Monday, June 30, 2008

It's Too Late To Apologize

The time has come. Here’s the story I’ve been meaning to tell.

When The Celibacy Project began, I offered several reasons as to why I felt I needed to do this. These included a desire to be single for a while and an overall need to slow my sexual roll.

But the truth is there was another reason I haven’t been ready to talk about until now. In the beginning it was my major inspiration, though I know I’ve since gotten more out of this experience than I had ever intended to. Nevertheless, it was my impetus, and it’s the same force that drives girls to do all sorts of crazy things. This was, originally, about a boy. Sigh.

I call him The One.

Once upon a time (actually it was about a year ago) I met him in Las Vegas. That should have been a red flag in and of itself.

TO lived in San Francisco where he owned a software company. He was Jewish, hot, funny, smart, 37 and basically the most perfect guy I’d ever met. He’s the first person I let into my life in a long time that actually “got me.” He made me laugh, he made me think and he made me cum.


He was a professional bachelor. He traveled for work a lot and didn’t think he could ever commit to one girl. When he told me this, about four months into the relationship, I should have changed my number and left no forwarding address.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. This one was perfect, this one was special, and I’m a cool girl so I could just make him love me, right?

So. Fucking. Wrong.

For the next two months, in light of this obvious deal-breaker, I beat my head against a wall trying to be everything he wanted me to be. That meant we would text all day long, talk on the phone every night, and send each other funny, dirty e-mails whenever the mood struck. He came to visit me once a month and we spent beautiful weekends together. I completely opened up to him and I honestly, truly, loved him. But all the while he’s dating, and fucking, his next-door neighbor. And I let him. And I lived with it. And it killed me every day that he wouldn’t just be mine.

I’ve never done anything that stupid for a guy in my entire life.

Then finally, at the end of a two-month exercise in martyrdom, I stared to give up. I met Poor Bastard, who gave me all the attention I thought I needed (but wasn’t getting) at the time. He wasn’t, and never would be, The One and I knew that. Still I somehow summoned the courage to tell TO that I couldn’t do this anymore, he was hurting me, and I was done.


The asshole sucked me back in, as assholes tend to do. He told me he’d go to therapy, he’d try to learn to love me and that, by the way, the reason he probably couldn’t is because he’d caught the girl he’d loved fucking her ex-boyfriend…twelve years ago.


But I bought it! I actually felt bad for him. I even justified his inability to commit because of this information. So ‘round and ‘round we went, dating other people, but falling for each other. Whether or not he’ll ever admit it, I know that he loved me, to a small but certain extent.

And then, a month later, he unceremoniously gave up. Actually, he told me that he was making the first unselfish decision he’d ever made in his life. He wasn’t dumping me, he was letting me go, because it finally occurred to him that he’d never be able to give me what I needed.

This absolutely destroyed me. I was ready to walk a month earlier. I could have left with some dignity, but no, it had to be on his terms. Rather than let me go when I wanted to leave, he convinced me he was going to try harder. But I am absolutely sure he knew it was never going to work. Instead, he bided his time, ripped my heart out and put it through a wood chipper leaving it (and me) in a million little pieces. For the record, I don’t hate him for this. I never did and I can't. I loved him. But I actually pity him and in a way, that’s almost worse. He was, and always will be, self-centered and manipulative. He’ll never be in love and perhaps he doesn’t deserve to be. That will always be his cross to bear. Yeah, I'm still a little bitter. That's my cross to bear, I suppose.

It took me seven weeks to finally realize what it was and that it was over.

It was in that moment of clarity when I decided to start this blog.

He was The One I wanted to marry. He was The One that got away. But he was also The One that knowingly broke my heart in a way that I’ve never experienced before. I haven’t actually spoken to him since the day it all came crashing down, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still think about him. And I used to hate myself for it.

So that’s why I did this.

The Celibacy Project was about learning to love myself. I spent so much time trying to make TO love me that I forgot how important that self-love is. I have realized that I can never get into another situation where my happiness is so dependent on somebody else. Because the truth about that is when it’s good, it’s so very good, but when it’s bad it can’t get any worse. I took this time off from guys because I needed to learn to live without them. In doing so, I also learned to live without The One and I found out that life can be just as good, if not better, without him.


Saturday, June 28, 2008

This Ain't Oprah's Book Club - Part IV

What can I say about “The Game” that I haven’t already said?

When I started reading this book, it was because two guys that I consider to be quite cool suggested I do so after I talked about “The Rules.” I said that I had used “The Rules” for quite some time as my dating bible, despite the inherent misogyny behind most of what it said. Rule #3, “Don’t stare at men or talk too much,” and Rule #16, “Don’t tell him what to do,” particularly ruffled my feathers initially. But overall, that tome seemed to give sound advice in terms of playing hard to get to ensure a man worked for your affection. The idea behind that is that a guy that exerted effort to get you would continue to work to keep you, ensuring a "healthy" and "successful" relationship in which you were the prize. But in truth, with an engagement ring pictured on the cover, it always seemed that “The Rules,” were more about getting a husband than finding a soul mate. And don’t we all deserve soul mates?

“The Game,” on the other hand, is about finding someone to fuck. Best case scenario you might also want to date her…or at least keep fucking her. Author Neil Strauss calls that the “10 Night Stand.” But worst case scenario, you still get to have casual (and possibly dirty) sex with her after seducing her into a situation that she might have consciously objected, but secretly wanted, all along.

So men and women innately want different things. I knew that going in. Yet when I first started reading it, I was up in arms, thinking to myself with each new chapter “how dare they?” As with most things, however, over time my perception evolved. Yes, some of the things the guys in this book did were shady and others, downright despicable. But Strauss said it best when he wrote up the art of “The Game” like this:

“Though I knew my new mindset was seriously warped, I felt more ethical in many ways as a PUA (Pick Up Artist) than I had been as an AFC (Average Frustrated Chump.) Part of learning game was not just memorizing openers and phone game and rapport-building, but learning how to be honest with a woman about what I expected from her and what she could expect from me. It was no longer necessary to deceive a woman by telling her I wanted a relationship when I just wanted to get laid; by pretending to be her friend when I only wanted to get in her pants; by letting her think we were in a monogamous relationship when I was seeing other women. I had finally internalized the idea that women don’t always want relationships. In fact, once unleashed, a woman’s physical needs are often more ravenous than a man’s.”

Been there. Anyways…

Using this as a basis from which to objectively view what I was reading and how I related it to my own life, I determined the following: they played “The Game” and I lived by “The Rules.” Neither is right, but neither is wrong. They are merely manuals which elucidate the nuances of classic human behavior and describe how to best utilize these to your advantage in easy-to-follow lists and diagrams (yes, diagrams…ladies, if you haven’t read “The Game,” I highly recommend it.)

But as much as I was disillusioned, I’ve since decided I don’t begrudge them of it. These are guys that couldn’t seem to get laid without these tactics. Using "The Game" on the kinds of girls it works on, they finally did. Good for them. Sex is a gorgeous thing and the dudes in this book each deserve to enjoy it as much as the next human. I was the kind of girl this crap worked on. Hell I’ve even spit all kinds of my own game.

But I really don't think, having gotten through this painfully enlightening reading experience, that this stuff will ever work on me again. Still, they can go on with their badass selves.

The experiences that come from “The Game” are, for the most part, meaningless. Their guidelines are merely a means to an end. However, I think you need to have a certain amount of meaningless sex to appreciate the real kind. Even Style, Neil Strauss’ alter-ego, found a girl he wanted to be with. “The Game” didn’t work on her. And I think that’s how it’s supposed to happen. When it’s meant to be, “The Rules” and “The Game” don’t apply. I know that now.

And I can’t wait to find it.

I’m glad I read this book. Like ZW said, knowledge is power. And if this experience has been about anything, it’s about taking a step back and seeing things for what they really are. In doing so, I finally know that I’m better than what I have had. Indeed, knowing is half the battle.

[Ed Note: I went to a party this afternoon and I just love organized day drinking. That being said, I wrote this drunk. Hence the run-ons. It was bound to happen eventually. I’ll edit it tomorrow.]

[Personal Note: Wise One…I know, I know. I’m working on it. Rome wasn’t built in a day.]


Friday, June 27, 2008

One Small Step

Yesterday, right before I flew home from Manhattan and right after I got hit on by Douchy McDoucherton in my hotel’s lobby, I had breakfast with a man I met when I went to the Sex Addicts meeting back in April. Talk about full circle. Let's call him Wise One.

Wise One is gay, lives in New York, and has been in recovery for about twenty years. When I was telling my story at Sexual Compulsives Anonymous, he later said he felt a connection to me. Afterwards, he even gave me a hug. I told him about the blog, gave him my e-mail address, and a few days later here’s what he wrote:

“Something that people in early recovery are encouraged to do is write out their sexual history from their earliest memory. Since you like to write it probably wouldn’t be difficult to try it out. Along with the narrative, note the feelings that arise, be on the lookout for shame, a favorite motivator for many…other feelings are: abandonment, emptiness, sadness, loneliness and, of course, anger.

Through this exercise people often discover the nature of their condition and recognize at some point they became ‘powerless’ over pursing the next conquest or love affair. Along with that awareness often comes the recognition that unmanageability increased. The amazing result is often, for the first time in one’s adult life, a sense of freedom from something they didn’t even know was driving them.

The nature of doing this writing is, in fact, working the first step: ‘we admitted we were powerless over sexual compulsion – our lives had become unmanageable.’ I wouldn’t normally be so direct with someone in suggesting this level of work as it can stir deeply held and tough feelings. But it’s clear you’re an over-achiever and a doer, so I’m sure you’ll find it, at the minimum, very interesting. At the worst/best, you’ll become more aware and be closer to determining if you’re a sex addict.”

I’d like to think that’s what I have been doing here ever since.

So anyways, two months later, we met again, and WO said he was pleased with my progress. He claimed that I was ready for the second step: returning to sanity and finding out what intimacy and love really mean. Wait a second - I’m not done yet? I’m only on the cusp of clarity? Okay, fine. It’s not like I was planning on doing anything for the next year – or twenty years – of my life, anyways.

This time, and this blog, have allowed me to see the forest for the trees. I’ve taken a step back, peered into the heart of darkness, and found my sexual self returning my gaze. I have come to understand the things I have done were not entirely my own fault; that in part I became a slave to desires and needs bigger than anything I could control. I have found I had to the power to change this, but first I needed to admit that it was happening. Thanks to The Celibacy Project, Wise One, and the encouragement and support of those closest to me, I have finally realized what I am. My name is Allie, and I'm a recovering sex addict.


Thursday, June 26, 2008

The City That Never Stops

Is it just me or are New York guys a LOT more aggressive than their Midwestern counterparts?

On Tuesday, shortly after I got into town, I went to my favorite nail place in Times Square for a manicure. In a matter of only four blocks, I was stopped twice by boys with thick East Coast accents. They asked me where I was from, they asked where I was going, and they asked what I was doing later that night. Both times I kept waiting for them to try to sell me a knock-off Prada, but it turned out they were looking for my company, not my money. I’ll be damned.

It’s not as if I never get picked up in Chicago. But I’ve never had my walk to work interrupted by a dinner invitation. I asked my friend JH, a member of the inner circle who used to live in NY and came to stay with me, if I was onto something. She said that indeed I was. However, she added the caveat that it’s not Manhattan boys I had to worry about, it’s the Bridge and Tunnel crowd. I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. As it turns out, there’s a pecking order here, not unlike the Northsider vs. Southsider caste system that exists back home.

Once I understood what I was up against, we went out together last night. First we met her friend B for sushi and I saw the Statue of Liberty for the first time. It was awe-inspiring and it gave me goosebumps. I heart New York. I’m such a dork. Then we left the safety of our male escort and went to some bar called Bounce. As soon as we walked in, JH turned to me and said “Sausage Fest.” I looked around and realized she was right. Not only was the place filled with dudes, but they all turned and looked at us like horny sailors on shore leave. I hope getting eye-fucked doesn’t count as breaking celibacy because in that moment, I got eye-gangbanged. We sat down and instantly we were approached by some drunken, dancing, douchebag. Without even letting him spit what little game he could have possessed in our direction, JH didn’t hesitate to jump out of her seat, grab my hand, and lead me out of the bar. That’s the thing I love about her, she has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to bullshit. But the next place we went to wasn’t much better.

As soon as we walked into the restaurant, I passed by a table of three guys, one of whom told me he loved me. An hour and a Long Island later, as we were leaving I got accosted by some large Israeli man named Dave. We had one of those conversations where he was obviously drunker than me and kept asking me the same questions, where I was from and what I was doing in NY. Since he couldn’t be bothered to remember, I kept changing the answers. Then he put his arm around me and kissed my hand. Ew. I couldn’t wait to get on my flight home this morning. And even today, as I made my way through the lobby of my freaking hotel to get breakfast, some guy sitting on a couch motioned for me to come over. I shook my head “no,” and he replied, “oh c’mon, I just wanna have a little fun.” Seriously, dude? It was seven-fucking-thirty in the morning.

That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. It reminded me of all the slot machines ringing in your ears at the airport in Vegas when you’re trying to get home. Perhaps it’s my celibacy and I’m tired of having to say no, but there's a time and a place for that sort of thing and it's not 3pm on Broadway or before noon in a hotel lobby. When boys take anything you do as an indication that you’re interested, it’s very easy to get oversexed in the city.

Now I’m finally back to Chicago and my "normal," quiet, life for a while. Be it ever so boring, there’s no place like home.


Tuesday, June 24, 2008

A Postmodern Pick Up

[Ed. Note: I told you I wasn't sure if my traveling would affect my it turns out, it does. Damnit. My sincerest apologies, Celibateers, everything will be back to normal on Friday.]

On Sunday, I was sitting at the Tampa International Airport, minding my own business, and reading a book. A guy who would rank as about a “6” sat across from me and seemed to be checking me out every time I looked up. After this happened twice without him saying anything, I was ready to write him off as a total creep, but then he spoke.

“Excuse me,” he said, “are you reading a copy of The Game?”

“Yes, I am,” I replied.

He came back with, “that’s so cool.”

Okay, I figured, I’m stuck in an airport and I’m bored, so I’ll play along.

“Why is that cool?” I asked.

“Because it’s good for you girls to know what kinds of douchebags you’re dealing with,” he said matter-of-factly. That made me laugh.

And with that, he ingratiated himself, so I allowed him to continue distracting me for a while. After all, to pick up a girl by using the book “The Game,” but without employing the tactics it espouses, was downright metaphysical. Moreover, 6 or otherwise, I’ve met some very interesting people at airports, so perhaps I could add him to that collection.

We chatted for a few minutes about some of the things that take place in the book; the routines, the celebrity cameos, and all the other stuff I’ll get to with my final Book Club post. Then we were cut off by an announcement that all planes were temporarily delayed due to a sudden downpour that I hadn’t noticed was taking place while we were talking.

“Oh well,” I said, “do you think they have a bar around here?” My tone was half-joking but I had the full intention of finding one whether or not he was down with a 10am cocktail. Fortunately, he was on board. He led me to a nearby spot and asked what I’d like. I told him a Kettle and Cranberry and he ordered me a double. So far, so good.

“So why are you reading that anyways?” he asked, as I squeezed lime after lime into my drink. Then I licked the juices off my fingers. In another lifetime, that would have been a come-on. Now it was just a practical way of avoiding stickiness.

“Well,” I said, instantly deciding that I didn’t feel like delving into The Celibacy Project, “I’m trying to understand how it works, and in doing so, I’ve realized that it’s worked on me before. Basically, like you said, I’m learning to protect myself from the douchebaggery I’ve succumbed to in the past.”

“I bet you get hit on a lot,” he said.

“Yeah, but they’re not all nice enough to buy me a drink, and a double at that.”

“Is there a book like this for girls?” he asked.

“Well, sort of, but it’s got a much different goal. It’s called ‘The Rules,’ and it’s about finding a husband, whereas ‘The Game’ seems to be about finding a moist opening.”

He laughed. “Well, I guess it’s true what they say…women use sex to get love and men use love to get sex.”

I thought about that and ended up nodding my head in agreement. "I think that sums it up rather nicely," I said.

In that moment, he upgraded to a 7. We finished our drinks, exchanged numbers, and went our seperate ways. So what did I learn from this little exchange? Three things, actually:

1. A confident and knowledgeable 6 is actually a 7.
2. It’s possible to engage in conversation with just a hint of sexual undertones that doesn’t have to go anywhere to be enjoyable.
3. A double Kettle and Cranberry makes flying (and life in general) a lot more fun.


Monday, June 23, 2008

The Eighth Plague

I have officially stopped masturbating.

Believe me, I’m just as surprised as you are. It started about two weeks ago. That was the last time I got myself off. Since then, the thought has occurred to me, but whenever it does I end up deciding “what’s the point?” Something is clearly very, very wrong with this picture. Sigh.

Along with Britney Spears and Disney World, orgasms are in my Top 3 favorite things in this world. They’re the reason I got to the point where I needed to stop having sex and blog about it because I think I was sort of addicted to them. When I told you about my first time, I mentioned that Skater Boy was adamant about ensuring that I knew how to climax. Since then, the big finish has been a hallmark of my (many) sexual experiences. Don’t get me wrong, I love foreplay and the act of intercourse itself. But I’ve never gone into a heated moment without the end game in mind. So again, I have to ask, what the Hell has happened to me?

My friend RK says orgasms beget more orgasms. That means when you’re getting them regularly, you crave them more. I suppose that makes sense. Maybe my body has just grown accustomed to not getting off so I simply don’t miss it as much. I had no idea that was going to happen. I figured by this point I would have had to buy rechargeable batteries and wear a brace on my wrist to stave off the Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. As it turns out, not so much. And I can’t decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Perhaps it’s both.

Maybe, the fact that I’m no longer obsessed with my own orgasms is indicative of a New Allie Era in which I focus on the non-sexual aspects of my life that I enjoy such as writing or spending time with friends. Or maybe I’ve just lost my volition to cum, and therefore my will to live. Hell, perhaps I’m just getting lazy.

The truth is, I don’t anticipate having sex anytime soon. However, I do anticipate doing battle with temptation again in the very near future. I fully intend to start dating again. I also intend to make-out. And, let’s be honest, kissing is a gateway drug. In my experience it can, and has, led to sex. So after the date I have planned for July 2nd (oh c’mon, you didn’t think I wouldn’t have that booked already, did you?) perhaps all of the sexual tension and kissing will lead to me to get back on that horse, or Sybian, or whatever, and ride.

Dear God, I sure hope so. Because when Allie B stops getting off for good, the Apocalypse can’t be far behind.


Saturday, June 21, 2008

Mind Fucker Strikes Again

I hadn’t communicated with MF in a few weeks when he sent me an e-mail
yesterday. Since I assume he has realized by now that anything he says can and will be blogged about, I’ll reprint it here:

“Are you worried at all that you will struggle with the fact that a big part of your identity is theoretically gone in two weeks? I mean before the “project” you identified with being the wild sex chick and during the project you are the wild sex chick in remission. What will you be after? Not saying the new identity for you is bad – in fact you have more than enough going for you where I think the new non-slut, non-recovering slut identity will be great. That said, just something to think about that theoretically, you will be losing a huge and pronounced part of your persona very soon. Enjoy Florida.”


As usual, he makes a good point, and one I hadn’t really considered until he mentioned it. I know that a part of the way I see myself has been historically steeped in my overtly sexual nature. I’d like to think that I value other things about myself just as much, if not more, but the truth is I’m never going to get away from my past. At best, I can hope to embrace it. At worst, I can at least accept it. But either way, you can take the girl out of bed but you can’t take the bed out of the girl. Or can you?

Like I’ve said, I think this experience has changed me. I won’t know that for sure until I’ve resisted temptation when I’m no longer accountable to the masses. But does a change in my actions necessarily indicate an overhaul in my psyche? I don’t know. I suppose time will tell.

What I do know is that when I’m done with the project, I’m going to like myself more than I did when I started. I’ve never been ashamed of what I’ve done, minus that one thing I regret. But I’ve also derived too much of my self-worth from the attention of others. That has certainly changed. It had to change. What else is going to change?

Stay tuned.


Friday, June 20, 2008

I Wrote This Last Night

So I’m in Florida, behaving myself, sitting in a hotel room. Alone.

Is this really what normal people do on business trips? This sucks. I mean, seriously, I am so bored. Ordinarily I’d be out with one of my local boys, having dinner and hitting up the bar scene. I’d return to my room in the wee hours for debauchery and then crawl out of bed the next day with a wicked hangover.

Instead I am currently debating whether or not I can get away with expensing pay-per-view porn.

Back when I was in a relationship, I suppose my trips were a little like this. But the loneliness takes on a whole new meaning when there’s nobody waiting for me to fly home. And now I’ve got two more nights of this to look forward to, followed by two more next week in New York. Who am I and what have I done with Allie? Sigh.

Don’t get me wrong, the long-distance loving I used to enjoy was just as hollow and meaningless as any of my other encounters. But they also served a purpose - they passed the time. Because time flies when you’re having sex.

Being celibate is a constant study in learning to be by myself. After work, I even had dinner alone. I’m not the kind of person that minds the solitude. I’m an only child. But there’s a difference between being alone because I choose to be and being alone because I have to be. Granted, I made the choice from the onset…it’s just some days it’s harder to remind myself of that than others. I guess today is one of those days.

With only two weeks left, it’s impossible for me to consider breaking down at this point. But I’m also afraid that when it’s all over with, I’m going to want to be in a relationship again just to avoid this feeling. This morning, I posted about how this experience has changed me. And sexually, it has. Emotionally, I’m not quite sure what it’s done yet. I know that I am not, nor should I be, looking for a boyfriend right now. I also know that when The Celibacy Project ends, Single Allie needs to take over for a while. I need to see that she’s improved before I’m convinced that Relationship Allie won’t make the same mistakes when we invite her back again.

So here is the current and complete list celibacy symptoms: loneliness, horniness, boredom and multiple personality disorder. Wonderful.

If anybody needs me, I’ll be watching porn. I think I can code it as “entertainment” on my expense report.


Thursday, June 19, 2008

Reach Out And Touch Someone...Anyone But Me

The other day I got a call from Hot Doctor. We’ve been texting occasionally since we met, mostly about the blog, because he reads it regularly. But this time, he actually called me. And, I have to be honest, it blew my mind.

Nobody ever calls anybody anymore. Why bother speaking when you can condense your thoughts into a 160-character text? Sure, you lose the emotion behind the words, which is really the part of speech that makes human communication unique. But that’s what “:)” and “:(” are for, right? I wasn’t even sure what to do when it rang. I mean, my friends and my mom call me. I deal with phone calls at work all the time. But flirt-texting has become my Standard Operating Procedure for the last year or so when it comes to boys. I think I literally answered the phone by saying “who calls?” He laughed and replied “you’re supposed to say hello.” I told him I’d write that down for future reference. Then we spent 30 minutes talking about life, liberty and the pursuit of celibacy.

HD actually told me that, despite what he said the day we met, he thought I was doing a really good thing. As you may or may not recall, Hot Doctor is the one that suggested I break celibacy merely to test my creative writing abilities. A good writer, he said, could live one kind of life and write a fictional account of another. I told him “no dice,” but I gave him props for originality. It was certainly better than Mind Fucker’s tactic, which amounts to telling me that no matter what I am going to end up sleeping with him because I’m a girl.

So anyways, Hot Doctor recanted his original argument, and said that it seems I’m reaching a really good place through what I’m doing here. I genuinely appreciated his sentiment, not only because I agree but also because it came from a guy who once stood to benefit from my breaking down. He did, however, point out that how I act as of July 2nd will be the true test of what I’ve accomplished.

So again, we’re back to the million-dollar question. What’s going to happen when things can finally happen again?

Well for starters, I really, really, really don’t think I’m going to have sex that day. All of this introspection has brought me to a new place where I put a higher premium on my vagina. Now, to get in my pants, it's going to require more than just a nice dinner and the occasional daytime text. Perhaps it would be within reason that I expect a guy I’m going to sleep with to respect me and treat me right before we even get down to business.

And maybe, just maybe, I should expect actual phone calls rather than live in fear of them.

Again, I cannot promise that I’m not going to bone as soon as I can, simply because I’d hate to go back on my word. But I can promise that, as of now, I will answer the phone by saying “hello” with confidence, because God Damnit, I know I deserve to enjoy the emotional experience of human interaction.


I will still flirt heavily via text. Old habits die hard. Especially the good ones.


Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Happy Anniversary

Yesterday, a member of my inner circle sent a text congratulating me on my one-year anniversary. I was surprised that anyone besides me remembered; it’s been a full year since I got rid of The Ex and started to be myself again.

As far as I know, The Ex is unaware of both the blog and the reason behind it. I can’t imagine that if he had read the things I’ve said about him that I wouldn’t have heard about it yet. We still have plenty of mutual friends. Though, to be honest, I steer clear of him as much as I can. And with the exception of one very awkward run-in at Stone Lotus, when he screamed obscenities over my shoulder at the boy I was talking to, I have managed to do so. I know I told you yesterday that I tend to keep good relations with the boys I date…but in some cases that’s just damn near impossible.

By all accounts, it was a terrible break-up. I’ve already indicted him here for some of his flaws, but it was my fault, too. I was the one that convinced us both that our situation was perfect when it wasn’t even close. I was the one that led us down that one-way street to marriage, moving in together and even buying a condo in the South Loop. I was the one that overlooked everything about him I didn’t like, day in and day out, until I just couldn’t take it anymore. So then I was also the one that pulled the rug right out from under his unsuspecting ass. The moment it was over, I started packing. He wanted me to stay there and fight with him, fight for him, but I was done fighting.

I remember that night, after the walls came tumbling down, he went out to drink with his friends and blow off some steam as I prepared myself to move in with RK. She and my other best friend JK came over. I sat there in my tastefully decorated living room, with a balcony overlooking Lake Michigan, saw the pictures of The Ex and I that I had framed over the last three years, and I cried. I actually said “I can’t believe I just gave everything up.” JK, in her infinite wisdom, replied “I can’t believe you gave everything up three years ago.”

She was so fucking right. When The Ex and I met, everything about me slowly began to change. Since he didn’t want to know about my past, I pretended not to have one. I acted like our relationship was the most important thing in the world. I started seeing my girlfriends once or twice a month, opting to hang out with him and sometimes other couples instead. I became what RK calls Relationship Allie and it’s a far cry from the person I actually am. I even stopped writing because The Ex didn’t care to read anything I was working on. That part probably hurt me the most.

When he got home that night, I was packed and he was drunk. He threw the aforementioned frames into a wall and then lit the pictures they had contained on fire. No, I’m not making that up. He was angry. I couldn’t blame him. He hadn’t seen it coming so he wasn’t ready to let go. But I was.

So I moved out, I moved on and one year later, I finally feel like I’m moving forward. Happy Anniversary to me, indeed.


Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Once More With Feeling

I mentioned that on Saturday I was going to a pool party at the home (read: mansion) of a guy I used to go out with. I am generally the kind of person that maintains good relations with the boys I have dated. After all, unless something really regrettable happened, there’s no reason to burn a bridge. This is especially true when the dude in question has a pool and likes to throw big parties.

I do not, however, have sex with my exes. I like variety. I don’t like reruns.

Now far be it from me to ever look down on anyone for their sexual choices. I just personally don’t get Ex Sex. If I want to keep boning somebody, then I can continue to date them. When I don’t want to fuck them anymore, the relationship is over. It’s as simple as that. That’s why I am able to categorize guys so easily as boyfriends, ex-boyfriends, and booty calls. Perhaps it’s another symptom of my OCD, but I’m just happier when there’s a place for everything in my life, and everything is in its place.

To that end, I tend to avoid doing anything that would somehow blur those lines. If I used to date a guy, I’d rather make him still want me than actually let him have me. Accordingly, I spent the last three weeks working out like it was my job and avoiding my favorite, fattening foods. But I did not overtly flirt with Gatsby at his party. Sure, we talked, but it was not flirting. Him and I tried dating; we gave it a two-month run last year. And if it didn’t work then, it’s never going to work, so why bother trying again?

I guess that, for some people, Ex Sex is like a security blanket. You know what to expect, there are few surprises, and even the pillow talk has a comforting ring. At least, that’s what I’d assume. Because I’ve really only done it once. After The Teacher and I broke up, about three years later, we went out for drinks and ended up naked. While there was something to be said for the “hey, I remember you” moment, for the most part, I felt very unfulfilled. All it did was remind me of everything that had gone wrong, in spite of one of the few things we had always gotten right – drunken banging. But aside from that, the only thing less comforting than worrying whether a casual hookup will ever call you again is worrying whether a casual hookup that you dated for three years is every going to call you again.

Oh yeah, then he got engaged to his current wife, and the mother of his child, about six months later. Awesome.

So as far as I’m concerned, though I have no problem hanging out with them and raiding their liquor cabinets, exes should remain in the no-fly zone. I took a good look at Gatsby on Saturday, and though I still find him attractive, I just don’t need to go there. There are plenty of guys in this world that I haven’t yet dated that I can still sleep with.

Which reminds me…I’ve got two weeks, bitches. Count it.


Monday, June 16, 2008

Spoiler Alert

[Ed. Note: Today I’m going to discuss the “Sex and the City” movie. If you're a chick that hasn't seen it yet – stop reading. If you’re a dude that wants nothing to do with the idea, then go shave your balls or check your fantasy baseball stats and come back tomorrow. Thank you, drive through.]

For obvious reasons, I love “Sex and the City.” I have loved it since its inception. I’ve drawn plenty of comparisons to Carrie Bradshaw in my day, especially back in college when I wrote a column for the local paper called “Champaign Sex on Beer Money.” I’ve also been compared to Samantha Jones, more often than not when I was doing “research” to write said column. I can’t say that anyone has ever called me Charlotte York or (thank God) Miranda Hobbes, though they certainly did their parts in Candace Bushnell’s delightful storyline. But for the most part, I’m a Carrie.

And really, what girl doesn’t identify with Carrie? She’s the quintessential city girl, looking for love and a great pair of shoes. Ever toeing the line between sexual and slutty, Ms. Bradshaw was on a journey of self-discovery. She never stopped trying to figure out what she wanted. As it turned out, she wanted the same thing we all wanted her to have. His name was Mr. Big and he represented that seemingly unattainable ideal that drives women crazy.

I think every girl has had her Big. He’s the one that you can never seem to pin down. He’s the one that doesn’t return your calls in a timely fashion. And in a way, you don’t really want him to. He’s the exact reason my colorist Kelly once said that “women are crazy.” We think we want a Steve, or even an Aidan…but in the end, we’ll kill ourselves to get Big.

Allow me to digress, for a moment, from “Sex and the City” to borrow from another great (albeit far less cerebral) achievement in women’s entertainment: “The Hills.” The notorious pseudo-philosopher Lauren “LC” Conrad once said, “I think that everyone can change if the right person comes along...and I think that every girl wants to be the right person. Every girl wants to be the one girl that can change that guy.” Yup, that sounds about right.

To her credit, Carrie rarely compromised herself to be with Big. Even in the movie, when he (sorta) proposed, and she started to organize their wedding, she didn’t balk when he freaked out about her ornate plans. Apparently, that was her downfall, although I think we all knew they had to keep the “are they or aren’t they?” going for 145 minutes so we’d get the big “of course they are” payoff in the end. And we did. Carrie and Big seemingly lived Happily Ever After…at least until the inevitable sequel. With an opening weekend of $55.7 million, you can bet your sweet ass there’s going to be a sequel. Sarah Jessica Parker’s got a kid (and an ambiguously gay husband) to feed. Anyways...

Now how does all of that relate to my own life (because, really, when do I not relate everything to my own life?) Well, I’ve had a Mr. Big. He’s the one I don’t like to talk about. And boy, did I try to change him. He fought me every step of the way. And while, like Carrie, I didn’t compromise who I was, I did compromise on what I wanted. In hindsight, that’s why I never got it. If, when things don’t go your way, you start to chip away at your own list of needs and must-haves, then you’re going to end up with something that is substandard to what you deserve. Even when Mr. Big got gun-shy and left Carrie at the alter, she didn’t back down. She licked her wounds, reorganized her life, and moved on. Because of that (and because it’s a movie) he came back.

Just as we want the man that doesn’t change everything about himself to be with us, I think most men want the same thing. Thus, I know when I meet my next Mr. Big that the girl he falls for needs to be the girl I am. Not a convoluted version tailored to meet his needs, but rather just plain old me, warts-and-all…or, in Carrie’s case, moles-and-all. And if/when the Big Day with my Mr. Big finally comes, I’ll know that we got there because we share a mutual respect for each other’s true selves. Neither one of us will have accommodated the other any more than we felt naturally inclined to do so. My Big will show up, and so will I, with my best friends wearing fabulous dresses by my side and me, minus the stupid blue bird thingie Carrie was wearing, playing the part of the bride.

The End.


Friday, June 13, 2008

A Guy In Every Port

Like I said yesterday, I will be doing some traveling over the next two weeks. Specifically, I am leaving for Florida next Wednesday, get back on Sunday, then go to New York on Tuesday. Both of these trips are for work, but in the past I haven’t let that affect my fun. I generally do whatever it is I have to do during normal business hours. Then I have the nights off to enjoy myself. By now, I don’t think I have to tell you what it is that I have “enjoyed” doing. Okay, fine I will – I hook up.


You see, when I’m not being Professional Allie, I let Playtime Allie travel with me. She’s the one that, in the aforementioned locations, has dated a stand-up comedian, several radio personalities, and an NFL player. For the most part, when I have to go out of town for work, it’s to New York, Florida, or Las Vegas. So I have a few boys in these places that I generally reach out to whenever I book a trip. The nice thing about going out with guys that live hundreds of miles away is that it used to fit right into my normal non-commitment schema. It also allowed for one of my favorite activities: flirt-texting as a preamble to the night out itself. I have literally spent months flirting via text with boys in New York, Florida and Vegas before we’ve actually hung out. There’s nothing like a lengthy conversation filled with sexual innuendo to build the tension to a crescendo that you can relieve in an expensed hotel room. Don’t worry, I always tip the maid. She deserves it.

So…now what? Well, since I actually enjoy hanging out with some of these guys, I have given them the heads up that I will be there. But I’ve also let them know that I am celibate in the hopes that won’t stop us from having a drink, but it will keep them from trying anything. Most of my local booty boys are well aware of what it is I’m up to. One by one, they have given up on trying to break me down. However, the NY and FL guys haven’t been here to witness the recent transformation in my life - or my late-night habits. To be honest, I’m not sure how it’s going to go over when, at the end of the night, they say your place or mine and I respond “do you have Domino’s Pizza here and, if so, what’s their number?” So, like I said, now what?

Perhaps, since this time is about Allie learning to be alone, it would be best if I saw what it was like to go back to my hotel room by myself every night. Nothing sexual is going to happen, nor do I want it to, so maybe I shouldn’t tempt the fates…and by “fates” I mean “drunk boys that have seen me naked before.” After all, that would give me the chance to blog, read, work out, and not go into the office every day with a hangover that would kill an alcoholic gorilla. I also have girlfriends in each of those places that I would probably have just as much fun with while I’m there.

Thus, I suppose I’m going to try to forgo my usual nights out when I’m away. Come to think of it, maybe that’ll keep me from coming back to Chicago exhausted after every work trip. Better yet, since I don’t have to pack condoms, that’ll leave room in my suitcase for another pair of shoes!


Thursday, June 12, 2008

This Ain't Oprah's Book Club - Part III

I finally sat down and forced myself to swallow a huge chunk of the book I’m reading, “The Game.” It’s been a long time since I’ve forced myself to swallow anything. Neil Strauss, the author, is making me remember why.

When we last left off, Strauss had only just met Mystery, the pick up artist (PUA) extraordinaire who had his own show on VH-1. Perhaps you remember it. It was lame. Style is Neil’s alter ego who has become so obsessed with casually bedding women that he has decided to study every aspect of this activity, from memorizing the most successful opening lines to perfecting hypnosis.

Yes, hypnosis. Or things just like it. Strauss – excuse me, Style – calls it “chick crack”:

“Most women, they say, respond to routines involving tests, psychological games, fortune-telling, and cold-reading like addicts respond to free drugs.”

As it turns out, there is a large underground society of men trading secrets and teaching each other how to play the proverbial game. This takes place both on-line and in person. Mystery is but one of many “gurus” on the subject, all of whom employ different tactics to achieve the same goal. Most of the men they charge for these tutorials are shy, player-wannabe types, some of whom have reached adulthood without ever having sex. As it turns out, that can really fuck a guy up. Some of theses dudes seem to have vendettas against the gender that’s denied them from reaching sexual satisfaction with a partner. The result: outright misogyny. One guru even suggests using the book “Dog Training,” by Lew Burke, for tips on handling girls.

Of course, there are exceptions to the rule. One PUA called Sweater (yes, they all have ridiculous nicknames…oh wait, so do the guys in this blog) actually gives up the game when he finds a woman he wants to be with monogamously. He tells Style:

“As far as I’m concerned, I’m getting out at the top. I’ve come to understand that without commitment, you cannot have depth in anything, whether it’s a relationship, a business, or a hobby.”

Now as much as I hate to admit that I agreed with anything in this book, that part resonated with me. By some accounts, I have been a player. I have used men for sex, among other things, without remorse. And taking time off from doing that has allowed me to realize that I’ve been cheating myself out of the feelings of attachment that can eventually lead to true love. I believe that love is why human beings are here. Sure we may act like animals, hunting prey and mating to ensure population proliferation, but at the end of the day we have the opposable thumbs and emotions. That what makes separates man from beast, although this book tends to blur the line between the two.

I have about 200 pages left. I’ll be traveling a lot over the next two weeks [Ed Note: not sure how that’s going to affect my blog posts, but I’m hoping it won’t] so I intend to finish this bitch while I’m inevitably delayed at O’Hare. Hopefully, this is going to lead me to some grandiose epiphany about my past relationships, playing the game, and my future, but I’m really just hoping it doesn’t make me hate men any more than it already has.


PS-Happy 50th Birthday to the Renegade Millionaire! Remember babe, you may be “over the hill,” but you’ve been under a 26-year-old. Life could be worse.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

More Miscellaneousness

My week has already been crazier than a shithouse rat, so today I’m just going to touch on a few things:

1. This weekend, I’m supposed to go to another party at Gatsby’s house. A pool party. As you may recall, he’s one of the (many) guys I dated between The Ex and Poor Bastard. There’s nothing like knowing you have to hang out with a dude you used to date while wearing a bikini to make you not want to eat for a week. So now I’m horny and hungry. Awesome.

2. A couple of people have mentioned to me that we should have some sort of party and/or organized-mass-binge-drinking-type function to celebrate the end of my celibacy. After giving the matter much consideration, I don’t think it’s wise for me to black out on the first day I can have sex again…because then I’m going to do something stupid. And then I might feel compelled to start The Celibacy Project all over again. And then I will have to slit my wrists.

3. Yet another one of my ex-boyfriends is officially engaged. Isn’t that just fucking wonderful?

That’s all I got. Back to the madness.


Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Happily Never After

My friend MC always comes through in the clutch. Just when I’m ready to beat my head against a wall because I don’t know what to write about, he e-mails me yet another article about sex. Yesterday it was one about married couples doing it every day. True story.

Two couples, who didn’t know each other and live on opposite sides of the country, both decided to have sex every night for a predetermined period of time and then write a book about it. The Mullers did it for a year, while the Browns did it for 101 days. According to a 2004 study, the average married couple does it just 66 times a year.

That’s it. I’m never getting married.

To be honest, a lifetime of monogamy scares the crap out of me. Clearly, I have ADD when it comes to men. I like variety. But I don’t want to be a swinger. So if I do get married you can be damn sure the guy I’m settling down with knows The Kama Sutra and could teach a class on cunnilingus. If I have to have sex with the same person every day, it better be great fucking sex.

I just can’t imagine not having sex. Well, besides this little three-month adventure.

If you’ve been following my shit show since day one of The Celibacy Project, then you were probably on the original e-mail I sent to 100 of my nearest and dearest in which I declared my intent. I got a lot of interesting replies to that, but one from my friend JT made me laugh out loud. She’s been with her husband for several years now, and she wrote back “if you wanted to stop having sex, you could have gotten married like I did.” I’m sure she’s exaggerating. At least, I hope she is. Because if she’s not then I don’t understand why anyone would commit themselves to a lifetime of never getting laid. I understand that married sex can get boring, but that’s all the more reason to start busting out bullwhips and sex swings. At least, that’s what I would do. Note To Self: perhaps it’s time to retire the handcuffs until I really need them to get off.

According to the article, both of the couples concluded their experiments had a positive effect on their marriage. How could it not? I think the physical connection is one of the most important parts of a relationship. When that goes, the end is generally near. And until I think that’s something that I can maintain, and I know I’ve found a penis I’m willing to please for the rest of my life, I’m not even going to think about getting married. If it happens, great. If it doesn’t I’ll be sure to start another blog about how much sex I’m having that all of you can read when you get married. Suckers.

My friend’s shrink put it this way, which I think sums it up rather nicely “to have a successful relationship, a couple needs to be connected at the head, the heart, and the pelvis.” Word.


Monday, June 9, 2008

Let's Hear It For The Boys

On Saturday night I had my first outing (haha) with My New Gay Friend. We met at the apartment of a girl that I’ll call Mini Me. She was in my sorority and was the recipient of the same “horniest girl” award that I was. I actually crowned her in a very touching ceremony. For that reason, she is the first girl that gets a nickname on this blog. Congrats Mini-Me. Keep on keeping on (your knees.)


Mini Me is MNGF’s go-to girl, but she was nice enough to share him with me for the evening. We headed to Boystown, which is basically the mothership for gays in Chicago. The bar we went to was called Cocktails. Obviously.

This was my very first time being in a gay bar. And I am in fucking love. I can’t think of a better way to spend a celibate evening than dancing with cute, well-dressed guys that aren’t jamming their boners into my back. But the best part about Cocktails was the small stage where beautiful half-naked men danced for the crowd. One got up there wearing a cowboy hat, which he proceeded to balance on his package. I shit you not. For that he deserved a five-dollar bill, which I lovingly stuck down his boxers. In return, he let me feel his big, sweaty pecs. MNGF and Mini Me found this hysterical. I was in Heaven. That’s the most action I’ve seen in months.

After that, I stood at the bar and started talking to a very pretty boy. He had beautiful eyes but could barely form sentences. Still, we chatted for about thirty minutes. And then he asked me out on a date. “Excuse me?” I said. “I thought you were gay!” To my utter surprise, he actually gave me an incredulous look and replied “why would you think that?”


Leave it to me to find the one straight guy in the bar. I refused to speak to him after that. I have enough straight men in my life, thankyouverymuch.

MNGF cracked up when I told him this, and said he knew it all along. Now that I know his gaydar is that keen, I have a couple guys I need to introduce him to, because I’ve been questioning their sexuality for years.

The rest of the night is a bit harder to remember. I know there were some O-Bombs and Britney Spears songs and that I made it home safely, and alone. On Sunday, I woke up naked on my couch. Good looking out, Drunk Allie. I was hungover, but I was happy.

Seriously, it was the Best. Night. Ever.

So now that I finally have a gay friend (who also happens to be an amazing person) I plan on making a habit of hanging out in Boystown. At least I know I’m likely to stay out of trouble in that neighborhood and I figure if you can’t date ‘em, join ‘em.


Saturday, June 7, 2008

The Silver Lining To Singledom

Last night, I was supposed to see my friend ZW. He was flying in from California, but due to the weather his plane got diverted to Nebraska. It wasn’t his fault, but he still felt really bad. He even tried to make it up to me by sending me funny texts about what it was like to be a lone Jew in an Omaha biker bar. Entertaining stuff, but I was still pretty bummed. It was 10:00pm on a Friday night, and I had nothing to do. It’s times like that when I really miss having a boyfriend. At least, I do for a little while. Then I remind myself that if I had one, and he was anything like the other guys I’ve dated, I wouldn’t have been able to hang out with a male friend like ZW anyways. If I were still with The Ex, for example, that sort of thing never would have flied, simply because ZW and I had only recently reconnected.

In relationships, when it comes to outside friends who happen to be members of the opposite sex, there seems to be a "grandfather clause” in effect. That means if one of you knew the person before you started dating each other, that’s okay, but there will still have to be an introduction, which is really more of an evaluation. As long as your friend isn’t hotter than your partner, and the two of you don’t give off a “we’ve totally fucked” vibe, then you’re generally allowed to keep hanging out with them.

However…coming home one day and telling your girlfriend that you “met this awesome chick and we’re going to have drinks tomorrow” is NOT acceptable. Nor should it be. It’s important to have friends of both genders from your past, and it is reasonable for you to expect your significant other to respect that. But once you become a serious couple, you sort of (or, in my opinion, you should) become eachother’s best friends. So there’s no need to add any new opposite sex friendships to your repertoire, unless he or she is part of a couple that you then hang out with together. At least, that’s the way I see it.

Of course, homosexuals, like My New Gay Friend, can complicate the issue. The Ex flipped the fuck out when I almost made a gay friend a few years ago. That didn’t make any sense to me. Yeah, it’s a boy, but it’s a boy with whom I can go shopping, watch chick flicks, and obsess over The Hills. The Ex wanted nothing to do with any of those activities. Maybe that was it – he didn’t like another guy competing for my attention, straight or otherwise.

So I suppose, in this way, I’m better off being single at the moment. I mean sure, it was sort of a prerequisite to my celibacy, and sometimes like last night it drives me crazy, but for the most part it’s a good thing. I can hang out with any guy I want to without having to explain or defend our relationship. I can make my own schedule without having to accommodate anyone else’s. Hey, I can even leave my feminine product wrappers in the bathroom garbage can without getting yelled at for being gross.

And - this is the best part - I get to spend a lot more time with my girlfriends. Or, like tonight, with My New Gay Friend, which is sort of the same thing


Friday, June 6, 2008

The Many Faces Of Allie

A lot of people have asked me how The Celibacy Project has affected my ability to go out drinking. That’s a very good question. Its answer lends itself to a discussion of the several different versions of Allie that enter the ring (or rather, the bar) every Friday night.

First we have Single Allie. In her past life, Single Allie was always out looking for a good time. She would start drinking at Happy Hour on Friday and would continue to imbibe until she’d finished watching whatever sporting event was being televised at the bar of her choosing on Sunday.

This sort of behavior inevitably begat a second ego, Drunk Allie. DA would gladly take the reigns where SA left off on Sunday, sometimes even leaving the bar with another kindly, and equally drunk, spectator. Drunk Allie has never had a problem making friends, especially the kind of friends that come with benefits.

But now Celibate Allie has entered the fray. She’s there to cock block the other two. And so far (save for the incident with New Guy) she’s done a very good job. But that’s probably (definitely) because lately, she’s the one in charge of making our weekend plans.

For instance, tonight, we’ve been invited to a birthday party for Mind Fucker. Single Allie thinks it’s a great idea. Drunk Allie heard there will be free drinks, so she’s in, too. But Celibate Allie, the voice of reason, reminds them that a party like this, celebrating a boy like that, can only lead to trouble. And Celibate Allie’s only goal is to avoid having to deal with Regretful Allie. So, alas, no open bar for any of the Allie’s tonight.

Instead, CA is dragging the rest of them out for dinner and drinks with our friend ZW. We met ZW when he was a buddy of The Teacher, and have managed to reconnect as friends since then. Tonight, Single Allie and Drunk Allie will be forced to slow their rolls while Celibate Allie has pleasant conversation about The Celibacy Project with ZW. He is a published author himself, and a big fan of the blog, so he supports the cause. That means we can count on him to get all of us home in one piece, safely and alone. So we’re still going to go out and have fun, it's just that Celibate Allie will keep the others on a short leash so Regretful Allie can take Saturday morning off.

Then on Saturday night, Celibate Allie has decided to throw Drunken Allie a bone. We will spend that night getting crunked at the clubs in Boystown with My New Gay Friend. Did I tell you I have a new gay friend? I’ve never had a gay friend before and I am very, very excited about it.

[Ed. Note: all girls want a gay friend…the Stanford Blatch to their Carrie Bradshaw, if you will. But for that reason, gay guys usually have a harem of straight chicks they already hang out with. And these girls tend to be very territorial. That being said – I GOT ONE!]

My New Gay Friend will take all of the Allie’s out on the town on Saturday night. Celibate Allie will have a wonderful time, I am sure of that. Drunk Allie should be good, too, once we get her a couple (or a dozen, since DA can drink) Long Island Iced Teas. Single Allie will probably be miserable since she won’t get any attention that night, but the rest of us think that could be a good thing for her. And Regretful Allie can go back to doing whatever it is she does when she’s not waking up in bed with us on Sunday morning.

So to answer the question, how does celibacy affect my drinking on the weekends, I suppose the answer is, it doesn’t. I can still go out and have a good time. It’s just that, back in the old days, such activities could bring out my inner-slut. Now they just bring out my inner-schizo.


Thursday, June 5, 2008

The Ex-Files

Yesterday, I wrote about one of my ex-boyfriends. Now I would like to talk about the rest of them. This time in my life, and this blog, are about working through my past and (hopefully) learning from it. So I’m going to give you the rundown on the relationships that have had an effect on my life over the years. I’d also like to take a moment to figure out what each one has taught me. We will do this chronologically:

1. The Jock - 1996
I met The Jock in junior high but we didn’t date until our sophomore year of high school. Because that was still so early in my sexually-active history, we barely hooked up. He still gives me shit about that. If only he’d waited a few more years, he could have enjoyed my legendary oral abilities. But alas, he had to settle for some backseat make-out sessions and a life-long friendship.

Lesson Learned: It’s possible to be friends with your exes, but it’s a Hell of a lot easier to do that if you’ve never slept with them.

2. The Butterball - 1997
I met The Butterball shortly after my transformation from a quiet, brunette, brace-faced wallflower into a blonde, busty, outspoken cheerleader. He was the first football player I dated and I credit him with jumpstarting my chubby-chasing career. I like a little extra cushion for the pushing on my guys, if you know what I mean. I can’t explain it, but I really think it goes back to The Butterball. After him, I only dated offensive lineman. In fact, I dated most of my high school’s O-Line. But my relationship with him was the most significant because his social status, and the fact that he went after me, greatly increased my confidence and helped me shed the last of my wallflower ways.

Lesson Learned: No matter how skinny, or in shape, I may be, I always look smaller next to a large man. So when one takes me out to dinner, I can order dessert without remorse. Sweet! Hey, fat guys need loving, too.

3. Axl Rose - 1997
Axl was another football player and a very, very sweet guy. Our relationship was sort of situational. We were friends with the same people and hung out so much that one day he just turned into my boyfriend. Eventually, and unfortunately, I lost interest in him and went on to date a couple more of his teammates. When I did, he typed up all of the lyrics to “November Rain” and mailed them to me. I will never, ever forget that.

Lesson Learned: Nothing lasts forever, and we both know hearts can change. It’s hard to hold a candle in the cold November Rain.

4. Skater Boy - 1998
As I mentioned last month, Skater Boy was responsible for the loss of my virginity. It was a very sweet story that still makes me smile. He actually read the post about it and sent me an e-mail saying he enjoyed the trip down memory lane. He even pointed out some of the details I had omitted. I explained to him that not everything has to go on the Internet, and some things are best left between us. He agreed. Sigh. Part of me will always love Skater Boy.

Lesson Learned: The age-old adage is true. You’ll always remember your first. And if you’re lucky, they’ll remember you, too.

5. The Teacher - 1999
I met The Teacher when I was a senior in high school. I don’t call him that because he’s actually an educator, but rather he taught me everything I know about serious, long-term relationships. When we met, he was the closest thing I’d ever had to a soul mate. He could make me laugh until I cried, and cry until I laughed. We were together during my first two years of college, so he really helped me grow up. Unfortunately, since I was so young and still finding myself at the time, I never appreciated what I had and I lost him. Today he’s happily married with a baby…and I’ve got a sex blog.

Lesson Learned: I could have been the girl that he married, but I’m not. And if everything happens for a reason, the reason we’re not together is that if I had settled down with him, I never would have reached this necessary period of reflection. So while The Celibacy Project has its trying moments, I think I really am meant to be here, doing this, right now. I owe that to myself and, in a way, to him.

6. The Repeat Offender - 2001, 2002 & 2003
Please see yesterday’s post.

Lesson Learned: If it’s meant to be, it will be. But if it’s not, there should be some sort of Statute of Limitations on lunch dates, because man, those can get awkward and old after a while.

7. The Meat Head - 2001
The Meat Head was yet another guy in my dating history that was cute and sweet, but not much else. Still, it was relationships like ours, which lasted eight months, that kept me off the market and out of trouble. At least for a little while.

Lesson Learned: When I broke up with TMH, that should have been the last relationship I stayed in just to pass the time. Looking back, it was really only the beginning of that detrimental habit. So that’s a lesson I’m still in the middle of learning.

8. The Addict - 2002
When I met The Addict, I fell in love with him almost instantly. He had an alcohol addiction, a substance-abuse problem, and was well on his way to rock bottom. But he could write well, perhaps better than I can. That is my biggest weakness. So despite his self-destructive behavior, I did everything I could to make it work. Eventually, his ability to disappear for days at a time and then show up like nothing happened just got to be too much for me. I haven’t spoken to him since. But sometimes, I still wonder about him, and I hope he got his shit together, because he was brilliant.

Lesson Learned: You can love someone very, very much, but the relationship will never amount to anything unless they can love themselves, too.

9. The Pilot - 2003
When I lived in Arizona, I dated an Air Force Pilot from Texas. We obviously came from different backgrounds, and had very different political views, but the fact that he could fly a plane and drop bombs turned me on despite my liberal anti-war stance. We had to break up when he was deployed to Korea, and I suppose it was for the best. I’ve seen that show “Army Wives” a couple of times and that could not be my life.

Lesson Learned: It actually is possible for me to date a Republican without wanting to convert or kill him.

10. The Ex - 2003
When I met The Ex, I thought I knew exactly what I wanted. After three years of having it, I found out that I was wrong.

Lesson Learned: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. But if it was never working in the first place, cut your losses and get a new one.

11. The One That Broke My Heart - 2007
I’m still not ready to talk about him yet. We’ll get there, I promise.

Lesson Learned: I’m working on it.

12. Poor Bastard - 2008
What can I say about PB that I haven’t already said here? I think that I used him as a rebound, but he’s such a sweet, good person, he should never be used as anything. He really did help me get to this point, and now that I’m finally in a good place, I am forever indebted to him for that. As much as I would personally like to be happy and in love someday, I hope that happens for him, too. He deserves it just as much, if not more, than I do.

Lesson Learned: No person, and no relationship, can ever replace the effects of spending time alone and figuring out who you are.

Wow. That was actually kind of interesting. This is the first time I’ve really looked at the entire timeline in relation to where I’m at now. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll list all of the guys I’ve hooked up with and figure out what, if anything, those situations have taught me.

On second thought…I’m not sure if even cyberspace is big enough for that list.


Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Murphy's Law Of Attraction

Yesterday, I had lunch with an ex-boyfriend of mine. Not The Ex, and not Poor Bastard – I’ve been in twelve relationships so we’ve really only scratched the surface here. But this particular guy has been in and out of the picture for quite some time now; so we shall refer to him as The Repeat Offender.

I met TRO in 2001. I was visiting a friend of mine in Arizona and we were at the same house party. He seemed to zero in on me that night. Then he said he wanted to marry me. I found that to be a tad overzealous on his part, but it was also kind of sweet. So I agreed to go out with him when we got back to Chicago, because he was from there, too. Since then we’ve been “together” three times. And no matter what’s happened, or how they’ve each ended, he claims he’s still in love with me. Frankly, I don’t get that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a confident girl; if you can look past my questionable history, I think I’m a catch. But he says I’m perfect, and I say he’s delusional.

Why is it the ones you can’t get over are never the ones that can’t get over you?

I realize that’s a very silly question. Because that’s just the way it goes. When a relationship ends, the person who chose to end it has the luxury of not thinking about the other person every day. The one that got dumped, on the other hand, will mindfuck themselves into a coma thinking about everything they could’ve done differently. I’ve only been dumped once but I still do that. And when I do, there are only two things that make me feel better. Well, three things, if I include alcohol. And four things back when I could count rebound sex. Anyways…for now, it’s just two things:

First, at the risk of sounding trite, I believe that everything happens for a reason. I think that every person you meet (and, especially, sleep with) comes into your life for a purpose. Sometimes, years later, we actually figure out what that purpose was. But usually we don’t. It’s a bitch of a philosophy to live by, but it works for me. In fact, my friend CK and I use it so much together that we just call it EHFAR.

Secondly, I believe in Karma. What you do to others will come back around. If I could find a religion based on EHFAR and karma alone, I would convert immediately. Hell, maybe I’ll just start one.

Because when I reminisce about the guy (read: motherfucker) that broke my heart, I tell myself it had to happen that way. If it was supposed to work out, it would have, but it didn’t. If I’m not still in that relationship then there must be better one out there for me. And with that, I have my reason. This always makes me feel a little bit better.

Then I also have to remind myself that payback is a bitch. Just as I have hurt eleven other people, sooner or later it was going to happen to me, and when it did it was going to be bad. This doesn’t make me feel better, but at least it makes sense. And it also makes me want stop breaking hearts to avoid another Karmic intervention. That’s gotta be a positive thing, right?

My religion kicks ass.

So my view of past relationships is predicated on EHFAR and karma. This is what allows me to have loved, been hurt by love, and still want to be in love again.

It’s also why I keep having meals with the ghosts of my sexual past. Each time I do, it’s another opportunity to figure out where it went wrong, why it did, and what that means. Moreoever, being nice to these guys for an hour is a small way of making up for doing them wrong. Of course, it’s not as if I can explain that to any of my exes. When you get dumped, no matter who tries to console you or how they go about it, you rarely find solace. The only way you ever get over someone is to give yourself time (and a couple wild nights of uninhibited random sex can take your mind off it, too.) The Repeat Offender has had four years since our last hurrah, and it doesn’t seem to have had an affect on him. Of course, I’m not about to sleep with him to help him get over it, either. No way, dude. Never, ever again. It wasn’t good when we actually liked each other; I’m sure it would be just plain terrible now. And I don’t think I owe karma that much. Our breakups haven’t been entirely my own fault. So perhaps the next time I see TRO and he’s back on this “we’re meant to be together” kick, I should just try telling him that everything happens for a reason…and that in this case, the reason happens to be in his pants.


Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Facebook And Forgiveness

I have stated here, almost ad nauseum, that I do not regret the things I’ve done in my past. There are two reasons for this. First, every action I’ve taken was the result of a conscientious (if not alcohol-impaired) decision I made in the moment and I stand behind whatever it is I wanted to do at that time. Secondly, if I started regretting the things that conventional wisdom says I should, then I wouldn’t have time to do anything else with my life. I’d be sitting around bemoaning my sexual history, rather than embracing it, and that’s just not my style. Plus, I’ve got far more important things to do, like hang out with Playboy Bunnies and write about not getting laid. Shit like that.

However, with all of that being said…there is one thing I regret. I am now going to tell you my version of that story. If the boy involved doesn’t like it or disagrees, then he can start his own damn blog.

When I was in college, during the second semester of my first senior year (yeah, I had two of them) I was out rather late one night. I was on a cigarette run with a friend of mine, and while waiting in line at the gas station, I saw a well-known guy all over a girl that was definitely not his girlfriend. We'll call him The Cheater. Admittedly, looking back, I could have (and should have) kept that information to myself since it was really none of my business. But it was college and since everybody loved to talk about me, I figured I’d talk about someone else for a change. Thus, I told my three roommates what I had witnessed. Two of them happened to be dating guys in the same fraternity as The Cheater. So it took about five minutes for that story to get around, with my name firmly attached to it.

The following week, I hooked up with The Cheater’s best friend. Let’s call him The Mistake. He was a shady little character to begin with and the next morning, I did not feel good about myself. I felt much worse when a few days later, he told everyone we knew some very bad, and very untrue, things about me. We’re talking disgusting things that I can’t bring myself to repeat. Use your imagination, keeping in mind that Karma’s a bitch.

This happened to take place right before graduation. Thus, that was the last thing everybody heard about me before leaving Champaign. At least that’s what I’d convinced myself of. In reality, a lot of people probably didn’t give a shit. But a year later when I finally got my own diploma, and my best friends tried to convince me that nobody remembered or cared, I still remembered and cared…and that’s all that mattered to me. That’s one of the reasons why I relocated to Arizona after I graduated instead of moving back to the city like everyone else. Wow, I can’t believe I’m admitting that. But I can actually feel the catharsis setting in.

After that happened, and pretty much to this day, I have hated The Mistake more than I’ve ever hated anyone or anything in my life. I gave him my body, and he turned around and used it against me, putting the final nail in my reputation’s coffin. I truly believe he did it to get back at me for what I did to his friend. I was humiliated, but not just because of what I thought others might be thinking about me. I lost respect for myself when that happened.

So sleeping with him is the one regret I’ve never been able to get over.

Now the reason I’m telling you this is not just because I enjoy using this blog to clear my conscience. I’m telling you this because that boy added me as a friend on Facebook over the weekend. I almost died when I got the request. But I stopped myself from gleefully clicking on “deny.” Here’s what I decided…

This time in my life is about coming to terms with where I’ve been and what I’ve done. If I am able to forgive myself for doing things that others have found questionable, then why not forgive him for what he did to me? We were young, we were immature, and clearly he’s over it. So I should be, too. Life is too short to have regrets. If I’m going to move forward, I have to move on. I accepted his request this morning.

So I forgive him. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, right? Of course, now that we’re Facebook friends, if I find out he’s still telling that story, I will kick him square in his stones.


Monday, June 2, 2008

The End Is Near

That’s right kids, we’re officially well past the halfway point and there’s only one month left to my vow of celibacy. Thank God. Now I’m not saying that on day 92 I’m going to bang the first male that crosses my path. But I will, mark my words, get my make-out on. And you can take that to the bank.

Speaking of which, I was talking to my friend DD the other day. He’s known me for a very long time and he’s watched me to develop into…well, the kind of girl that needs to take a three-month sexual sabbatical. When I first told him about The Celibacy Project, he laughed. A lot. Then he called me crazy and said there was no way in Hell I could do it. And then he laughed some more. DD is kind of an asshole.

But now, he’s eating his words. He actually admitted to me that he’s glad he didn’t bet against me. I think that I’ve managed to convince myself, and most of you, that I can do this. I’m committed to the experience and I’m actually getting used to the idea of a vacant vagina. As weird as it was at first, it’s kind of nice living without the stress of wondering if and when a boy that I like is going to text me. So really, one more month is not that big of a deal. In fact, it’s no longer a matter of if I can do it…the real question is, how’s it going to end?

Is all of this soul-searching going to foster a new Allie Era, in which I place a much higher value on the act of intercourse and abstain from it until I’ve found someone special to break my celibacy with? Or will this be little more than a footnote in my life and I’ll go back to my old cum-guzzling-road-whore days? Sorry, self, I just love that expression. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know.

I would like to think that this experience has changed me for the better, but I also don’t want to have to eat my own words someday. So for the time being, I’m going to avoid making any sort of declarative statement either way. Here’s what I do know. My outlook on relationships has changed. As much as I wish that when this ends, I’ll meet the perfect guy and live happily ever after, that’s not realistic. I can admit that I've fallen too far, too fast, way too easily and I want that – no, I need that – to change. But more likely than not, I’m still going to have to kiss a couple of frogs to find my prince. It’s the fellating multiple frogs that I’m really going to try to avoid for a while. I want to pace myself this time around. There’s no reason for me to be dating six guys at once. That’s generally what I’ve done in the past and I have since realized that in doing so, I was attempting to take the best things about each and combine them to convince myself that I was with one perfect guy. It doesn’t work that way. I’d rather wait and find the right dude than keep accepting free dinner invitations to pass the time. So while I cannot say, unequivocally, that I’m not going sleep with somebody on July 2nd (as much as I’d like to) I can say that I won’t fall in love with anybody that day.

And that is not crazy, DD. That’s progress.