Wednesday, April 30, 2008

I Have The Right To Remain Silent, Just Not The Ability

So about three weeks ago, I got curious as to just how many people were reading this crazy little blog of mine. As it turns out, since the 10th of April, 1,049 different computers have accessed this site 2,013 times. What a bunch of freaking voyeurs you people are! Just kidding. In all actuality, I’m the exhibitionist who's putting the sordid details of my life out there for public consumption. Now before you get all paranoid, don’t worry, I can’t tell who you are or how often you’re here. All I can tell is that those are 1,049 different IP addresses that have read my writing based on something called “cookies.” I have no idea what the hell that means, nor do I care. But I’m not going to lie, I’m a tad bit impressed with myself. At the request of my dear mother, this thing isn’t listed on the Google Blog Search or even the listings, so you can’t just find it. You have to know it exists. That makes me wonder…is this shit show really so entertaining that its web address is making its way around the world? Apparently so. Let’s hear it for Allie’s sex life! I’d like to thank the Academy, my parents and all the men that made this possible. You know who you are.

What I’m doing here is not so different than any of those freaks – I mean people – who broadcast their personal diatribes on You Tube. What’s different is that it requires you to read, and a lot of people don’t like reading. So you, my dear, are an enlightened and intelligent person. Mazel Tov. Give yourself a round of applause.

Now with all of that being said I’d like to broach a subject that I’ve been mulling over for awhile now: dudes that read the blog that I might like to date someday. Is that even possible? I mean yes, surely some of the boys that are along for this ride would also like to ride me come July. But I wonder if any guy could, in good faith, make me his girlfriend based on the very personal admissions I’ve made here for your reading pleasure. Let’s be honest, I’ve called myself slutty and I don’t want to, nor am I going to, take that back.

I really don’t think I’d want to be in a relationship with somebody who isn’t comfortable with this facet of my personality. But is it asking too much of a mere mortal to accept that his girlfriend might have slept with more people than he has? Am I just shooting myself in the foot here? Only time will tell. I suppose that if I meet the right guy, I can always leave out these three months of my life, but I don’t think that’s fair to him, or to me, for that matter. Maybe I can tell him about it but refuse to give him the web address? No, that doesn’t seem like a good idea either, then his curiosity will probably kill him. I know I’m getting a little ahead of myself, and July is a long way away, but it would be remiss of me to not at least consider all of the ramifications of what I’m doing here, be they cathartic or socially detrimental.

Oh well, like I said, I don’t want a dude that can’t handle the truth. The Ex refused to believe that any of the stories he heard about me were true and look where he is now. Actually, I have no idea where he is right now because I unceremoniously dismissed him from my life. So let that be a lesson to you gentlemen. I am what I am. I think Popeye said that. And Billy Joel said this: I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints. The sinners are much more fun, and only the good die young.


Tuesday, April 29, 2008

When It Rains, It Pours

So there’s a boy who went to my high school that we’ll call Jordan Catalano. If any of you were fortunate enough to have watched the one season of My So-Called Life that aired in prime time, you’ll understand that allusion. My Jordan Catalano was just as hot as Jared Leto’s Jordan Catalano. Maybe even hotter. And Jared Leto’s Jordan Catalano sure did moisten my fifteen-year-old panties. But for the better part of our school days, my Jordan Catalano had no idea I was alive. Sigh.

Not to sound like an asshole or anything, but I’ve been taking care of myself lately and I think I look good. Jordan Catalano happened to notice this on Facebook yesterday and told me as much. Really, God? Really? This is how you’re going to reward me for all of my self-restraint? The one freaking time in my life when my unrequited love for JC has the chance to become requited and somebody has the bright idea to swear off guys for three months? Okay I’m being a bit dramatic, it’s not like he proposed marriage, but my high school crush now thinks I’m hot. I mean, seriously. C’mon, Dude. And by “Dude,” I mean God. Our Heavenly Duder, why must thou forsake me?

The sad thing is, he’s not the only one. As I surmised in one of my earliest posts, they’re crawling out of the woodwork. Suddenly everybody’s got a hot friend they want to set me up with. Another amazing boy I’ve been friends with for over a year finally asked me on a date. Even New Guy had some relationship potential, but nope, not gonna happen. My chastity belt is firmly in place. And it’s just not worth it, damnit! We shall overcome!!! I’m trying to convince myself here, not you. (Note To Self: Look on eBay for chastity belts.)

I feel like a person that just quit smoking and suddenly smokers are all they can see. Or one of those cartoon characters who's so hungry that everything they look at turns into a drumstick or a giant hot dog. Lately, when I look at guys, I’m not even gonna tell you what they turn into…but it’s a lot like a giant hot dog.

Oy Vey. I need to get laid.

Just kidding, I’m trying to stay strong here. I know that these are tests, and nothing more. I bet that most of the guys that come on to me right now are only doing so because they want to be the one that breaks me down. It’ll be interesting to see whether or not any of them are still around in July when I'm back on the market. It’ll be even more interesting to see which of them I actually decide to pursue. I’m hoping this experiment is going to get me to the point where I don’t just jump in bed with somebody for the sake of fulfilling a high school fantasy. Or for any other insignificant reason that I’ve used in the past to justify casual sex, either. I’m hoping that sex is going to mean more to me and that it won’t be nearly as inviting when it’s motivated by nothing but pure lust.

On the other hand, if the actual Jared Leto pictured above wanted to bone me…I mean, c’mon, Dude, can you blame me?


Monday, April 28, 2008

On The Subject Of Family

Tonight, I’m having dinner with my parents and it’s sorta got me tripping. They got divorced six years ago and we haven’t all been in the same room since.

I’m sure that some of you have wondered just what my upbringing might have entailed. After all, Freud could have a field day analyzing my sexual urges and where they came from. But to be perfectly honest, I had a very nice childhood, though not necessarily a normal one. I don’t have any brothers or sisters so my parents also fulfilled these roles. That means we all got really close and they were more like my friends than my disciplinarians. Our bleeding-heart liberal household lent itself to a lot of openness, sexually or otherwise and, if given the choice, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

My mother always told me, even when I was very young, that when the time came for me to be sexually active she’d put me on the pill. When that conversation finally happened it was interesting, to say the least, but she was supportive and I was grateful for that.

When I first started dating my father required that my suitors come to the door and shake his hand. After the first dozen schmucks fulfilled this ritual, he told me we could skip that part until I met the guy I wanted to marry.

Both of my parents have always stayed far away from my sex life, as they very well should. I can’t imagine it never occurred to them that their daughter was not the most virtuous girl in the world. But they never judged, or preached to me, and they’ve always let me learn from my own mistakes. My mother has only given me three pieces of dating advice in my life:

1. Don’t sleep with one of your professors.
2. Married men never leave their wives.
3. Italian guys will break your heart.

Clearly, Mom’s learned from her mistakes, too.

As for what they think of this blog, Dad’s indifferent, Mom can’t make up her mind. The first few posts were hard for her to read, and I don’t blame her, those were a bit in-your-face. Hey, I had to get your attention somehow, and those were things I felt I needed to say at the time. Now she admires what it is I’m trying to accomplish and she likes that it’s gotten me writing again. But she admits she cannot understand my generation’s compulsion to use the Internet as a personal soapbox. Some things, she thinks, are just better left off the World Wide Web. And while she may have a point, I can honestly say that, so far, writing this stuff has been amazing. I’m working through things that I’ve needed to work through for a while, and I’m doing it with the support of those that love me. I’ve also been able to entertain some total strangers and hopefully make them think, too. All in all it’s been really positive I’d like to thank you for reading along.

Tonight will undoubtedly be an unusual experience. But I’d like to think that I’m in a good place to handle the emotional fallout, if there is any. In fact, I feel stronger and better about myself than I have in a very long time. In a weird sort of way, perhaps someday this blog will end up making Mom and Dad proud for that reason.


ps-for those keeping score, I went home alone on Saturday night, except for the large cheese pizza that my drunk ass ate half of. So that puts us at Allie: 2 Temptation: 1 Domino's: 1.

Saturday, April 26, 2008


1. Poor Bastard sent me flowers yesterday. A big, beautiful, hand-delivered bouquet. I honestly don’t know how many more ways I can tell him we're never getting back together. I’m thinking about faking my death and starting a new life in Dubai. I’m not a fan of Middle Eastern food, but if this blog starts to show up in Arabic, you’ll know why. Asalamalakum, bitches.

2. Today I’m going on another perfect date, only this time it’s with my father. The only good thing about going on dates with your parents is that they’ll always pick up the check. And they won’t try to sleep with you afterwards. Make that two good things.

3. I’m going out tonight. Yep, here we go again. My first celibate weekend I did battle with Hot Dude and won. My second celibate weekend I surrendered to New Guy like the French surrender to…well, everyone. So that puts the score at Allie: 1 Temptation: 1. With my alcohol-impaired commitment to this project hanging in the balance, I really need a win. That means I can either:

A. Not drink.
B. Drink, but not talk to any boys.
C. Drink, talk to boys, but leave the bar with RK no matter how much fun I’m having.
D. Drink, talk to boys, and tell them all I’m a pregnant lesbian with herpes.

Ah, decisions, decisions. But I think I can do this. Fuck that I know I can do this.

Bring it, Temptation. You’re about to get served...if I don’t get overserved first.


Friday, April 25, 2008

I'll Try Anything Twice

Just for a moment, let’s go behind the scenes to the dark, seedy underworld of The Celibacy Project. This shit doesn’t just appear every day for your enjoyment. It takes introspection, concentration, and a buttload of caffeine to make it happen.

Usually, I write each day’s post the night before so I have the chance to “sleep on it.” That way I can reflect on what I’ve written and even make edits, if necessary, before posting it. This (ostensibly) keeps me from presenting random thoughts to the masses without having fully worked through them. It also prevents me from saying anything too outlandish about myself that I might regret at a later date. Contrary to popular belief, I do have a filter, it’s just not a very strong one, so quite a bit of questionable material gets through. Anyways…

Last night, I attended an SCA Meeting, which stands for Sexual Compulsives Anonymous. On the subject of such “meetings” one of my favorite authors, Molly Jong-Fast, once wrote:

“There’s no point in describing an AA meeting; it’s like a car accident or the Grand Canyon, always lost in translation.”

Now I finally know what she meant. When I got home last night, I had so much to write that I couldn’t write anything at all. To be honest, I’m still processing what I saw, heard and said out loud for the first time in my life. So today, we’re going to try something new. It’s called “stream-of-consciousness” writing. This means I’ll write whatever pops into my head and then I’m going to post it. I have no idea what will come of it, but it seems the most appropriate way to encapsulate this life moment. Sound like fun? Here goes:

Yesterday was an experience unlike any I’ve ever had, both encouraging and humbling in nature. I might even call it mind-blowing. There were eight men present; one of them showed up late because he stopped to have sex on his way to the meeting. He actually told us this. And when he did, my immediate thought was something along the lines of “well thank God I’m not that bad.” Then I quickly remembered my own glass house and put down my throwing stones.

I started to think about some of the irresponsible things I’ve done that reflect my own hypersexuality. Like the time I was waiting for a beer at Wrigley Field and I went home with the guy in line next to me, never to talk to him again. Or in college, when I was drunk and horny at an afterhours party and I looked directly at a guy and said these two words: “You’ll do.” Does this put me in the same category as Late Guy? Are they really symptoms of a disease we share? I don’t know. I wish I did, but I have no fucking clue yet. Sigh.

Right before I went to the meeting I had a talk with my best friend RK. She knows me better than most people do and knows much more about me than anybody should. Over the years, she’s seen it all in the three-ring-sex-circus that is my life. She thinks that my sex drive is partially derived from a need to be close to somebody, even if I’m actually only close to one part of their body. She believes it’s my desire for affection that drives me into the arms of strangers. She admits that I must enjoy the physical aspect, but not as much I live for the brief emotional one.

Another friend, ZW, subscribes to the same theory that I’ve embraced for the past ten years. It’s called “Pro Sex Feminism,” and it’s allowed me to do the things I do without remorse because I think in some way these choices empower me.

He said, “in remaining celibate for the purpose of deconstructing yourself to find your inner confidence without male approval are you just denying your own intrinsic nature that reaches for something positive? If for some reason one was more 'sexually charged' on a basic level wouldn't this just go to further their own genetic survival/personal gratification no matter how it manifested? Furthermore could it ever be considered a negative thing? Sex in my opinion is the one act of animals that actually leaves both parties with a positive result- whether that is enjoyment, creation or genetic survival.”

Clearly, sexuality – and especially my overt sexuality - is a divise topic. Everyone can find different justifications, or condemn unhealthy motiviations, for the things I have done. The men at the meeting were there because they think sex has gained such personal importance that it’s having an effect on everything else in their lives. Late Guy is the perfect example. Just to reiterate: the dude was late to a sex addict's meeting because he stopped on the way to have sex.

After hearing everyone else speak, it was my turn to talk. Though few things make me nervous, I was dry-mouthed and shaking. So I took a deep breath and started to tell my story, from the excessive head I gave in high shool to the all-night buffet of sexual partners I enjoyed in college. I wasn’t embarassed to say these things. While I spoke, I became more comfortable as I watched those listening nod their heads in agreement and support. By the time I was done I felt both relieved and rejuvenated, but I didn’t feel absolved. I think that’s going to take more time, if it happens at all, and that’s okay. I have the time, I just needed the desire. Now I finally have that, too.

According to my handy-dandy SCA Newcomer Packet, I should “take what I like” from the meeting and “leave the rest.” I left with a sense that there’s a lot more to my sexuality then I’ve ever allowed myself to acknowledge. And just as I admired the strength of those present for their ability to face the difficult truth head on, I was proud of myself for doing the same. So I walked away with that, too.

I’m still not convinced that I am a sex addict. I think the fact that I am undertaking this project should count for something. But I’ll probably go to another meeting, just to see how it makes me feel. Hell, it can't hurt. It might even help. And it's not like I have anything better to do on Thursday nights, anyways. In my sex life, I’ve always adhered to the idea that “I’ll try anything twice, and three times if I like it.”

I think I’m going to apply that same thought to my new, non-sexual life as well.
ps-BM, thank you for going with me. I owe you an AA meeting.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Hello My Name Is Allie

Last week I mentioned that I was going to go to a Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting. Much to my mother’s dismay, and perhaps your surprise, I’m going to follow through with that.

Now I’m not saying that I am, without a doubt, addicted to the act of sex. But I’m not saying that I’m not addicted to it either. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.

In deciding whether or not to go tonight, I did my homework (read: I googled “sex addiction”.) On all of the websites I looked at, the following questions kept coming up:

1. Do you keep secrets about your sexual or romantic activities from those important to you? Do you lead a double life? At times, yes, though I always end up telling the truth eventually.
2. Have your needs driven you to have sex in places or situations or with people you would not normally choose? Do beer goggles count? Fuck it, the answer is "yes" either way.
3. Do you find yourself looking for sexually arousing articles or scenes in newspapers, magazines, or other media? Lately, yeah. I’m kinda hard up.
4. Do you find that romantic or sexual fantasies interfere with your relationships or are preventing you from facing problems? Oh yes.
5. Do you frequently want to get away from a sex partner after having sex? Do you frequently feel remorse, shame, or guilt after a sexual encounter? Who hasn’t?
6. Do you feel shame about your body or your sexuality, such that you avoid touching your body or engaging in sexual relationships? Do you fear that you have no sexual feelings, that you are asexual? This is definitely not my problem.
7. Does each new relationship continue to have the same destructive patterns that prompted you to leave the last relationship? I’m single again, aren’t I?
8. Is it taking more variety and frequency of sexual and romantic activities than previously to bring the same levels of excitement and relief? Yup. Pretty soon I’m going to need midgets and power tools to get off.
9. Have you ever been arrested or are you in danger of being arrested because of your practices of voyeurism, exhibitionism, prostitution, sex with minors, indecent phone calls, etc.? I’m glad I can answer “no” to this one.
10. Does your pursuit of sex or romantic relationships interfere with your spiritual beliefs or development? What spiritual beliefs or development? Just kidding.
11. Do your sexual activities include the risk, threat, or reality of disease, pregnancy, coercion, or violence? Not so much. There but for the grace of God, go I.
12. Has your sexual or romantic behavior ever left you feeling hopeless, alienated from others, or suicidal? I’d like to think I’m nipping that in the bud.

I can admit that I’ve made some less-than-ideal choices in my past. These include, but are not limited to, threesomes, foursomes, hot tub sex and Tucker Max. All of these aforementioned situations have involved alcohol, though I’m not trying to blame that. In fact, I’ve done just as much crazy stuff when not under the influence as I have when I’ve been sloshed. Perhaps the only influence I need to worry about is my own. I’ve let my id do a lot of my thinking. That means I cater to my immediate desires without giving consideration to their long-term repercussions.

As I’ve repeated again and again, I don’t regret the things I’ve done in my past. After ten years of sexual activity I’ve learned a lot of lessons, and have a lot of stories to tell. But these stories are all that I have to show for my experiences. Now I’d like to have something more tangible. I want a real relationship based on passion and mutual-respect. I may not be ready to have it yet, but I think that I'm getting there.

If The Celibacy Project is about learning to love myself, I need to come to grips with the fact that I haven’t done a lot of “love making.” I’ve had a lot of sex, of course, but I’ve had it in the absence of deeper feelings. So now I’m going to face what could be an addiction to the physical without an emotional attachment.

Fear not, my friends, I’ve heard these things can attract sexual predators so my friend BM offered to go with me. When I asked him why, he said “easy pickings.” I’m pretty sure he was kidding, but I’m happy to have the company either way.

I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to write about the meeting tomorrow. I want to respect the privacy of the people that utilize this forum to better themselves. I’m just hoping, God willing, that I will walk away with some surety that my enjoyment of casual sex won’t conflict with my ability to fall in love forever.

So here I go, trying something new (that doesn’t involve me being naked, for a nice change of pace.) By the way, if they make me tell my story tonight, I hope they have a few hours to kill and somebody brings popcorn.


An Ode To Myself

Once upon a time,
In a suburb near the city,
There lived a little girl,
Who was smart but not so pretty.

When she got high school,
She turned blond and lost some weight.
The football players noticed,
And she finally got a date.

She “hooked up” quite a bit back then,
And dated lots of guys.
It helped her social standing,
(But that comes as no surprise.)

She started to get popular,
Though not for the right reasons.
She even was a cheerleader,
Basketball and football seasons.

It was like a John Hughes movie,
How these high school years played out.
But when she got to college,
That script took a different route.

The themes became adult there,
Sex took on a bigger role.
She thought she could divide her
Mind from body, heart from soul.

She knows now that can’t happen,
But does not regret her past.
It’s just she’s finally realized,
She needs sex and love that lasts.

So now she’s on a mission,
To find something much more real.
A guy who fucks her brains out,
But with witty, smart appeal.

This time she will not settle,
For just flings or backseat bj’s.
She wants a guy who loves her,
All dressed up, or in her pj’s.

So when she’s not “on ice,”
Now not just any guy will do.
She’s gotta think he’s perfect,
And he’ll see her that way, too.

Her heart and eyes are open,
As she starts a brand new chapter.
She’s kissed a lot of frogs,
Now she deserves her ever after.


Tuesday, April 22, 2008

The Weezer Rule Redux

I have a friend, we’ll call him Mind Fucker, who I’ve enlisted to read this blog for the sole purpose of keeping me in check. Since he’s one of the few people I’ve met that can instantly cut through my bullshit, I highly value his opinions and take whatever he says to heart.

Yesterday, after reading my post, he started a lively discussion about what I had written. He called into question whether or not I really wanted guys to stop looking at me sexually. He claims that a woman’s need to be appraised like this makes up the fabric of male/female interaction. To this end, I actually agree with him. I know the true battle of the sexes is largely fought in the bedroom and the difference between most men and women is the former constantly thinks about sex, the latter, not so much. My mother once told me that if women enjoyed sex as much as men do, there would be no such thing as modern civilization. Books wouldn’t get written and skyscrapers wouldn’t be built because we’d all still be humping in caves. However if men didn’t desire sex so often, we’d probably also cease to reproduce and populate the world. Given the amount of stupid people born every day, this could be a good thing. But I digress. The point is that women need men to sexualize them for the good of humanity and I’m not the first girl to find confidence in this fact.

Do I enjoy it when men look at me? Hell yes I do. If I’m going to spend an hour and a half getting ready on a Friday night then you bet your sweet ass it makes me happy when guys check me out. Although the arduous preparation process makes me feel as if I’ve done my best, it’s the visible once-over and the look of approval from a guy that confirms I’ve done a good job. I like that. But what happens when I start to like that too much? What happens when I start to live for that and find myself chasing that feeling? I’ll tell you what happens. I decide to become celibate for three months so I don’t self-destruct as the result of a constant need for male attention. Though I’ve tried not to acknowledge this at times, I’m now ready to admit that I have depended WAY too much on guys for this reason. Those who regard me as a confident person should know that I mostly have a variety of suitors – and strangers – to thank for that.

So The Weezer Rule is a double-edged sword. If guys look at me, and that gives me confidence, then that’s a good thing. But if I start to feel overly confident because of this, then that’s bad. So I guess I’m perpetually ambivalent towards it. Mind Fucker put it this way: “don’t enjoy the effects this confidence affords you then question the manner in which it is derived.” Well played, MF. Well played indeed.

The point I was trying to make yesterday is that The Weezer Rule exists and to be aware of it as celibate is a paradox that I’m trying to navigate the best I can. As someone who has had more than her fair share of dalliances with men (which is the most PC way to refer to myself as a slut that I’ve ever employed) I know how easy it is to let this play on one’s sense of self. I’m trying to make that stop. Am I lucky that I’m in a good place to do that because of what’s already been done for my confidence level in this manner? Absolutely. But since The Celibacy Project is forcing me to abstain from the male attention that I have always craved, it’s time to cease supplementing the way I feel about myself with the hollow victory that comes from being deemed fuckable.

Perhaps that I can write, that I’m good at my day job, that I’m a great friend and (for the most part) daughter should be taken into account. In fact, I think I’m going to focus on those things for a little while and see if they can make me feel complete. MF called this a noble aspiration. I call it the opposite of what I’ve always done.

As always, Mind Fucker, you’ve excelled at your purpose. You took an idea I touched on and forced me to flesh it out until I understood my own feelings. Do I still want guys to look at me? Yes, I suppose I do. But I want to stop caring so damn much when they do and value the way I look at myself instead. And you know what? It feels incredibly good to realize that and admit it out loud.

I may not be able to have sex right now, but I’ll tell you one thing...

Mind Fucker gives great head games.


Monday, April 21, 2008

All The World's A Stage

When I was in college my friend Weezer told me he always decided whether or not he’d bang every girl he saw on The Quad.

Now ignoring for the moment that I have a friend called Weezer, let’s just say this information floored me and I’m not someone easily floored. I dubbed it The Weezer Rule and it’s had an effect on the way that I’ve since carried myself. Since Weezer is a pretty typical dude then he probably speaks for a lot of others. And if, in fact, every guy I pass by is silently debating whether or not he’d fuck me, then I should certainly walk with my head held high. Let’s face it ladies, even if not all of them want us, guys tend to follow their penises around like divining rods so there are probably quite a few that do. Thus, instead of treating The Weezer Rule like a degrading or even a misogynistic experience, I learned to embrace it by making it work for me in that I can derive some confidence from knowing it’s taking place. After all, I have the power of the vagina on my side, and that's nothing to sneeze at.

To be honest, in the past I’ve also found myself doing the same thing. I think of it as evening the playing field. But lately, it’s happening a lot more often. What’s scary is that my boredom and loneliness are each casting their own votes now. That’s making for some unprecedented internal dialogue; for instance, suddenly guys in skinny jeans and man capris look more desirable. Metrosexual, Northside-dwelling drunk Cub Fans? Yeah, I’d hit some of that, even the ones rocking pink polos. I better get a hold of myself before Gold Coast married dudes walking fluffy little dogs start to look good. Hey, I’m still detoxing here.


When I’m not actively evaluating every guy I start to feel as if I’m off the clock, and I don’t want to be evaluated either. Too bad it doesn’t work that way. I happened to do quite a bit of walking yesterday and as I did, I found that when I passed by a man, I actually averted my eyes. I didn’t want to be judged, or even positively reviewed. Perhaps I'm not as confident when I’m not wearing my sexuality on my sleeve because when it’s not a tit for tat interaction (insert your own tit joke here) it’s just doesn’t feel the same. Suddenly I feel subjugated rather than celebrated and I don’t like that. So the challenge now is to actively ignore The Weezer Rule and learn to appreciate myself without any male approval. Easier said than done at this point in my life, but I’m trying.

Yesterday, as I navigated my way down Chicago Avenue, I attempted to place a higher premium on things beside the way I consciously wiggle my ass when I walk. Carrying myself with confidence when I know people are watching is one thing. Carrying myself with that same confidence when I’m the only one paying attention is quite another. There’s no way to stop guys from doing what, according to The Weez, guys like to do. But I’ll be damned if I can’t stop myself from caring.


Saturday, April 19, 2008

I Think I've Learned My Lesson

Today I had the most wonderful date…

A walk down Michigan Avenue, a trip to the art museum, and dinner at a vegetarian restaurant I’ve been wanting to try. The food was amazing, the conversation, delightful; the hours passed quickly and I hope we’ll do it again soon.

The only problem is that this perfect date was with my mother.

You didn’t think a guy was going to do all of that with me, did you?

I invited Mom to spend the night but she politely declined because she's meeting friends at a bar in Edison Park.

I stayed in tonight to do laundry and my mother is going out drinking because she didn’t have to ground herself this weekend. Awesome.

Oh celibacy, how you mock me. Yeah, I know. I made this bed and now I’m sleeping in it.

At least the sheets are clean.


Friday, April 18, 2008

If The Phone Doesn't Ring, It's Me

Poor, Poor Bastard. He’s still not taking our breakup well. Last night he called me at midnight. I go to sleep at 10:30. But he called my landline so I answered it, thinking it had to be terrible news about a loved one (or someone telling me Britney finally offed herself which in my world is the same thing.)

I don’t remember what I said to him. In fact, I barely remembered the call when he brought it up this morning. But apparently, allegedly, I told him I missed him. Good work, half-asleep Allie. You asshole.

Now before we get into the concept of Freudian Slips, and whether or not I do in fact miss him, it should be mentioned that in my slumbering state I also told him I was doing dishes. Since he’s an ex, and they have the tendency to hear what they want, he was able to overlook the obvious fact I was disoriented and not doing housework. He wasn’t, on the other hand, willing to let the “I miss you” part go. So now he thinks I miss him, I dream about him, we’re going to get married and have babies…and that I do dishes.

The truth is, I did a horrible thing to Poor Bastard. I let him think everything was much better than it was then I got over it. So I dumped him seemingly out of nowhere, hurting a nice guy in the process. I’ve done that a lot. I make relationships work for me until I’m ready to move on then I realize I never should have been in them. My problem is I can generally find two or three good things about a guy that I embrace, then I forgive all his other less-than-desirable qualities. My friends call me The Great Accommodator. But due to all my accommodating, they should call me The Douche Whisperer because the willingness to overlook some obviously uncool things has left me dating some obviously uncool dudes.

Yeah, it’s pretty embarrassing to admit that. But I’m glad I’m finally realizing this because it has to stop. When I gave you my Ten And A Half Commandments, I should have only considered them a good base. Perhaps I can even aim a little bit higher, say for a guy with all those qualities and that actually “gets me.” Maybe everything else is really superfluous to that and I deserve something more meaningful than what I’ve given myself credit for.

Whoa. Anyways…

The truth is, I don’t really miss Poor Bastard. I miss having somebody around to sleep next to me, lift heavy stuff, and kill spiders. Maybe that’s why I said what I did. But I’m starting to think that stuff like that shouldn’t constitute my only boyfriend requirements. If I keep selling myself short like that someday I’ll be reduced to saying all I want is a guy that puts the toilet seat down. I want a guy that I live for and who lives for me, if he’s everything I’ve ever wanted then I’ll gladly put the damn thing down myself. That’s not accommodating, that’s compromising. Apparently there’s a difference between the two. Who knew?

Now I do.

For the record, Poor Bastard was not uncool. He was a really, really nice guy but that’s all he was. So what do I tell him? I’ve tried telling him that’s it’s over, but he’s not hearing it. I’ve tried telling him that I’m going to be celibate for months, and he’s willing to wait. I would try telling him that I’m pregnant with R. Kelly’s love child but I’m afraid he’ll throw me a baby shower and start the kid’s college fund. Perhaps it’s time to tell him the truth. He was someone I over-accommodated but I know we aren’t meant to be. And we’re never going to be. And he should stop calling me, especially after 10pm. Yikes. This conversation is going to suck but it’s one that needs to be had. Unless…

I wonder if R. Kelly’s into white girls.


Thursday, April 17, 2008

Things That Make Me Go Hmmm

Can we talk about New Guy again? Wait, why am I asking you? This is my blog. Let’s talk about New Guy.

On Tuesday night, I was at McGee’s having a drink with two of my Idol League guys, TM and BM. BM was drinking water.

BM is a recovering alcoholic and he has issues with what went on last weekend. He thinks New Guy took advantage of my situation and since I told him I was celibate, he should have backed off. BM even likened it to someone knowingly offering him a shot of tequila. He has been sober for over a year now and he admits it’s still a day-to-day struggle, if not a minute-by-minute one.

Of course, that got me thinking. I appreciated BM’s attempt to exonerate me. But have you ever heard the expression “you can’t rape the willing”? Yeah, it’s kind of like that.

It’s not as if I am some nubile virgin who is trying to combat her own increasing curiosity. Let’s be honest, if there’s one thing I have little remaining curiosity about, it’s the subtle nuances of sexual activity. I’m a big girl and I knew what I was getting into. I can’t go out, get drunk and then flirt but expect no boy to take the bait. So we’re back to the point of the mea culpa I made the other day. I can’t blame anyone but myself for last Saturday. What happened with New Guy was just the symptom. The Celibacy Project is meant to cure the disease.

And that’s why BM is taking me to a Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting next week.


Wednesday, April 16, 2008

A Day In The Life Of A Nun

I’ve always been a creature of habit but this is getting ridiculous.

The highlight of my week is currently my American Idol Fantasy League. Why? Because it involves drinking and hanging out with boys that I trust (and that I can trust myself around.) Yes, there are boys in my American Idol Fantasy League. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it, people.

Here’s what every day (besides Idol Night Tuesdays) looks like in the life of Celibate Allie:

5:30am – The alarm goes off. I proceed to hate the world.

5:45am – Drag my ass to the gym and chain myself to a treadmill. World-hating continues.

6:50am – Return to my apartment to shower, lather, rinse, and repeat.

7:00am – Time to chug a Sugar Free Red Bull, the true breakfast of champions.

7:30am – Put on my make-up and spend too much time on my hair.

8:30am – 5:00pm – She works hard for the money.

5:10pm – Come home and spend 20 minutes putting everything "where it goes." I have OCD.

5:30pm – Seinfeld in syndication – I love me some George.

6:00pm – Free Period (either yoga, laundry or twice-weekly tanning sessions in lieu of other currently forsaken vices.)

7:30pm – Dinnertime. I eat the same thing EVERY SINGLE DAY. Like I said, I’m a creature of habit. For dinner it’s a salad piled high enough with toppings to negate its inherent nutritional content. I’m such a good vegetarian.

8:00pm – Blogging time, my favorite part of the day.

8:45pm – Respond to the day’s texts and e-mails that generally ask me how the cobwebs in my crotch are doing. My friends are a bunch of smartasses. So is my mom.

9:00pm – Watch terrible television shows on TiVo. Fuck commercials.

10:00pm – Get ready for bed.

10:15pm – Say my prayers. Just kidding.

10:20pm – Double-click my mouse.

10:30pm – Lights out.

5:30am –The alarm goes off.

It’s like Groundhog Day except without Bill Murray or the Pennsylvania Polka.

The point I’m trying to elucidate is that I am now living for the freedom of my weekends. But in light of last Saturday’s near miss debauchery, this weekend I’ve decided that I’m grounded. That means I can work out, go shopping, cure cancer, or maybe check out the Edward Hopper exhibit at the Art Institute. I cannot go to a house party, dance at a club, drink, kiss, cuddle, or dry-hump, no matter how cute he is. It’s gonna be a long weekend.


Tuesday, April 15, 2008

The Definition Of Celibate

[Ed. Note: Not every post can be funny. Today I have to be serious. If you only read this to laugh then please come back tomorrow for your regularly scheduled sarcasm.]

Forgive me readers, for I have sinned.

That guy from Saturday night…well I sort of kissed him. Okay, fine, I kissed him. Consider this my act of contrition.

I am not going to give up. By all classical definitions, I am still celibate. My Webster’s Dictionary says celibacy is “the state of being unmarried” or “abstinence from sexual intercourse.” I chose to add the additional parameters and I would like to keep those in place for the future. I know I made a mistake. Mistakes happen, it’s what you learn from them that matters.

Why in the world did I go home with him? I can’t blame anything or anyone but myself. Clearly this ain’t my first rodeo and I should have known better; drunk members of the opposite sex don’t leave a club together to “talk.” I guess a part of me wanted to do more than that. At the risk of sounding like a nympho, this can be really hard. I just became single again and for me that’s like open season in an overpopulated forest. I truly do love flirting, the game, and everything that serves as a preamble to the actual "hook up." I guess I just love guys. But does that really make this cause (and me) hopeless?

God, I hope not. Now paging Saint Jude…

So I relapsed. I took it too far. What I did with Hot Dude was acceptable, what I did with New Guy was not. And if it happens again I’m done. If I’m not going to take this seriously then I can’t expect anyone else to, either.

I am my own worst enemy. At the end of the day, this whole thing was my bright idea. I made this bed and I’m the one that has to sleep in it. And from now on I can only sleep in it and I can only sleep there alone.

Wow, I suck.

For better or worse, I have chosen to take this journey and I’ve invited you along for the ride. As it turns out, that ride is a roller coaster, and all roller coasters have the propensity to make you sick. I actually felt nauseous yesterday when I realized the ramifications of my dishonesty. The purpose of this blog isn’t just to make you laugh, it's to make myself think and it's meant to be a documented true-life experience. Yesterday, I failed.

I’m really sorry you guys. If you don’t want to read anymore I’ll understand. But to those of you that are still with me, thank you.

Tomorrow is a new day.


Monday, April 14, 2008

Sexless In The City

I went home with a boy on Saturday. Don’t worry, nothing happened - although certainly not for lack of trying on his part, bless his horny little heart. We pre-drank at his place, went to Ghostbar and Manor, then we stayed up talking until eight in the morning and I made him sleep on the couch.

This new guy (let’s call him New Guy) is a bit of a proverbial “catch.” Smart, successful, cute, funny, well-liked, yada, yada, yada. Basically the kind of guy that Single Allie would have slept with in a heartbeat. Celibate Allie, however, was not buying anything he was selling.

The two of them actually had a little heart-to-heart about it:

Single Allie: What’s the big deal? Let’s face it, you’re drunk and you’re horny.
Celibate Allie: Damnit woman, it’s only been eleven days! If you can’t make it two weeks then you should just start selling your body on State Street.
SA: But he’s cute! And rich! And…hey, wait a minute, since when does it take more than that to convince you?
CA: Slow your roll. You can do this. I have faith in you, even if you don’t.
SA: Fine, bitch. But you owe me.
CA: Duly noted. I wonder if he’ll make us pizza.

New Guy was actually pretty understanding about the situation, especially since I led off with that information at the beginning of the night. I should get a t-shirt made that I can wear out, one that reads: “I don’t put out until July,” just so there’s no ambiguity.

To be honest, I feel a little guilty that I even came that close to hooking up. A couple friends have assured me that I didn’t do anything wrong, and I guess I really didn’t. Of course New Guy, and his balls of blue, might beg to differ. Oh well. You can’t please all of the people all of the time. Although Single Allie used to come pretty damn close.


Saturday, April 12, 2008

At Least The Sushi Was Good

Well that was a huge mistake. But I guess you saw that coming. My mailman probably saw that coming. Somehow I didn’t see that coming.
Going out to dinner with an ex-boyfriend is a little like dancing with the devil.
In theory, what’s the worst that can happen? In practice, the apocalypse is nigh.
There is simply no good that can ever come from hanging out with someone you’ve already decided to stop hanging out with.
The philly rolls were great but the plate of weird with a side of awkward gave me heartburn. And that is why he's an ex.
Lesson learned. Class dismissed.

I need a drink.


Friday, April 11, 2008

You're Perfect, Now Change

Tonight I’m having dinner with another one of my ex-boyfriends. Yeah, I have a lot of ex-boyfriends. He is the most recent to be relieved of his duties and we shall call him Poor Bastard.

Poor Bastard came into my life at a time when I really needed a boyfriend; I had just gotten out of a relationship and I was desperate for attention from somebody. Anybody. A living, breathing mammal with a cell phone. This guy fit the bill.

PB and I didn’t have much in common, but he always made me laugh. He was caring, sweet, eager to please, and basically the total opposite of the guy who had just broken my heart. So what did I do? I waited until I finally started to feel better about myself, then I turned around and broke his heart. In psychology they call this “displacement.” I should call it Standard Operating Procedure.

My colorist Kelly once told me that she thinks guys are right – women are crazy. We say we want a nice guy that treats us with respect…but in reality we want a guy that goes radio silence for days at a time and then reappears as if nothing happened. So basically, we condition dudes to be assholes. Then we cry into our Ben and Jerry’s when they do what they think they’re supposed to do.

No wonder men choose dogs over women as their best friends.

The truth is that most guys are simple-minded creatures. They enjoy sports, sex, and pooping, not necessarily in that order. So when we start to throw mixed signals at them, their systems overload and we get dumped. And then we turn to guys like Poor Bastard to make us feel better, only to dump them, too.

The point I’m trying to make is….oh, crap. I don’t have a point. I don’t have a solution to offer, either. I thought when I met PB that I had found what I wanted. Then after three months of dating a guy that treated me the way I wished the other guy had treated me, I somehow burnt out. But my intentions started off good! My heart was in the right place. And now I’m stuck going out with an ex-boyfriend to consume raw fish and warm saki.

Hey, a girl's gotta eat.

Obviously I’m not the expert I'd like to think I am on relationships, even though I’ve had enough of them by now to qualify for the President's Club. But that doesn't make me an expert. I have no idea what I'm doing. I’m just some chick with a blog that writes about the shit show that is my sex life for the six of you that actually read this.

You’re welcome.


Thursday, April 10, 2008

The Ten And A Half Commandments

I dated a guy for about three years up until last June. Let’s call him The Ex. He wasn’t particularly interesting, particularly good looking, or particularly anything worth writing home about, but he was available, he was socially acceptable, and he embodied my hopes of someday possessing two carats and a three-car garage on the North Shore.

Yes, I realize how awful that sounds. That’s another reason that I’m doing this whole “celibate” thing. The last ten years of my life have been a constant cycle of catch-and-release relationships that consisted of me finding something, convincing myself that I wanted it, then eventually losing interest and moving on. I don’t want to do that anymore. It’s unfair to all parties involved and it’s emotionally exhausting.

So today I decided to make a list of the things I must have in a relationship in order to be truly happy. These are my new non-negotiables, and I refuse to settle for anyone that can’t adhere to any less than eight of them. The last one, however, is a total deal-breaker, no matter how great the guy is. So now, submitted for your entertainment, I present Allie’s Ten And A Half Commandments:

1. Thou shalt be funny and think I’m funny.
The Ex didn’t think I was funny. Sure, I know plenty of people that are funnier than me. In fact I even like to date people that are funnier than me. But if you can honestly tell me you don’t think I have a good sense of humor, then no offense dude, but fuck you.

2. Thou shalt have a passion in life….besides me.
I have definitely dated guys that were ALL about me and these enjoyable (but self-serving) relationships tend to build up my self-esteem to unnecessary levels. However the problem with being somebody’s source of happiness is that means the person doesn’t know how to be happy without you. I don’t care if it’s golf, NASCAR or Magic: The Gathering, but a guy’s gotta have something else going on in his life that gives him some pleasure. I’ll take care of the rest.

3. Thou shalt not be dumb.
There are book smarts and there are street smarts. I think I’m pretty book smart but I can be quite street dumb. I would like a guy that I can discuss literature and politics with but I really need a guy that remembers to check for oncoming traffic when we’re walking somewhere, because honestly, sometimes I forget.

4. Thou shalt think I’m beautiful.
I don’t care if he thinks Vanessa Marcil is hotter than me. Hell, I do too. But the guy I want to be with needs to think I’m beautiful, both when I’m cleaned up nice, and also when I wake up. I am willing to accept that the latter might require him not having his contacts in yet.

5. Thou shalt have good taste in music, movies, or television.
And he must be willing to accept that I have none of the above. I think Britney Spears is the second coming and I know that’s ridiculous. So it would be nice to have somebody around that actually knows what quality entertainment is.

6. Thou shalt not be skinnier than me.
Okay, seriously, that is SO not cool.

7. Thou shalt have the patience to explain sports to me and the understanding not to force me to watch every single game.
I enjoy going to live sporting events, mostly for the socializing and the beer. But I do not, and I will not, ever understand why it’s necessary to watch 162 baseball games on television when none of them really start to matter until September.

8. Thou shalt not be up your mother’s ass.
The Ex called his mom no less than three times a day. She was a lovely person, and we got along quite well, but I need a guy who doesn’t already have a woman in his life. Furthermore, calling your mother in the middle of an argument so that she can settle it for us is simply not acceptable and will never (again) be tolerated.

9. Thou shalt not be a fighter.
Now this one is a bit of a fine line. I like a guy that has the balls to stand up for me or who would even physically defend me if we came across some ruffians in a dark alley late at night. But I cannot handle a man that wants to beat up every guy that looks in my direction. Dude, they don’t all want to fuck your girlfriend, and even the ones that do, don’t get to. So get over it.

10. Thou shalt not always let me have my way.
Relationships are about compromise. Sure, I would like to have all the things on this list. These are the “must-haves” and quite frankly, I think I deserve them – or at least eight of them. But there is also a list of “would-likes” that isn’t worth mentioning because it simply isn’t realistic to think that one person will possess every single quality I would like. I want a guy with a personality that compliments my own, but I do not want a guy that is a doormat. Challenge me. Pick your battles and then fight with me. If it’s important to you, make me understand that. Do not let me always have my way. My parents did that and now they have a daughter with a sex blog. That’s all I’m gonna say about that.

10.5. Thou shalt not have a cat.
I just don’t get "cat guys." Plus, I'm allergic. I don't care if yours "acts like a dog." It's not a dog, it's a cat, and it makes me sneeze.

So there you have it. Those who feel they can meet or exceed these standards are more than welcome to send a resume, head shot, IQ test, stool sample and no less than five letters of recommendation to the Allie Needs A Guy That Doesn’t Suck At Life Committee for review. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.


Wednesday, April 9, 2008

All Dressed Up And No Place To Go

Yesterday night I had my first celibatory bikini wax. Yes, I just made up the word “celibatory.” These are the things I do to amuse myself when I’m busy not having sex.

So I went for my monthly appointment at Kiva where my esthetician Magda actually laughed at the idea of The Celibacy Project. It’s pretty sad when a person who knows my ladybits better than I do is unsure if I can accomplish this feat. Then again, my conviction isn’t exactly good for business. I usually get a Brazilian Wax. Last night, I downgraded to the standard sideburn removal. Normally I embrace a “no pain, no gain” maxim but I’ve decided for the time being to replace that with “no point.”

That got me thinking about some of the other adjustments I’ve been consciously making to my repertoire lately. For instance, my pricey Victoria’s Secret Body Butter has been temporarily shelved in favor of some plain old Lubriderm. I figure that nobody’s getting close enough to my skin to appreciate the flowery goodness anyways and I can spend the money I’m saving on the drinks I now have to buy for myself. Damn I’m thrifty.

Also, and this one’s a no-brainer, all my sexy thongs have been removed from my lingerie drawer. Actually, now it’s just an underwear drawer. I bet my grandmother has an underwear drawer, too. So that’s where my life is at? Awesome.

Some rituals, however, are still very much in tact. For example when I’m single I can psych myself up for the gym by remembering that I never know when I’m gonna have to disrobe in front of someone who’s never before had that pleasure. That motivation has become a moot point for the time being but I still want to look good for Magda, lest I give her any other reasons to laugh at me.

And I’m continuing to keep up on my manicures, pedicures, haircuts and highlights because those things make me feel good about myself and that’s important right now. I’m just not concerned with the hair nobody sees for a little while. I may be a narcissist but I’m not a total masochist.

Oh calm down, gentlemen. I’ve already made an appointment to go back to the Full Monty once The Celibacy Project concludes on July 1st. Poor Magda should probably clear her schedule and perhaps call for backup that day. No pain, no gain, no tip, my dear.


Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Assoholics Anonymous

As of today it’s been an entire week and my celibacy is still in tact. I can honestly say that up until now, Hot Dude notwithstanding, it hasn’t been that difficult.

Of course I’d be lying if I didn’t also say that it felt like there was something slightly missing in my life. Affection? Certainly. Attention? Yeah, that too. But according to a friend of mine, it’s the freaking endorphins.

This friend has children so clearly she knows a thing or two about doing it (and then not doing it anymore.) And she said that sexual activity creates endorphins and people can actually become addicted to them. Endorphins are hormones that give you a sudden feeling of pain relief and well-being, like your body’s own smack.

Right before The Celibacy Project I was in a relationship with a healthy physical component. Without going into too much detail, let’s just say I was hitting the endorphins pretty hard and now I’ve gone cold turkey. Perhaps I need a Sex Patch. Side effects may include: incessant masturbation. Yeah, that’s pretty much the only side effect, and hey, it could be worse.

But honestly, I don’t feel like I’m desperately trying to get the sex monkey off my back. Aside from some boredom and the time I had to physically stop myself from texting an old standby, this actually isn’t too bad.

So perhaps it’s the attention and the affection I miss and I was never really addicted to the act, per se. Google told me The National Council on Sexual Addiction and Compulsivity has defined sexual addiction as “engaging in persistent and escalating patterns of sexual behavior despite increasing negative consequences to self and others.”

Um…..yeah. Okay. That doesn’t describe me at all.

Back to more important things. IT’S BEEN A WEEK AND I’M STILL HERE PEOPLE! I have NOT given up and I have NOT broken down and I have not yet spontaneously combusted. Let’s celebrate!*

That’s seven days down, and only 7,171,200 seconds to go.

But who’s counting, right? We all are.


*In lieu of flowers or gifts, Allie requests that a small donation be made to The National Council on Sexual Addiction and Compulsivity's Scholarship Fund.

Monday, April 7, 2008

Let's Talk About Friday Night

Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed by Thy Name, did not just lead me into temptation. He also gave me a map and a compass.

The night started out with two girlfriends, the best of intentions, and a bottle of wine at La Madia. We did what single girls like to do when they’re together; we made each other laugh and berated every happy couple in sight. That was inevitably followed by more drinks at the singles’ Mecca that is Rockit. And that’s where things quickly began to get interesting for Celibate Allie.

We met one of our guy friends, who brought along one of his guy friends, who happened to be one of the most attractive guys I have ever seen in my life. This is not just my horniness talking. This guy was prettier than me. To protect the innocent (not that there were any innocent) I shall herein refer to him as Hot Dude.

The celibacy thing came up early in the conversation because, let’s be honest, it’s interesting to talk about. Hot Dude found this admirable. Hot Dude claimed he was kind of in a similar place. I’m not sure what else Hot Dude said because I was too busy fantasizing about doing dirty things to him to fully pay attention.

Unfortunately, it soon appeared that Hot Dude was less interested in me, and more interested in the Allie’s Chastity Challenge. By the time we got to Stone Lotus for a nightcap, he was nonchalantly rubbing against me. Shots were taken. Flirting transpired. And then we started to dance.

My mother once told me that dancing is the vertical expression of a horizontal desire. You can tell a lot about a guy by the way he dances, unless he’s Jewish, then all bets are off (no offense, Dad.) Needless to say, since God seems to have a sense of humor these days, Hot Dude could move quite well. In fact, he moved too well. I can’t remember the last time I was that turned on.

But at some point while he was grinding behind me I felt – ahem – that I had his full attention. And that’s when I knew it was time to get the hell out of Dodge before I did something stupid. Wild horses have nothing on the willpower this required as I dragged myself away and returned home alone. There I sought solace in pizza and Advil in an attempt to stave off the impending hangover that would surely afflict me.

However, when I woke up on Saturday, I actually felt quite good. I felt like throwing up, of course, but I didn’t also feel guilty and that’s generally a hallmark of my hangovers. Perhaps I might be onto something here. Granted, that’s the first and only night I’ve battled temptation. And something tells me now that I’m not looking for anything, guys like Hot Dude will be crawling out of the woodwork just to test me. Yeah God, I get it. This isn’t supposed to be easy. But to make it easier I have a new rule. I can only dance with ugly dudes that I’m not at all attracted to. Amen.


Saturday, April 5, 2008

Friday, April 4, 2008

Let's Get Ready To Rumble

And now for the evening’s main event!

In the corner to my right, The Challenger, wearing black pants, at one hundred and……….something-odd pounds, one of Chi-town’s own, Allllllllllllllie B!

In the far corner, wearing no pants, weighing in at an ounce of prevention and a pound of cure, undefeated for over ten years, the Champion of the world, The “Master of Disaster,” Temptation!

Now throw in little booze and we have ourselves a battle royal.

That’s right kids, tonight is my first night out on the town as both single and celibate. To be honest, I’m not sure how I feel about this. I am absolutely committed to the task at hand, however…this is going to require an entirely different way of looking at things. Ordinarily if I’m out and a guy offers to buy me a drink, at the very least I will talk to him long enough to let him know that I appreciate what he did. And hey, if at some point in the conversation he turns out to be a cool guy (of course the drink, and perhaps a couple more, would certainly help his cause) maybe something will come of it. But now, can I still do that? I’m not being rhetorical here, I’m asking.

If I know that there’s absolutely, positively, no way in hell that anything will ever come of it, is it still fair to accept a drink from a stranger? I mean, seriously, why do guys buy girls drinks? To save us money? Doubtful, although that would be freaking sweet. But isn’t a guy buying a drink for a girl he doesn’t know just a sort of investment on his part, and certainly not a long-term one?

Further complicating matters, is telling a guy that I’m determined not to have sex only going to appear as if I’m throwing down the gauntlet? The last thing I need is to feel indebted to some dude who thinks that he’s rising to the Allie’s Chastity Challenge.

Perhaps I should just buy my own drinks. Damnit, now I’m going to be horny and broke.

Tonight, I battle my own personal axis of evil: good looking guys and Long Island Ice Teas. Wish me good luck because with that, determination, and absolutely NO shots, this underdog isn’t going to end up under anyone. Cheers!


Thursday, April 3, 2008

The New Office Pool

You know, it’s funny, I’ve gotten a lot of feedback in the last couple days and with very few exceptions, it falls into two categories: girls who think this is hilarious and guys who think it’s batshit insane.

Some of you, and you know who you are, would bet the farm against me. That’s fine, although perhaps I should bet the farm against you and then go find Jesus in Antarctica for a while. That’ll show temptation. And it’ll show you assholes for doubting me. I’m just kidding. I know this is crazy and it doesn’t sound possible. Not for a lot of people and certainly not for me.

However, I also know that I really need to do this. It’s time to try something new.

Four years ago I settled down, with “settled” being the operative word and that’s three years of my life I can never get back. In the last eight months I have dated, in no particular order: a playboy, a laborer, a billionaire, a frat guy, the dude that invented Pictionary and a selfish bastard hell-bent on destroying my heart for sport and his own entertainment (not that I’m bitter.) In my lifetime I have sent three guys to therapy, not because I drove them to it, I merely suggested it and they agreed it was a good idea. I’m not even going to get into the number of people I’ve hooked up with.

And yet, here I am, single again. Single by choice this time around, but single nonetheless.

Clearly, something is amiss in this picture. But the pictures have all been so different.
In fact, the only unifying factor that can be found among these situations is that sex was involved, to varying degrees, in what went down.

Oh wait, there’s one other common factor: they didn’t work out. And thus I find myself at a crossroads where this little experiment comes in. For once, I’m going to make myself the control, and take all the other variables out. And by “variables,” I mean “penises.”

Who knows, perhaps I’ll even learn how to blush again.

One other thing, since this also came up a lot…yes, I’m going to come clean if I can’t do it. If I fuck up by fucking around, you’ll be the first to know. Furthermore, I promise that if I can’t do this, I will concede defeat to the ass gods and I will take my lashings as they are appropriately doled out.

But if I’m right and I can go 90 days without hanky-panky, petting, kissing or humping….then it won’t even matter if I’ve proven to you that I could because I will have convinced myself. And then I’ll laugh all the way to the bank with the money I bet on Team Allie.

So go ahead, take the under. I’m gonna let it ride for 88 more days. I think I can do the unthinkable.

Of course, I certainly wouldn’t take the over, either.
This might be crazy but I’m not that crazy.


Wednesday, April 2, 2008

I'm Still A (Reality TV) Whore

Last night, I had a moment. Something was very, very different.
I was sitting in bed, watching TV, the kind of TV you can only watch when you’re single: The Bachelor on TiVo.
I wasn’t texting anybody. I wasn’t checking myspace.
I was cut off from the world and I was actually perfectly content.
This is not normal for me. My cell phone lives in my hand. So that got me thinking…wtf?

It’s not like this is the first time I haven’t had a boyfriend. But the way I’ve worked most breakups has been a lot like juggling; I keep two balls in my hands at all times and a third one always in the air.
Um, yeah. That wasn’t supposed to sound nearly as dirty as it did.
I meant that I’m never really single for long.

Now, for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m not just “in between boyfriends.”
I feel like I’m single with a lower-case “s” rather than a capital one.
I’m not on the prowl.
And it actually….sorta….feels good. Weird. But good.

By the way, those chicks on The Bachelor are single in all caps and bold letters.

Actually, they’re just assholes.


Tuesday, April 1, 2008

You Should Probably Buy Stock In Duracell

First of all, I’d like to thank everyone for the outpouring of support – and smart ass commentary – that I’ve received since I announced this earth-shattering decision.

I’d also like to briefly address two of the questions that seem to come up over and over again:

1. Yes, I can still masturbate. I’m trying to find clarity here, not breach my own sanity.

2. No, I do not have a waiting list for July 1st, but thank you for your interest.

And now for the third, more complicated, question: why am I doing this?


I’m doing this because I don’t want to look back at my twenties and have nothing to show for them but a couple well-deserved nicknames, some empty Plan B wrappers and a bad case of throat cancer:

I’m doing this because it’s not just about not having sex. It’s also about not having a boyfriend. Since the age of seventeen I’ve been in 12 relationships. By “relationships” I mean “someone who has regularly seen me without makeup and who is not, to the best of my knowledge, sleeping with anyone else.” Number twelve ended two days ago. Now before I make it a Baker’s Dozen I need to figure out just what the hell I’m looking for and to do that with an open mind I need an empty vagina. I reason that if I’m not having casual sex, then I’m certainly not going to have any monogamous sex either, because what kind of fool would buy a cow without at least asking to see the milk first?

I’m doing this because for far too long I’ve allowed my physical relationships with men to determine a portion of my self-worth. Not my entire self-worth, mind you, because if that were the case I’d be a much different Allie and probably the type of girl that you don’t like very much because she doesn’t even seem to like herself. But I can admit that, to a point, I have let my self-esteem live and die not by whether or not a guy ever called me again, but rather by whether a guy ever booty called me again. And that’s just plain wrong.

So there you have it. That’s why I’m doing this.

By the way, day one – done and done. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a muffin to buff.