I rarely lie, but I am not honest.
I am impulsive, passive, and analytic. If you push my head down to your cock I will probably say something about potato chips (impulsive), give you a blowjob (passive), and then, somewhere between 2 minutes or 2 years after the event, I will overthink why I said something about potato chips rather then telling you I was sincerely uncomfortable with having my head forcibly shoved towards your dick. Problem is, once a certain amount of time has passed, it isn’t socially acceptable for me to tell you these feelings. I’m not supposed to call six years later and say, “Remember that night after we went dancing and I didn’t want to have sex? I didn’t like how you took that opportunity to do the push-the-head-to-get-head move.” As a result, the regretful words and acts of past hookups are silenced.
This post is a conscious-clearing trip down memory lane. It’s an opportunity for me to say the things I wish I had said and explain the things I wish I had done. The idea is that, by reevaluating, reliving, and reexamining the ghosts of hookups past, I’ll be able to be more honest in the future. Who decided that sexual communication has an expiration date anyway?
Summer of 2004:
Dear Preppy Boy,
You asked if I wanted dessert. I was 14. In my mind, dessert meant dessert. You were 17 and had another definition for dessert. You brought me to the sauna. I said I didn’t want to take a sauna and that I should probably go home. You told me to “just relax” as you slid my hand down your pants.
This was the first time I touched a penis. I remember thinking how bizarre it felt, like a malformed cactus—all squishy and wrinkled, with waxy pubic hair bunched at the base. The texture of pubic hair always surprises me. I wish I had pulled my hand out of your pants and told you that I was not relaxed. I was anxious and confused and afraid that I was going to break your cactus (it seemed fragile). All I wanted was key lime pie. You had promised me key lime pie.
Dear Drunk Girl (Who
You told me I was hot at the foot of a staircase. You were cool and old and hip and loud and fierce and went on to be a model. You were also a woman. My budding sexuality could not handle the confusion of being attracted to a woman. Being gay was my sister’s thing. In my mind, kissing you would mean that I was gay, which would mean that I would never have kids, which would mean my parents would never have grandkids, which would mean my parents would disown me, which would mean I would live on the streets. None of this is true, but it’s a slippery slope in the mind of a hormonal teen. Looking back, I should’ve kissed you—if only for the story.
Spring of 2005:
Dear Whimsical #1,
You were the first in a series of your “type”. You were also probably the first person who I really liked. The crush kind of like. I don’t blame you for many things nor do I regret a lot of our interactions. We were fairly innocent. Only kisses and booby squeezes.
But there was one event that should’ve gone differently. We were driving home from a concert in Rhode Island. You were in the bitch seat, squeezed between my best friend and I. We both had feelings for you. Everyone knew this and, unless you were deaf, blind, and lived under a rock, you knew this too. Your solution to this problem was to hold both of our hands. And not in a platonic way. It was that tickling, finger-stroking stuff that high school students do to avoid hand sweat—a true “hand” job. I played along, realizing what was happening but not having the courage to tell the senior boy with the swooping hair and the guitar that his behavior was dickish. I should’ve let go of your hand and moved on. There were other swooping hair guitarists in the sea.
Spring of 2007:
Dear V-Card Recipient,
The list of things I want to say to you is long---so long that I don’t know where to start. So I guess I’ll begin with the beginning.
I hated you when I was four-years-old. My birthday is in September. Yours is in October. Parents and teachers never know where autumn babies belong. It’s the age-cut-off limbo. You got pushed ahead a grade and they kept me back. It’s not your fault, but I still irrationally blame you for beating me in the ABC’s or counting to ten or Legos or whatever other way our elementary school measured the intelligence of preschoolers.
Skip thirteen years.
Your dick was the first dick to venture in my mouth. (I also told you that you were my first handjob, but that wasn’t true. I told everyone they were my first handjob because I wanted an excuse if it was bad, which I knew it was going to be because handjobs are incredibly difficult. It took five handjobs for me to finally admit that I had touched a dick before.) We parked your car in front of your Rabbi’s house. I’m not quite sure why we chose that location. Mid-blow-job “Do You Come From A Land Down Under” played from your I-Pod shuffle. It was perfect timing.
And then you told me that you wouldn’t go down on me until I shaved my pubic hair. All of my pubic hair. This is a good place to point out that I come from a naked hippie family where women don’t shave their legs. I sincerely did not know pussy shaving was a common practice. You said that going down on someone with pubic hair was gross, which seemed hypocritical because a few seconds earlier I had your hairy genitals in my face.
But I shut-up, bought a razor, and shaved my pubes. The next night you went down on my itchy, raw, razor-burned vag.
We also had sex that night. Whatever.
A few days later we had sex for the second time. Again, the sex itself was unremarkable. This was no fault of yours. I actually bet you were doing things quite well. You were experienced. Your penis had been places. I was convinced that my inexperienced vagina would mess-up. Turns out, the thing I did wrong was not the sex itself, but the stopping of the sex. You see, after a bit of time I got tired. Your erection lasted impressively long for a high school senior. I rolled over, lay on my back, and thought that I could be done with having sex for the afternoon.
And you laughed at me. You told me sex ends when a guy cums, that everyone knows that. You said you would tell your friends how silly I was to have stopped having sex. I was mortified. I begged you not to tell anyone. And you kept laughing. You laughed while putting on your clothes and while walking me home. When we got to my house you kept walking. “Where are you going?” I asked, confused why he was heading towards the store at the end of my street. “I’m going to go finish myself off because you won’t.”
I. Could’ve. Died.
Fuck you. Fuck you for making me feel like the male orgasm is the reason for having sex. Fuck you for my razor burned vagina. Fuck you for making me feel dumb. Fuck you for teaching me not to care about my own pleasure. Fuck you for the times that I still doubt my own sexuality when I can’t make my partner cum. Fuck you for your chauvinistic definition of sex.
Moreover, fuck society for teaching you this chauvinistic definition. You are not a bad person. You didn’t invent this belief. You were young. You listened. Fuck that. Just fuck all of it.
Winter of 2008:
Dear Whimsical #2,
Like the first of your breed, you had the guitar and the poetry and the swooping hair. You were also 22, which seemed like the coolest thing in the world to my 18-year-old self. You had been in relationships, lived on your own, collected tarantulas—all the things I imagined grown-ups did.
But you would not get tested. I even booked you the appointment and you missed it. It was important to me that you get tested. Nevertheless, you said you were clean and wanted to have sex without condoms. I smiled. I got an IUD. And we began boning without condoms.
Unprotected sex in a non-monogamous relationship is not smart. Unprotected sex in a non-monogamous relationship when you are a severe hypochondriac is straight-up idiotic. I didn’t get any actual diseases. However, over the 8 month period that we were fucking I convinced myself that I had herpes, gonorrhea, chlamydia, HIV, and, during one especially stressful week, a new, sexually transmittable strain of the bubonic plague.
Insisting that you get tested would have saved me (and my parents, gynecologist, and therapist) a lot of time and energy.
Fall of 2009:
Dear Whimsical #3,
You are the first person I ever loved. More importantly, you are the first partner who ever made me feel loved. You gave me mutual love. Then we broke up. There was a lot of yelling (done by me) and tears (also done by me) and attempts at communication (me again). But I never told you in our post-relationship existence how thankful I am for our relationship, how thankful I am for you. You will always be special.
We were holding hands. We were drunk. We kissed. Then you said you had a girlfriend who was conveniently located 20 feet away. This is a good moment to point out that I had just ended a serious relationship and was in need for some good, no-strings attached boning, if only to boost my self-esteem and forget what it was like to “make love”.
So, upon learning that you had a girlfriend, I said “Strumpet!” Then I went home.
The next morning you confronted me about our encounter (10 points for trying to communicate…negative 5 points for doing it before I had coffee). You told me I wasn’t a strumpet. I shrugged. I hadn’t been referring to myself, I was referring to you. I had never questioned my strumpet-tude. I did nothing strumpet-like, as I was completely unaware of your relationship status prior to the kiss. And yet, you assumed that I was using the word to describe myself, which, in a moment of insecurity, made me question whether I was, in fact, the strumpet. Webster tells us that a strumpet is a woman. But here I am, 4 months later, breaking the gender binary and relinquishing my strumpet-teering hat. That night, you were the strumpet. Not me.
These are the thoughts that have been cooped up in my brain/heart/loins for longer than necessary. Creating this list was an incredibly therapeutic experience. And, like most therapeutic experiences, it was self-centered, disjointed, rambling, overly-emotional, and altogether necessary. Apologies to those of you who read this blog to giggle over fart stories. This post was lacking in farts.
Before I resume farting, I want to recommend this activity to anyone who feels like they lost their moment for communication. This can be your moment. Create your own list and, if you like, email it to me at firstname.lastname@example.org. I can be the eyes and ears of your rant. I promise to keep your words confidential unless you specifically ask for me to post your email on Sexy Awkward Times (which I will do anonymously). I am giving you these options because I personally feel that it helps to know that this list is read by someone…even if that person is a floppy-breasted stranger.
p.s.--this post was a struggle.