one can do. When he couldn't do his part, I had no reason to be angry with myself, because I had done as much as I could. It's just a pity that he had to be a complete bastard about it.
So after that (he's SO, SO good at making these potential fairytale stories into anti-climactic mood-killers), I hooked up with a marine in my hostel room, almost missed my flight, and then had a gypsy steal my wallet and passport upon arriving in Madrid.
...after that, I did not have any relations with anyone for the rest of the semester. And I was pretty chill with that, because I had zero interest in putting out or settling (although I am insanely gaga for Javier the bartender). But times got hard, especially when I was ovulating (sorry, that's kind of personal buuuut I don't care). Something about the week before/during your period, man... I WAS ALWAYS READY FOR THE SEX. Like, it HURT, it was a PAINFUL kind of constant arousal. Because I still had to have some sort of dignity, you know? My poor roommates had to put up with this sexually frustrated feline for too many nights. I kept my cool for the most part, though.
All in all, I fell in love with an Irish bastard, kind of got over it, and stayed chaste in Spain without feeling too bad about it. Minnesota seems to be the opposite of Madrid in that regard. Probably because guys here are better than those Spanish sassholes.
Hopefully second semester I finally fuck Javier the bartender, or at least meet a rich man that will pay for my drinks.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Fields of Athenry
Guys, I really am terrible with keeping this updated. I just read a few blogs/tumblrs tonight, and decided I need to get back on my blogging game.
I think I meant for this to solely be a sex blog, but my love life is so inconsistent that I just can't really do that. Also, life's not all about sex. For the most part.
So far, this summer has been the best summer of my life. I say this because I have spent it with some of the most wonderful people. They all hail from Ireland, and this had made me all the more proud of my heritage. They have kept me entertained, kept me laughing, kept me drinking, and kept me on my feet. Their departure has kept me crying, too. I have made lifelong friends in a short time, and all of a sudden, have to say farewell. So it goes though, am I right?
Anyway, there was an incident around mid-July. Friday the 13th, to be exact. For some women, this is something that could run their lives for a very, very long time. It could affect their social life, their emotional state, physical state, and most often, their sexual life. It's not an easy thing for victims to get over, and it's hard for their friends and loved ones to get over too. In my case, it seems I have moved on, while others are still grieving. This is frustrating for both me and anyone who cares about me.
Basically, here are some explanations as to why I am moving on:
-Yes, it's awful. But it could've been worse. I was not beaten; I was not killed. When someone else saw, it was stopped. I was stunned when I learned the number of cases where there were witnesses that did not take action. There's a line from Boondock Saints (my FAVORITE movie) that I certainly agree with: "...we must all fear evil men. But there is another kind of evil that we must fear most-- and that is the indifference of good men". My Irish friends have been saints. They have stood up for me, supported me, and taken care of me since that night. It has been hard for me to talk to my college friends and Minnesota friends, because they weren't there. I have become quite attached to the Irish because they were there, they stepped in, and have been here to look after me. This does not make my other friends any less relevant, however. I'm moving on because I've had a great peer group that has held me together.
-Frankly, sex means less to me than it does for others. This sounds absoLUTELY horrible, I know. And I'm not asking you to understand or agree-- just hear me out. Lustful, sexual activity doesn't mean as much to me, because you can have it with almost anyone; what you can't have is that other connection, that emotional connection and intimacy which can only be shared with a few individuals. That's what I find more important and sacred. I now have a slight attachment to one of the lads in the Irish house, not because we're having sex or anything, but because he was there when I've needed someone to talk to; he has listened, and not even tried to understand, but just to care. That's the emotional help I've been wanting. Our bodies are so earthly, and me saying 'I love you' is ten times more serious than me riding you in bed. Again, this may be offensive, and I do value my body, but like I said-- it could've been worse.
-There was no broken bond of trust. How agonizing would this have been if it was a relative? Or a family friend? Or a boyfriend who hit me? I did not put my trust in anyone's hands and have it destroyed; these were strangers, and although I don't feel lucky, I feel luckier than some women, who sometimes are never able to trust another man again.
-I have a life to live. These individuals that did this are not going to ruin my summer, my relationships, and my experience in Europe. And they have already done damage to all of these. My parents and friends have become so worried about me that it has become detrimental to my growth; what I need is support, and not suffocation. I am doing fine if you treat me like I'm doing fine. It's been hard for me to talk to certain people now, and I'm going off to Spain feeling like I'm being watched under a microscope.
-The ones who love me need to see me get better. While something like this is tough on the victim, in my case, it has been the hardest for my father. Imagine being a man, growing up with six sisters, and then having four daughters. This is one of the worst possible things imaginable. And he is angry with my reaction to it, he's angry that it happened; it has torn him apart and put a strain on our relationship. He doesn't think I'm taking it seriously, and I feel like he's mad at me for something I didn't do. I have never seen him cry the way he did-- when he came to terms with what happened to his first born, his little girl. It is truly one of the biggest fears for a parent, and for it to become a reality can sincerely break a grown man-- no matter how strong he is. I need to move on, for myself, and for people like my father-- those who are still mourning, still furious, still dealing with the idea of humans in this world disrespecting other humans in such a way. It's been hard for us to understand one another-- I've never had a daughter, and he's a man who will never understand being a woman. But this strain has caused me more pain than the actual event.
It's the aftermath that has caused me the most anguish, and I really have to get on with being young and alive. I will admit, though, a part of me has been lost. I'm not sure what part, but I'll have time to figure it out. I think I've become a little more sensitive-- about jokes, about stories on the news, and I've become wary when talking to men I don't know. This is good, and also sad.
I don't think I'm a different person though: I still love sex, I still love talking about it, and I still love men. I just think this is another part of my life that will shape me into the woman I become. I am alive and well and going to SPAIN! How exciting! I have so much to look forward to! Adventures and new cultures and new friends! I am leaving so much behind, including that unfortunate Friday the 13th. But just because I leave things behind, it does not mean I forget them. No, not at all. However, we all must keep calm and carry on. Because life's too precious to freak out and fall down.
I think I meant for this to solely be a sex blog, but my love life is so inconsistent that I just can't really do that. Also, life's not all about sex. For the most part.
So far, this summer has been the best summer of my life. I say this because I have spent it with some of the most wonderful people. They all hail from Ireland, and this had made me all the more proud of my heritage. They have kept me entertained, kept me laughing, kept me drinking, and kept me on my feet. Their departure has kept me crying, too. I have made lifelong friends in a short time, and all of a sudden, have to say farewell. So it goes though, am I right?
Anyway, there was an incident around mid-July. Friday the 13th, to be exact. For some women, this is something that could run their lives for a very, very long time. It could affect their social life, their emotional state, physical state, and most often, their sexual life. It's not an easy thing for victims to get over, and it's hard for their friends and loved ones to get over too. In my case, it seems I have moved on, while others are still grieving. This is frustrating for both me and anyone who cares about me.
Basically, here are some explanations as to why I am moving on:
-Yes, it's awful. But it could've been worse. I was not beaten; I was not killed. When someone else saw, it was stopped. I was stunned when I learned the number of cases where there were witnesses that did not take action. There's a line from Boondock Saints (my FAVORITE movie) that I certainly agree with: "...we must all fear evil men. But there is another kind of evil that we must fear most-- and that is the indifference of good men". My Irish friends have been saints. They have stood up for me, supported me, and taken care of me since that night. It has been hard for me to talk to my college friends and Minnesota friends, because they weren't there. I have become quite attached to the Irish because they were there, they stepped in, and have been here to look after me. This does not make my other friends any less relevant, however. I'm moving on because I've had a great peer group that has held me together.
-Frankly, sex means less to me than it does for others. This sounds absoLUTELY horrible, I know. And I'm not asking you to understand or agree-- just hear me out. Lustful, sexual activity doesn't mean as much to me, because you can have it with almost anyone; what you can't have is that other connection, that emotional connection and intimacy which can only be shared with a few individuals. That's what I find more important and sacred. I now have a slight attachment to one of the lads in the Irish house, not because we're having sex or anything, but because he was there when I've needed someone to talk to; he has listened, and not even tried to understand, but just to care. That's the emotional help I've been wanting. Our bodies are so earthly, and me saying 'I love you' is ten times more serious than me riding you in bed. Again, this may be offensive, and I do value my body, but like I said-- it could've been worse.
-There was no broken bond of trust. How agonizing would this have been if it was a relative? Or a family friend? Or a boyfriend who hit me? I did not put my trust in anyone's hands and have it destroyed; these were strangers, and although I don't feel lucky, I feel luckier than some women, who sometimes are never able to trust another man again.
-I have a life to live. These individuals that did this are not going to ruin my summer, my relationships, and my experience in Europe. And they have already done damage to all of these. My parents and friends have become so worried about me that it has become detrimental to my growth; what I need is support, and not suffocation. I am doing fine if you treat me like I'm doing fine. It's been hard for me to talk to certain people now, and I'm going off to Spain feeling like I'm being watched under a microscope.
-The ones who love me need to see me get better. While something like this is tough on the victim, in my case, it has been the hardest for my father. Imagine being a man, growing up with six sisters, and then having four daughters. This is one of the worst possible things imaginable. And he is angry with my reaction to it, he's angry that it happened; it has torn him apart and put a strain on our relationship. He doesn't think I'm taking it seriously, and I feel like he's mad at me for something I didn't do. I have never seen him cry the way he did-- when he came to terms with what happened to his first born, his little girl. It is truly one of the biggest fears for a parent, and for it to become a reality can sincerely break a grown man-- no matter how strong he is. I need to move on, for myself, and for people like my father-- those who are still mourning, still furious, still dealing with the idea of humans in this world disrespecting other humans in such a way. It's been hard for us to understand one another-- I've never had a daughter, and he's a man who will never understand being a woman. But this strain has caused me more pain than the actual event.
It's the aftermath that has caused me the most anguish, and I really have to get on with being young and alive. I will admit, though, a part of me has been lost. I'm not sure what part, but I'll have time to figure it out. I think I've become a little more sensitive-- about jokes, about stories on the news, and I've become wary when talking to men I don't know. This is good, and also sad.
I don't think I'm a different person though: I still love sex, I still love talking about it, and I still love men. I just think this is another part of my life that will shape me into the woman I become. I am alive and well and going to SPAIN! How exciting! I have so much to look forward to! Adventures and new cultures and new friends! I am leaving so much behind, including that unfortunate Friday the 13th. But just because I leave things behind, it does not mean I forget them. No, not at all. However, we all must keep calm and carry on. Because life's too precious to freak out and fall down.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
It's been awhile
I haven't written in about five months.
And shit.
A lot has happened since then.
Since then, I've endured another semester in college and I'm down to my last two finals this week. Then I'll be home for a few weeks, fly back to work on the Cape this summer, and leave for Spain at the end of August. It sounds exciting, right? Right. It is! Don't get me wrong, it totally is. Chance of a lifetime. So many opportunities. La la la.
Except.
Except.
About a week after my last post, I met a guy. A musician, actually (might as well keep my streak going, yeah?). I went over to his room one night, and we stayed up talking (not touching) for OVER TEN HOURS.
GUYS.
GUYS.
I talked to this kid from 10 pm to noon the next day, and never once got tired of him. We laid next to each other, under the covers, and I was completely comfortable.
And then after 12 hours of talking,
we fucked.
It took a long time for him to get the courage to lean over and kiss me though! I found it very cute.
And let me tell you something else.
For a skinny white boy, his. dick. is. huge.
This is no exaggeration, this is not me trying to flatter him.
It's titanic. It's the kind of penis you see in porn. And sometimes, it's so big that I can't do certain positions because I feel like my bladder's about to be punctured. Jesus, when he gets... in the mood... it's overwhelming. So sex with him is, um, wonderful.
Anyway.
That was the end of January. After that, we had sleepovers and hung out together and introduced our friends to each other and all was nice and grand. Valentine's Day was lovely, and he wrote me a note that made me cry. See, he and his friends are the nice guys. The ones we'll all end up marrying, but right now we don't want. Girls, for some reason, seek out major douchebags in college. So these poor men suffer as they watch dumb women go after the really, really undeserving guys. Thankfully, I was not dumb and went after a kind kid.
Around Valentine's Day, we did have a talk though. About what our title was, if any. Neither he nor I ever asked to be official, it just kinda felt that way. But sometimes, if you don't clearly set down what is and what isn't, people's feelings get hurt or people get confused. I've been through it, it sucks and for some reason I decided I would go through it again. We talked about how I'm going to Spain, so we'd see how the next few months worked out.
February was enjoyable (but sometimes I was mean to him... quite mean, and I feel absolutely horrible about it). March was good, too. We're both sort of passive-aggressive (him more than me), so sometimes there'd be tension, but nothing too bad. Besides, I just love being around him. I don't really get sick of being with him, and he makes me laugh, which is SO important to me. Even the littlest things like getting me coffee or kissing me goodnight mean something.
Then came April. Oy vey. Early April, the week before I was supposed to go home with him for Easter, we had a conversation. I forget how it started, a small fight turned into a heated discussion, and I cried the whole time. It was the talk that when school ends, you know, it's going to be done. I mean, realistically, that's the best thing to do, because even if we see each other this summer, I go off to Spain for a year. But I think having the same conversation I had had with a previous boyfriend really hit me hard. Feelings of pain and nostalgia welled up inside of me and all I could do was sit there and cry. He told me all the things I was doing wrong, how shitty I was treating him, and that even though he liked me, come May we'll finish whatever it is we are.
That's a lot for a little girl. But I'm a big girl, so I took it in, and got fucking drunk afterwards. Then I peed my pants in front of him.
That was a pretty great night for me.
That whole week, he didn't touch me or talk to me. I thought he had made up his mind and decided to end things now, you know, to quit while we're ahead. I think I just frightened him with all the piss and tears in that one evening.
When we went to his house for Easter, things weren't awkward at all. During the car ride, he must have gotten over my behavior from the weekend, because he was so dear and darling to me for the rest of the time. We had wicked, wicked great and intimate sex that I really loved and I met his hometown friends and I absolutely loved it. I was being kind to him, and I felt totally open and honest with him.
Things now are good, but I'm nervous. In the beginning, I told myself I wouldn't miss him or get majorly intense feelings for him, but... fuck. I think it might be easier said than done. I already know that this was one of the most honest and stable relationships I've had with a guy (which might not be saying much, but whatever), and I'm just praying that neither of us leave with bad tastes in our mouths. What I mean is that I don't want this to feel like a bitter break-up, where hurtful things are said and you throw all his sweatshirts in a pile and burn them. No, no. I know I'll probably get upset when I'm home alone and wishing he was there, but as long as I know that we're okay, and that the past semester wasn't a waste, then I'll be just fine.
And shit.
A lot has happened since then.
Since then, I've endured another semester in college and I'm down to my last two finals this week. Then I'll be home for a few weeks, fly back to work on the Cape this summer, and leave for Spain at the end of August. It sounds exciting, right? Right. It is! Don't get me wrong, it totally is. Chance of a lifetime. So many opportunities. La la la.
Except.
Except.
About a week after my last post, I met a guy. A musician, actually (might as well keep my streak going, yeah?). I went over to his room one night, and we stayed up talking (not touching) for OVER TEN HOURS.
GUYS.
GUYS.
I talked to this kid from 10 pm to noon the next day, and never once got tired of him. We laid next to each other, under the covers, and I was completely comfortable.
And then after 12 hours of talking,
we fucked.
It took a long time for him to get the courage to lean over and kiss me though! I found it very cute.
And let me tell you something else.
For a skinny white boy, his. dick. is. huge.
This is no exaggeration, this is not me trying to flatter him.
It's titanic. It's the kind of penis you see in porn. And sometimes, it's so big that I can't do certain positions because I feel like my bladder's about to be punctured. Jesus, when he gets... in the mood... it's overwhelming. So sex with him is, um, wonderful.
Anyway.
That was the end of January. After that, we had sleepovers and hung out together and introduced our friends to each other and all was nice and grand. Valentine's Day was lovely, and he wrote me a note that made me cry. See, he and his friends are the nice guys. The ones we'll all end up marrying, but right now we don't want. Girls, for some reason, seek out major douchebags in college. So these poor men suffer as they watch dumb women go after the really, really undeserving guys. Thankfully, I was not dumb and went after a kind kid.
Around Valentine's Day, we did have a talk though. About what our title was, if any. Neither he nor I ever asked to be official, it just kinda felt that way. But sometimes, if you don't clearly set down what is and what isn't, people's feelings get hurt or people get confused. I've been through it, it sucks and for some reason I decided I would go through it again. We talked about how I'm going to Spain, so we'd see how the next few months worked out.
February was enjoyable (but sometimes I was mean to him... quite mean, and I feel absolutely horrible about it). March was good, too. We're both sort of passive-aggressive (him more than me), so sometimes there'd be tension, but nothing too bad. Besides, I just love being around him. I don't really get sick of being with him, and he makes me laugh, which is SO important to me. Even the littlest things like getting me coffee or kissing me goodnight mean something.
Then came April. Oy vey. Early April, the week before I was supposed to go home with him for Easter, we had a conversation. I forget how it started, a small fight turned into a heated discussion, and I cried the whole time. It was the talk that when school ends, you know, it's going to be done. I mean, realistically, that's the best thing to do, because even if we see each other this summer, I go off to Spain for a year. But I think having the same conversation I had had with a previous boyfriend really hit me hard. Feelings of pain and nostalgia welled up inside of me and all I could do was sit there and cry. He told me all the things I was doing wrong, how shitty I was treating him, and that even though he liked me, come May we'll finish whatever it is we are.
That's a lot for a little girl. But I'm a big girl, so I took it in, and got fucking drunk afterwards. Then I peed my pants in front of him.
That was a pretty great night for me.
That whole week, he didn't touch me or talk to me. I thought he had made up his mind and decided to end things now, you know, to quit while we're ahead. I think I just frightened him with all the piss and tears in that one evening.
When we went to his house for Easter, things weren't awkward at all. During the car ride, he must have gotten over my behavior from the weekend, because he was so dear and darling to me for the rest of the time. We had wicked, wicked great and intimate sex that I really loved and I met his hometown friends and I absolutely loved it. I was being kind to him, and I felt totally open and honest with him.
Things now are good, but I'm nervous. In the beginning, I told myself I wouldn't miss him or get majorly intense feelings for him, but... fuck. I think it might be easier said than done. I already know that this was one of the most honest and stable relationships I've had with a guy (which might not be saying much, but whatever), and I'm just praying that neither of us leave with bad tastes in our mouths. What I mean is that I don't want this to feel like a bitter break-up, where hurtful things are said and you throw all his sweatshirts in a pile and burn them. No, no. I know I'll probably get upset when I'm home alone and wishing he was there, but as long as I know that we're okay, and that the past semester wasn't a waste, then I'll be just fine.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Horcruxes
Here's the thing with sex though.
Emily and I realized tonight that I'm kinda like... Voldemort.
The men I've slept with are my horcruxes (I have 7, it works)
and although saying they're horcruxes is a little far... it's not.
See, it might not work like this for men, because they're a whole different thing,
but I feel that when I sleep with someone, I'm giving them a little bit of my soul.
A little bit of me, and once it's over, I can't get that back.
So the thought of having as many partners as I do is a tiny bit unsettling for me.
I know it's in the past, and so I have to get over it, but I do honestly feel sad about it sometimes. No, I don't consider waiting until marriage to be a sane choice at ALL (my opinion of course), but it does take a toll on some women emotionally when they feel they're either having sex with the wrong people, or too many people. And the question is, when is it too many? I think it's a personal number. But due to double standards, it's more acceptable for the guy to have a higher number, and not be called names for it.
I'm not worried about being called a slut, though. I'm worried about my heart, man. If I keep giving myself away (and sometimes, when there are strong connections between me and someone else, it literally feels like I'm handing them my heart on a platter), if I keep giving everyone a piece, what will I have left for myself? How many men will it take for me to be completely empty and immune to the beautiful ideas I have of sexual intercourse?
I don't want sex to be just something I do with hot guys, or something I do as a favor, or something I do because I'm feeling lusty. Fuck, I know I've let that happen to me, but I don't want it to anymore. I mean, 7 guys? To me, that's a lot. For me. Personally.
Let's say I get married at 22.
If I've had sex with 7 guys between the time I was 17 and 19 (and let's just say I keep my choices consistent), I'll have slept with around 17.5 men? WHAT THE FUCK? (wait, is that math right? I'm really not good at math, so I could either be off or totally headed down a path of complete skankosity).
That...does not sound like a number I'd like to have. Plus, how would I tell someone I've fucked seventeen POINT FIVE guys? What does that even mean?
What I'm saying is that I don't like having pieces of me scattered across America (and other countries too). I don't like being on lists and I don't like having my own long list. Yeah, I really fucking love sex, but I want to avoid the distress that follows it.
Emily and I realized tonight that I'm kinda like... Voldemort.
The men I've slept with are my horcruxes (I have 7, it works)
and although saying they're horcruxes is a little far... it's not.
See, it might not work like this for men, because they're a whole different thing,
but I feel that when I sleep with someone, I'm giving them a little bit of my soul.
A little bit of me, and once it's over, I can't get that back.
So the thought of having as many partners as I do is a tiny bit unsettling for me.
I know it's in the past, and so I have to get over it, but I do honestly feel sad about it sometimes. No, I don't consider waiting until marriage to be a sane choice at ALL (my opinion of course), but it does take a toll on some women emotionally when they feel they're either having sex with the wrong people, or too many people. And the question is, when is it too many? I think it's a personal number. But due to double standards, it's more acceptable for the guy to have a higher number, and not be called names for it.
I'm not worried about being called a slut, though. I'm worried about my heart, man. If I keep giving myself away (and sometimes, when there are strong connections between me and someone else, it literally feels like I'm handing them my heart on a platter), if I keep giving everyone a piece, what will I have left for myself? How many men will it take for me to be completely empty and immune to the beautiful ideas I have of sexual intercourse?
I don't want sex to be just something I do with hot guys, or something I do as a favor, or something I do because I'm feeling lusty. Fuck, I know I've let that happen to me, but I don't want it to anymore. I mean, 7 guys? To me, that's a lot. For me. Personally.
Let's say I get married at 22.
If I've had sex with 7 guys between the time I was 17 and 19 (and let's just say I keep my choices consistent), I'll have slept with around 17.5 men? WHAT THE FUCK? (wait, is that math right? I'm really not good at math, so I could either be off or totally headed down a path of complete skankosity).
That...does not sound like a number I'd like to have. Plus, how would I tell someone I've fucked seventeen POINT FIVE guys? What does that even mean?
What I'm saying is that I don't like having pieces of me scattered across America (and other countries too). I don't like being on lists and I don't like having my own long list. Yeah, I really fucking love sex, but I want to avoid the distress that follows it.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Just plannin' muh life
Okay, this post isn't sex-related (sorry everyone).
I've burnt about 13 bridges during my time in Minnesota. About 13.
And I'd just like to return to the place where I adored building bridges with lovely people, in a lovely city.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, craving Boloco milkshakes or Barracuda Tavern BBQ wings. And I am so homesick for the community I've been without for three weeks now-- my ninth floor biddies. Whurr dey at?
I've planned my whole life out.
I'm going back to Boston on the 16th, where I'll finish my freshman semester.
I'll return to Minnesota on May 5th (cinco de mayo bitches).
Then, around late June, I'll work on the Cape again.
August 29th, I'll start my sophomore year in Madrid, Spain.
For winter break, I'll either spend the holidays in Minnesota or Northern Ireland.
Then I'll return to Madrid and finish the semester.
By May 2013, I should be done with Suffolk. Because I want to transfer then.
Jenny and I both like the idea of New York City; it sounds wonderful.
I need to find a school there that I'll like, though. And one I can get into.
If everything goes as planned, I'll do junior and senior year at (insert NYC school),
and then... yeah. That's as far as I've gotten.
I guess this isn't my whole life. Just the next four years.
Note: do you see me living in Minnesota anytime soon though? No. You don't.
Because I won't be.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Don't Tell Julie
But I'm going to be the one that tells Clare about sex (she's reading this over my shoulder). And I'm excited to tell my own lil kiddies. I have it all planned out:
"Kids, Mummy needs to tell you something. There's something called sex, and you've got to know about it, if you ever want to enjoy life. When you're old enough, and you find someone that respects you, you're going to get feelings that might make you want to get naked. And that's fine, you can get naked. Sex is when two naked people that respect each other come together, like this (and then I'll have a very detailed diagram on display, with definitions and names for everything, and their levels of importance and such). When the sex is over, the girl will have high levels of oxytocin released in her body, and that will make her want to cuddle. The boy will not have these feelings. Sex is complicated. Also, use these (I then pass out condoms and pamphlets for birth control) when you're having sex with someone you aren't planning to marry, or if you're too young to have children. Alright, any questions?" And of course there won't be any questions because my kids will be intellectuals. I will say all this to them on their first day of kindergarten.
Coffee Closure
Today I went to coffee, for what he said was "closure". My question was, closure from what?
I was bothered that our ideals never matched up with each other's, but I suppose that meant that it wasn't right. Timing plays a huge part in who we end up with; you can call it fate or coincidence or serendipity, I don't care. When two people want the same thing at the same time, it works. That's just how it is.
We don't want the same thing, and I think closure was the wrong word. Assurance might be a better term. I was there to assure him that I had grown out of my young girl shell, that I knew what I desired, and it was different from what he desired.
It's tough. I don't like hurting others. After that, I went and watched the movie Closer, and Jesus, it was a more intensified version of the conversation I had with him. There's a lot of damaging and deceit that can swallow up relationships, even with people that love each other, and I know it. And I know that often, people lie to avoid causing pain. But, I don't know. I can't lie to those that I care about; in the whole scheme of things, it might sting then, but it at least assures the people around me that I'm trustworthy. I never want to be called a liar. I'd rather be an honest bitch than a lying one.
But frankly, men are my last concern right now. I'm having existential crises on the daily, and people think I want to get caught up in relationship shit? Nah, that's not how it is. I'm not fretting over school or guys or friendships or money-- I'm off losing my faith and questioning the value of my life, bro.
I was bothered that our ideals never matched up with each other's, but I suppose that meant that it wasn't right. Timing plays a huge part in who we end up with; you can call it fate or coincidence or serendipity, I don't care. When two people want the same thing at the same time, it works. That's just how it is.
We don't want the same thing, and I think closure was the wrong word. Assurance might be a better term. I was there to assure him that I had grown out of my young girl shell, that I knew what I desired, and it was different from what he desired.
It's tough. I don't like hurting others. After that, I went and watched the movie Closer, and Jesus, it was a more intensified version of the conversation I had with him. There's a lot of damaging and deceit that can swallow up relationships, even with people that love each other, and I know it. And I know that often, people lie to avoid causing pain. But, I don't know. I can't lie to those that I care about; in the whole scheme of things, it might sting then, but it at least assures the people around me that I'm trustworthy. I never want to be called a liar. I'd rather be an honest bitch than a lying one.
But frankly, men are my last concern right now. I'm having existential crises on the daily, and people think I want to get caught up in relationship shit? Nah, that's not how it is. I'm not fretting over school or guys or friendships or money-- I'm off losing my faith and questioning the value of my life, bro.
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