The Celibacy Project

Good Night And Good Luck

2008-07-01T11:45:00.000-07:00

Three months ago, I wasn’t sure if this day would ever come. I know that I talked a good game in the beginning. However there were times when the temptation was practically unbearable and the self-doubt, impossible to ignore.

But I did it. I have extricated myself from the patterns that got me to the place I started from. I am aware of what they are and I have the power to overcome them. Now I can decline a date when asked if I'm simply not interested. I have a far lower tolerance for things that I would ordinarily settle for. I’m not going to spend time with a guy “just because he (fill in the blank)” and, looking back, I can’t believe I ever did that.

I’ve come to accept that my motivations for sex were rarely about the other person, rather they stemmed from my own deep-seated issues that I avoided confronting for far too long. I was insecure and even hopeless about my seeming inability to find lasting happiness. I turned to men and sex to fill a hole (no pun intended) that just seemed to grow bigger with every meaningless encounter. As a result, I went for quantity over quality and the more dependent I became on that habit, the harder it got to quit. For all the wrong reasons, I put the “dick” in “addiction.” And now it’s time to stop the insanity.

In finally taking a step back to recognize this, I think I might have turned my life around. At the very least, I feel I’ve managed to stave off the impending mid-life crisis that these issues would have certainly fostered someday.

In all honesty, when I started this craziness, I wasn’t sure if I could keep up the celibacy, let alone the blog based upon it. To my surprise, and probably yours, I was able to do both. And I can honestly say that it’s changed me; I feel better about myself than I have in years.

Moreover, I’ve completely regained my confidence as a writer. The Ex took that away from me. He never wanted to hear or read what I was working on. In the rare event that I picked up the laptop anyways he’d tell me to put it down and watch TV with him instead. I can’t believe I allowed myself to become that person. Now, The Great Accommodator is gone. In her place is a confident person that’s had 6,169 (ha) people access her 76 posts over 11,000 times! I feel like I’m back to being me and I’m better than ever. I’ve even got a new outlook on life to keep me on track.

I have realized that relationships should be based on mutual admiration and respect, not a checked off laundry list of expectations one person has for the other’s appearance or habits.

I have realized that, like my hero Carrie Bradshaw, I deserve my Mr. Big. Carrie eventually got him because she waited. She waited because he was the one she wanted all along. But no offense to Carrie, I think I can get mine before I turn 40. At least I’m going to try. And you know what? Even if I never find him, I’ll be okay on my own. I am learning that it’s possible to complete myself.

I have realized that, in the future, I should treat my vagina as if it were a private invitation-only concert rather than a free show at the Taste of Chicago. I should feel like the hottest ticket in town. My body will no longer play Free Bird on command...gentlemen, kindly put your lighters down. There will be no more Allie B. encores tonight.

And so, as a result of all of this self-realization and self-actualization, I’ll be taking my sexuality off the Internet for a while. It’s been an amazing journey and I can’t thank you enough for going through it with me. But now it’s time to reclaim my personal life. I’ve still got a lot to learn - this has been a good start. Perhaps someday you’ll see more of it on a bookshelf near you.

Now allow me, if you will, to turn this into an Oscar acceptance speech for a moment. Hey, it’s my blog, damnit, and there are people that helped me get to the finish line that I really want to recognize. So a special shout out to everyone that made this experience what it was, for better or for worse. That means guys like Hot Dude and Mind Fucker and even Poor Bastard, in a way…but it really means girls like RK, JK, JH, CK, AT and EC; the inner circle that I couldn’t live without. I want to thank Katie, Janelle, My colorist Kelly, BD and ZW for all of the comments and MC for the inspiration. I should probably thank TO for something. Or, rather, for nothing. We’ll leave it at that. Finally, my eternal gratitude goes to Wise One for the guidance, Renegade Millionaire for being my suicide hotline, JL for the graphics and, of course, even my dear old Mom and Dad. Oh yeah, and like, The Academy, or something.

What happens next? That’s an excellent question. To be perfectly honest, I have no fucking clue. I’m not getting laid tonight. Or tomorrow night, either. That's all I know for sure. I’ve come a long way to get where I am, but I’m not where I want to be just yet. In a way, that’s how it should be. Life wouldn’t be worth living if there were only one finish line to cross. Now I’m ready for my next marathon, whatever that might be.

By the way, I’ve heard that if you stay celibate long enough you become a “Born Again Virgin,” psychologically speaking. Of course, I know that my virginal days are long gone, and my hymen is ancient history. But it’s crazy to think that one could possibly reclaim their own sense of innocence just by changing their perspective and behavior. Actually, now that I think about it, due to The Celibacy Project, the faith it’s given me in myself, and the encouragement of those around me, perhaps that doesn’t seem like such a crazy idea anymore.

And so, for the last time…

It's Too Late To Apologize

2008-06-30T10:02:00.000-07:00

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.

But…

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.

However…

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.

AWESOME.

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.

xo

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

2008-06-28T20:09:00.000-07:00

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.]

xo

One Small Step

2008-06-27T10:04:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

The City That Never Stops

2008-06-26T15:30:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

A Postmodern Pick Up

2008-06-24T22:39:00.000-07:00

[Ed. Note: I told you I wasn't sure if my traveling would affect my blogging...as 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.

xo

The Eighth Plague

2008-06-23T11:13:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

Mind Fucker Strikes Again

2008-06-21T12:04:00.000-07:00

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.”

Hmrph.

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.

xo

I Wrote This Last Night

2008-06-20T06:42:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

Reach Out And Touch Someone...Anyone But Me

2008-06-19T11:23:00.000-07:00

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.

However...

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

xo

Happy Anniversary

2008-06-18T09:31:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

Once More With Feeling

2008-06-17T05:00:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

Spoiler Alert

2008-06-16T10:32:00.000-07:00

[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.

xo

A Guy In Every Port

2008-06-13T09:43:00.000-07:00

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.

Duh.

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!

xo

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

2008-06-12T09:39:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

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.

More Miscellaneousness

2008-06-11T06:27:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

Happily Never After

2008-06-10T06:17:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

Let's Hear It For The Boys

2008-06-09T10:16:00.000-07:00

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.)

Anyways…

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?”

BECAUSE YOU’RE IN A FUCKING GAY BAR IN BOYSTOWN.

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.

xo

The Silver Lining To Singledom

2008-06-07T19:38:00.000-07:00

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

xo

The Many Faces Of Allie

2008-06-06T13:54:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

The Ex-Files

2008-06-05T14:40:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

Murphy's Law Of Attraction

2008-06-04T16:49:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

Facebook And Forgiveness

2008-06-03T09:26:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

The End Is Near

2008-06-02T10:06:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

Riesling To The Rescue

2008-05-31T10:16:00.000-07:00

Last night, I went on another un-date. I think they’re becoming my new hobby. This time it was with an oncologist (what’s with me and doctors lately?) who was visiting from New York. I met him when I was there on business and told him to give me a call if he ever came to Chicago. Lo and behold, three months later, he did just that and he asked me to go to dinner. I explained to him that I wasn’t exactly “dateable” at the moment, but he said that didn’t matter and that I should make reservations at the restaurant of my choosing. Obviously, I chose Gibson’s, one of the nicer, and more expensive, steakhouses in Chicago. As you may or may not recall, I’m a vegetarian, but steakhouses always have great salads. Plus nobody ever takes me to Gibson’s, not even on real dates, and it’s one of like three restaurants in this city where you might see famous people (if they happen to be stuck in Chicago for some odd or unfortunate reason.)

So anyways…I had another un-date. Only this one didn’t go very well. The Oncologist picked me up in a cab and we went to the restaurant, which is known for often being elbow-to-asshole. After waiting a half hour for our table (because apparently reservations are just a cute little formality there) we were seated in an area devoid of any celebrities so I was forced to focus my attention on him. Things went downhill from there.

I didn’t really know The Oncologist when I agreed to have dinner with him. I’d only met him casually in a large group of people back in Manhattan. Now, one-on-one, it was clear that we didn’t have a damn thing in common. Plus he wouldn’t stop staring at my tits. Prince Charming, he was not. He was uneasy, unfunny, and he actually made me uncomfortable. It took me five (count 'em, five) glasses of wine just to get through dinner and dessert. If he made one more blonde joke I was going to choke him. It’s sad when you can see a guy is trying his hardest, and then you realize Corky from “Life Goes On” probably has better game.

Boy am I glad I didn’t tell him about the blog.

So it turns out, un-dates can suck just as bad as real dates can. But if this were a real date six months ago, I would have laughed at his lame punchlines, responded to his creepy come-ons, and lead him on so he’d ask me out again. Thanks to The Celibacy Project, and some of my recent epiphanies, the new-and-improved Allie Dating Persona takes no prisoners. I was completely myself. I didn’t force anything. I was polite, but I wasn’t laying it on thick the way I used to. And although I didn’t have fun, I still felt good, because I was being honest with myself. If he calls again, I’ll be honest with him, too. I’m done wasting my time on situations that clearly aren’t right for me. And I’m still convinced that one day, Mr. Right will take me on my dream date to Gibson’s….and we’ll sit next to Posh and David Beckham. And Brad and Angie will be there. And they'll only serve tofu that night. Hey, I said “dream date.”

xo

Now I Ain't Saying She A Gold Digger...

2008-05-30T10:02:00.000-07:00

As a rule, I don’t talk about my professional life on this blog, because it really has nothing to do with my celibacy. But occasionally, something that happens to me between the hours of 9 to 5 makes me go hmmm…and then I want to write about it.

If you read this but don’t actually know me, I can tell you this much: I work in the marketing department for an international brand. And on Wednesday, my company came together with the folks at Playboy to film an episode of “The Girls Next Door.”

For those of you that don’t watch crappy reality TV (bless your hearts) the show is about the lives of Hugh Hefner’s three girlfriends. Holly Madison, pictured with me above, is his “main squeeze,” and I had the opportunity to meet her at the taping. She was a very sweet person, and a pleasure to work with. But I couldn’t help but look at her in awe. After all, she’s only two years older than me, and she regularly (claims to) sleep with an 82-year-old man. His balls have got to look like a Shar-Pei.

Now I’ve admitted here to dating guys that were a quite a bit older than me. And I’ve never had a problem with that, age is just a number, to a certain extent. But the man was born in 1926. If I’m doing the math right (and I might not be, I suck at math) he was already 53 when Holly was born. So what in the world could they possibly have to talk about besides plastic surgery and the merits of disrobing in a magazine?

I’m not trying to be holier than thou here. Like I’ve said, the Renegade Millionaire is 23 years older than me, and we get along just fine. But shouldn’t there be some sort of cut-off where the old guy/young girl thing starts to look a little ridiculous? I guess not.

When RM and I were in New York and Las Vegas, nobody seemed to give our situation a second thought. But when he came to Chicago to visit me, that wasn’t exactly the case. Here in the Midwest we are a very practical people. And it’s just not realistic for a man and a girl to overcome such a huge age difference. You see, we’re big on the concept of family ‘round these parts. So how could a relationship like that possibly lead to having children when he’ll be ready to retire by the time his kids are in grade school? I’m not saying this mindset is right, but it is what it is. And when I’ve dated older guys, I’ve dealt with the fallout. I wonder if Holly deals with any fallout.

Is it that, because Hugh’s a multi-multi-millionaire, this is okay? Perhaps even expected? If an older woman dates a younger guy, they call her a “Cougar.” Most guys call Hugh Hefner “God.” So I guess it’s just yet another double standard that exists in our class-obsessed culture. And who am I to argue with that? If you work hard, and make a lot of money, you get to bang a chick 1/3 your age. To the victors go the spoils, I suppose.

An older guy that I once spent time with put it this way: “You’re only as old as you feel….and, failing that, you’re only as old as the girls you feel.” Cheers to you, Mr. Hefner. You are officially the oldest 29-year-old (barely) alive.

xo

The Art Of The Un-Date

2008-05-29T09:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I broke down the symptoms of celibacy: loneliness, boredom, and a desire to hump anything that moves. However, I didn’t talk about the measures I’ve been taking to combat these forces. Well, I mentioned that masturbation cures the horniness. But what do I do when I’m bored and lonely? Besides masturbate again, of course.

Introducing the “un-date.” It’s this little thing I’ve discovered. I go out for dinner, coffee, or drinks with a member of the opposite sex, and instead of spending the entire time speaking in innuendo and looking at one another suggestively, we actually get to know each other. That’s some crazy shit, no?

Yesterday, I had an un-date with a boy that goes to film school in LA. I met him at a Christmas party, and this week he stopped in Chicago on his way back from Cannes. We grabbed some coffee and sat outside a Starbucks, sharing our views about the world. And at the end of our time together, he hugged me. That was it. He didn’t invite me back to his place or invite himself up to mine. He didn’t tempt me to leave with him by promising a nightcap. Hell he didn’t even kiss me on the cheek. We hung out, talked about life, and then we went our separate ways.

So this is how people really get to know each other? Interesting.

I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been on a date that didn’t end in the sack before. But dating has always seemed like such a preamble to just that. I let the guy get to know me, but only as much as I wanted him to know, and I played by "The Rules," believing that doing so would almost always ensure a second date. I've never not been asked on a second date, I shit you not. But I think that is a problem in and of itself.

When I was a “Rules Girl,” I wasn’t really myself on dates. At least not in the way that I can be on these un-dates. Back then, it was very easy to slip into the habit of conforming to the desires of the guy I was with. That’s why my friends used to call me The Great Accommodator. With that second date dangling in front of me like a carrot (or, in some cases, two carats) I became a “Yes Woman.” Granted, I’ve never been much of a “No Woman.” But I found myself becoming what someone else wanted me to be. And once you start doing that, it’s really difficult to stop. Because the longer you’re with someone who thinks they know you (but really has no idea) the more you get caught up in a constructed reality. So the Second Date Syndrome became a symptom of my Accommodating Disease. And now I think I’ve found the cure: hanging out with a guy and being totally and completely myself. It doesn’t matter to me if I don’t get asked on a second un-date because I haven’t beat myself up trying to be the girl he wants me to be in the first place. So maybe when I start seeing boys romantically again, if I treat my dates like I do these un-dates, I’ll have a lower return rate, but a higher overall satisfaction level.

Huh. Un-dates. A couple less cocktails, a lot less flirting, and a lot more dignity. I’ll be damned.

xo

Hey Allie, How's The Celibacy?

2008-05-28T09:35:00.000-07:00

I get that question a lot. Pretty much everyone I know is aware of what I’m doing whether they read the blog or not. And though my answers vary depending on my mood, no matter what I say it generally includes these three words: lonely, bored and horny. Let’s address each of these emotions separately:

1. Lonely
I am an only child. I spend at least three out of my five weekdays in an office entirely by myself. It’s not like I’m not used to being on my own. But now without a steady stream of dates to fill up my week, or a boyfriend to hang out with every night, I’ve become my own best friend. And that’s fine, I think I’m pretty cool…but I never knew it was possible to actually be sick of yourself. I mean, seriously. Have you ever allowed yourself to get lost in your own thoughts for 24 hours straight? Some pretty weird shit comes out. For instance, I have only recently realized that I really, really don’t like people who jog on the sidewalk. I have no actual justification for this, they just annoy the crap out of me. Do you really have to rub it in that I decided to sleep an extra hour instead of going to the gym this morning, dude? Furthermore, do I really have to stare at the outline of your bouncing nutsack so that you can feel more aerodynamic in bike shorts? Since I no longer spend my seven block walk to work texting Poor Bastard, I find myself cursing out total strangers for no other reason than they’re healthier than me. So I guess I’m becoming a lonely, bitter bitch. Awesome. Is it July yet?

2. Bored
I have something terribly embarrassing to admit. And this is coming from the girl who divulges the secrets of her raunchy past on a daily basis. Ready? Here goes…
I went to bed at 8:30pm last night.
What the Hell has happened to me?
Okay, to be fair, I did meet my friend MC for happy hour yesterday, where I had two glasses of wine and great conversation. But then I went home. There was nothing good on TV or even on TiVo. I had already read my daily allotment of “The Game,” and because that book is slowly eating my soul I can’t bring myself to get through any more of it than I have to. I didn’t even feel like writing, for once. So I took a Tylenol PM and went to sleep. At eight freaking thirty. It’s like I’m a shell of the Allie I once was…but at least I have the bed to myself and I woke up feeling refreshed. So I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

3. Horny
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I LOVE SEX. And I haven’t enjoyed that activity in almost sixty freaking days. Yeah, I know, cue the violins and get a telethon going. I’m not going to receive a lot of sympathy here. But that used to be my “thing,” and now my “thing” is going to bed alone at 8:30. The fact that I can still masturbate is my one saving grace at this point…but there are only so many times you can sit on your hand until it goes numb and then diddle yourself before the novelty wears off. And here’s the truly messed up part: it’s not just the penetration, or even the foreplay, that I miss. What I miss most is the human contact of any kind, even just cuddling and kissing. Honestly, I have gone through phases of my life when I was vehemently anti-cuddling (mostly back in the day when I used to think I could fuck like a man) but right now, I would kill for a good spooning. I can masturbate all day long, but I cannot spoon myself. It’s physically impossible. I think all scientists should just quit with the whole “curing cancer” bit and focus on that for a while. This is a pressing need that’s not getting nearly enough national attention, people. Fuck AIDS, I’m starting a new crusade. Let’s work on curing boredom, loneliness, and horniness. Or I could just suck it up and wait 35 more days. I mean, I guess ten hours of sleep every night won’t kill me and nobody’s ever actually died of boredom.

Not yet, at least.

xo

To Blog Or Not To Blog

2008-05-27T09:40:00.000-07:00

Do you remember the post in which I ruminated on what would happen when I met a boy I liked and the blog came up? Well on Sunday night, that happened. Now I’m forced to navigate a fucked up situation: writing about a guy with potential when I’m 99% certain he’s going to read it. We’ll ignore, for the moment, the fact that he’s about to find out more about my sexual history then The Ex did during our entire three-year relationship, because if he’s disgusted, then this discussion becomes a moot point. So let’s go with the theory that he’s gotten through the past posts, he’s decided to follow along, and now he’s going to read one about himself.

Of course.....I could just opt not to say anything about him at all, but then I would find myself torn. You see, my mother calls the blog “theatre,” but I don’t like that assessment. Sure, some days, I’ll start writing and while I’m doing that something will happen that challenges my celibacy but does not fit the post, so I leave it out. Sometimes I have a specific point I’m trying to make, and so I’d rather stick to the script and see it through. Besides, I almost always get around to writing about what actually happened sooner or later.

But I really try not to make this theatre, because that doesn’t serve anyone’s purposes. Not yours, because you’re in it to hear the whole truth and certainly not mine, because in allowing myself to not tell the whole truth I’m also denying myself the chance to work through it. And if I’m not doing that, then this becomes “an exercise in futility,” which is what Mind Fucker called it when I didn’t initially write about what really happened that night with New Guy.

So I decided to write the truth about this dude, knowing full well he’s going to read it. Because at the end of the day, this is a three-month soul-searching project that exists mostly for my own benefit, and if guys can't take that, perhaps I’m not meant to meet anyone right now. To be honest, every day I seem to learn something new about myself so I’m finding it difficult to pin down just who Allie is. How in the world could I get to know someone and figure out if we’re compatible when I’m not entirely sure about myself at the moment?

Okay, enough of the mental masturbation (that’s like what Mind Fucker does to me, only I’m doing it to myself.) So I went to a Housewarming/Memorial Day/Excuse-to-make-gooey-blender-drinks Party on Sunday. I work with the host and her ex-boyfriend showed up (they’re still friends - it’s a complicated story that would require its own post, if not its own blog) and he brought along a cute, smart, and witty friend that we’re going to call Hot Doctor. I’ve never dated a doctor before. My friend JH does almost exclusively. But somehow I’ve never met one despite the fact I find the whole “life-saving” thing rather sexy. Hot Doctor and I hit it off and we spent a good portion of the party talking. My celibacy, and my writing about it, had already come up so as we “flirted” he was aware that I used to have a lot of sex. And that I had since stopped having sex. That didn’t seem to discourage him, which I suppose (at first) was a good sign. However, as we kept talking, I started to go through the history of the blog in my mind, wondering how he was going to react to "The Ten And A Half Commandments," "My Sugar Daddy Phase," or, especially, “The List.”

But as I was inwardly groaning about that, he said something that made me feel like perhaps none of this mattered.

At one point he tried a tactic I hadn’t heard yet: he challenged my writing prowess by saying a truly talented author could just hook up with him and still write an entertaining, but fictional, account of sticking with the celibacy.

I give him 9 out of 10 points for originality on that one. But that’s when I decided the following: Sure he hadn’t read my blog yet. But if and when he does, and he thinks it’s a well-written joke, then that’s a deal-breaker. I can’t say I’m sure what’s going to happen when I’m out of the blogosphere and into the dating pool again but I know this time in my life will inevitably come up in conversation. More likely than not the next dude I end up with will have to read it eventually. And if he can read it without being disgusted, well then that’s half the battle. But it’s only half. I also need him to respect why I did this and what it means about me as a person. When this is all over with, I will never, ever sleep with somebody who has the nerve to call this blog “silly” (are you listening, MF?) because no matter how funny it may be at times, soul-searching is something I take seriously. It would be disrespectful to myself to go back to sleeping with guys who don’t respect me. And if you’re going to respect me, then you’re going to respect The Celibacy Project.

Hey, I think I feel a new Ten And A Half Commandments coming on….

So I suppose I’m putting quite a challenge to the Hot Doctor now. First he has to read the blog in its entirety and not hate it (or me for writing it.) Then he needs to realize that what he said about me hooking up with him and just lying about in the blog was wrong and antithetical to what I’m trying to accomplish. Then he has to show he respects my end goal and let me finish The Celibacy Project in peace. Yeah, that’s a pretty tall order.

I guess that’s why I said I’m not ready to meet anyone at the moment. It’s just not fair to get to know a guy I could date until I’ve seen this thing through.

I am right in the middle of a life-changing experience. When it’s all over, I think I’m going to have a much better sense of who I am and what I want (even if it turns out I just want to keep boning casually, at least I’ll know that I tried something different.) Whoever that person turns out to be, I feel that I’m really going to like her. But until that happens, I can’t put anyone else in a position where they could like me until I do first.

xo

The Grass, It Is Greener

2008-05-24T22:35:00.000-07:00

Today I had lunch with somebody I’ve known a very long time that I’ve decided to call My Happily Married Friend. I don’t have many married friends. Three, to be exact. And I’m pretty sure that’s a testament to the fact that lately I’ve surrounded myself with people too busy having a good time to settle down.

My Happily Married Friend is the same age as me; I’ve known her since elementary school but we lost touch in college (thank you, MySpace.) So while she was there for some of my more promiscuous high school days, she wasn’t able to witness my wild sorority girl years. If I were her, I’d be thankful. I was a lot to handle (and defend) during that time. It’s amazing RK has lasted as long as she has, although I think that I’ve always made her feel better about her own life choices could have something to do with that.

MHMF and I had lunch at a restaurant called The Buffalo, which is near where we grew up, since whenever I see her I insist upon fabricating such nostalgia. For some reason, sitting down with an old friend in a place I haven’t seen in years allows me to mentally regress back to a simpler, less self-aware time in my life. Of course, that didn’t last long because before our appetizers were even served we were already discussing The Celibacy Project. She's a fan, so I let her in on some behind-the-scenes scoop.

After I’d given her the rundown on who everybody really is and what happens when I’m not blogging, I asked her about married life. She smiled and told me it was good. I believe her – I think she found a really special guy. But I also believed her when she followed that up by telling me that it could get a little boring.

Please note: she did not say she was bored, but rather that married life had the propensity to be not-so-exciting. I mean, duh. Sure it’s a lot more entertaining to live a life like mine. I’ve met a sitcom star while the stand-up comedian I was dating did a set at Caroline’s Comedy Club in New York City. I’ve been taken out by a first-round draft pick NFL player who wore, I swear to God, Air Force Ones with gold-tipped laces. Were these dates the farthest things from boring? You bet your sweet ass they were. But now she’s got a husband that loves her, a home in the suburbs and an adorable puppy…and I’ve got a blog about overcoming my inner whore. And, to be honest, "exciting" is that last word I would use to describe what it feels like to wait on the results of an STD test (which reminds me, THANK YOU GOD.) So I think it’s safe to say, the grass really is greener on the other side. And you always want what you can’t have.

In her case, that’s a tear of wild nights without the certainty of someone waiting at home for you. In my case, that’s the knowledge that the man I’m in love with doesn’t want to be with anyone else and wants me to himself. But you know what? She needs someone like me to appreciate what she has and I need someone like her to appreciate what I want. And while we might have chosen different paths, it’s amazing that those roads can still occasionaly intersect and then they divide the terrain together. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t go back and do things differently even if I could (no regrets, remember?) but that doesn’t mean I can’t understand where I’d be right now if I had. It gives me something to look forward to. And thanks to this slutty little blog, I’m actually a lot happier with who I am now then I’ve been in a really long time. So while I value what My Happily Married Friend has, and I love to keep in touch with her to hear about it, suprisingly enough, I also wouldn't trade it for what I've got.

I guess the grass can only be “greener” if you compare it to something else. On it’s own, it can still be pretty green.

This Ain’t Oprah’s Book Club – Part II

2008-05-23T09:38:00.000-07:00

I am two “Steps” (out of twelve) into the book I’ve been reading called “The Game.” And to be honest, as someone who’s rarely at a loss for words, I don’t even know where to begin. I promised to get through it and digest it here to spare most of you from having to learn everything about the “secret society of pickup artists” the book’s cover claims to penetrate. [Ed. Note: Isn't calling them "pickup artists" like calling the people who work at Subway "Sandwich Artists"?] So I’ve decided to give you the CliffsNotes version, minus that whole “objectivity” thing. It’s very hard to remain objective when speaking as the hunted about a group of professional hunters.

The book’s author, Neil Strauss, is extremely talented. I have to give him that. He admits that in his work covering bands like Motley Crue and Marilyn Manson, he never seemed to get laid despite his close relationship with, and proximity to, the rich and famous. So when his editor suggested he read something he’d never heard of called “The How-To-Lay-Girls-Guide,” suddenly he became aware of an entire culture of men devoted to perfecting the art of seducing women into casual sexual encounters. As he introduces us to some of the foremost experts within this community (such as the main character, a pud named Mystery) we find that these are not Brad Pitt look-alikes, or even just millionaires that aged well. Most of them are unsuspecting, marginally-attractive guys that understand the way into a woman’s panties is a straight shot through her head. And boy, do they fuck the shit out of these poor girls’ heads before getting anywhere near their vaginas. For example…

The following concept seems sort of obvious, in retrospect. But when I first read about it, I got nauseous thinking about how simply it could be applied and how easily it could (and has) worked on me. It’s called the “neg.” Here is its exact definition as listed in the book’s handy-dandy glossary:

NEG – noun: an ambiguous statement or seemingly accidental insult delivered to a beautiful woman a pickup artist has just met, with the intent of actively demonstrating to her (or her friends) a lack of interest in her. For example: “Those are nice nails; are they real?” 2. Verb: to actively demonstrate a lack of interest in a beautiful woman by making an ambiguous statement, insulting her in a way that appears accidental, or offering constructive criticism.

In context, Mystery teaches his disciples to employ this tactic to make the prettiest girl in the group (also referred to as “the target”) feel self-conscious in a way that will make her strive for the approval of the guy who slighted her. Other examples of negs include “you kinda have man hands,” “you blink a lot,” or my personal favorite: “tell her ‘it’s so cute. Your nose wiggles when you laugh.’ Then get her friends to notice and laugh about it.”

And you wonder why I hate this freaking book?

Now before I go all femi-nazi on you all, allow me to use a phrase I’ve used many times before: you can’t rape the willing. According to Strauss, the power of the pickup artist is his ability to give “women the fantasy they never thought they’d experience.” And I’ve certainly been there before. I just never thought I’ve been led there in such a manipulative way. Now, I realize that perhaps I have. And that’s fine, we ALL play games. Here’s the part that hurts. I think I was played by somebody I really, really cared about. Not The Ex and not Poor Bastard, a guy that came in between who I’m still not ready to talk about much here.

Specifically, one time when we were together, we played the “guess the number game.” I thought of a number and he guessed it. Innocent enough, but when he guessed right we both acted impressed. We even referenced it several times throughout the remainder of our relationship.

Then I get to the following sentence in “Chapter 5” of “Step Two”:

“I showed Elonova an ESP trick Mystery had taught me earlier that evening, in which I guessed a number she was thinking between one and ten (hint: it’s almost always seven) and she clapped her hands together gleefully.”

Oh. My. God. Was I that fucking dumb? Was I that obedient? Was I that predictable? He guessed seven, and I had thought seven. I played right into his stupid hand and actually made something out of the fact that we were so psychically connected.

I didn’t just hate the book anymore, I hated myself when I read that.

Okay, guys play games just like I’ve played games. I can accept that. But to be duped by a guy I had actually convinced myself that I liked? One of the few I’ve ever let anywhere near my heart? NEVER AGAIN. I am now on my guard. Want to guess my number? Nice try, I’ve been there. Want to playfully insult me in front of my friends? Back off buddy, I’m not sleeping with you. Perhaps I’m being overly cautious here, but maybe I’ve just been under-cautious in the past. Post-Project Allie has got a brand new bag. And I’m happy about that, I suppose. Disillusioned….but happy that in the future I won’t readily accept every bullshit line and tactic used on me by dudes that have read this book (or are just inherently good at what it teaches.)

By the way, Mind Fucker, I know you’re a “natural” at this. And when I’m back on the market and able to fool around again I have two words for you: bring it.

Like my friend ZW said, “Ignorance is bliss, but knowledge is power. So you’ll come out even…uh, sorta.” Even, perhaps. But never the same.

xo

Straight Talk From The Stirrups

2008-05-22T09:20:00.000-07:00

I went to the “girl doctor” yesterday (bear with me) to have what I refer to as the 100,000 mile check-up. Now calm down dudes, that’s all I’m going to say about the actual appointment. I know that stuff freaks you out. But I went to see my doctor and I told her about The Celibacy Project. And, like most people that are significantly older than me, she laughed.

Now I didn’t ask her, but I should have: just what the hell is so funny? Are you laughing because it’s me, Allie B, declaring that I need to take some time off from sex? Or are you laughing at the fact that my declaring it implies I’ve had so much sex that to stop having it would require a dramatically noticeable change in my habits?

I’m not sure what she would have answered to that and if I had to guess, I don’t think I could. I find a bit of amusement in both aspects of this, actually. Maybe that’s just me. I can understand how to anyone else it could seem laughable that I felt a need to tell everyone I know that I’m not having sex for three months. Oh yeah, and then I also felt the need to put it on the Internet so that everyone they knew could hear about it every day. Wow. When I say it like that it actually sounds pretty messed up. Or funny. We’ll go with funny.

At the same time, I know there’s also an entertainment value to the fact that I’m a girl that has no problem telling it like it is. And when I say “it” I mean “my sluttin’ around days.” See? That’s kind of humorous, so maybe that’s what she was laughing at.

There are a couple conservative people that I’ve asked to read the site and when they do, I always get the same observation. “It’s very well-written,” they’ll say, “but very, very personal.” Isn’t that a backhanded compliment?

But of course, that just what I’m asking for if I encourage someone to read my blog who isn’t cool with this type of stuff. Some people like to mix sex and the Internet, some don’t. Some people don’t even like talking about sex in conversations with friends or even their partners! Clearly I’m not, nor have I ever been, nor will I ever be, that person. Still I respect that a lot of people will never want to hear about The Celibacy Project and, if they had to, they would not agree with it.

However….even a conservative person who believes in limited discussion of, and participation in, sex has to be at least a little bit intrigued (maybe disgusted, but still interested) by a seemingly intelligent girl that’s willing to put this out there for the unknown masses in the name of salvation. And conservative people can have a sense of humor, too. I know at least three Republicans I can name that make me laugh. I bet they think this is funny. I wonder if my doctor is a Republican…

Okay, one last thing. I’ve been seeing Dr. C. for five years. She knows my sexual history. And today, when I was on my way to the appointment, I was giddy like a kid who got a copy of the test before he had to take it. I was definitely going to ace this one. Once we started talking, we got to the list of questions they go through every time. I prepared myself for the one I wanted to hear:
“Are you sexually active?”
“No!!!”
Yeah, I actually said it like that. It’s been ten years since I’ve used that answer.
She stopped, turned, looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. And that meant more to me than her laughing did, anyways.

xo

What Would Allie Do?

2008-05-21T09:23:00.000-07:00

By now, I’ve had the opportunity to offend a variety of people in a variety of ways with blatant assertions about my own sexuality and sometimes that of others. In one online (and unrelated) forum where somebody I know mentioned this web site, a guy responded that he had read my blog and then he called me “a pig.” Awesome.

For the most part, however, I’ve stayed away from some of the most divisive topics that could enter into a discussion of sex, namely politics and religion. You can’t talk about either of those without pissing somebody off. But I’ve never been one to back down just to avoid ruffling feathers, so today I want to discuss religion and what, if anything, it’s had to do with my own decisions and experiences in the past.

I was inspired to do so by an article my friend MC sent me. It was in the New York Times and it talked about an event that’s becoming more popular in the Evangelical Christian community called a “Purity Ball.” A Purity Ball is a formal dance attended by fathers and their daughters that promotes virginity until marriage for teenage girls. So I guess it’s like prom, except nobody tries to spike the punch, everybody has to bring their dad as their date, and all of the attendees publicly announce that nobody’s getting laid afterwards. Good times.

Now let’s get my own spiritual history out of the way. My father was a hippie and my mother was a disco queen. When they had a child in 1981, they decided that neither would impose their own religious beliefs on their offspring. Instead, they wanted to let me make that choice for myself when I was ready. Mom was raised Catholic in the parochial school system until she got to high school. Dad had a Bar Mitzvah but that’s about as far as he took his faith in Judaism. When I was little, they literally told me that it was up to me to look at both religions, and any others I found interesting, then select the best fit for me. So instead of Hebrew school or CCD classes, I was left to my own devices. I was without the moral guidelines instilled by such teachings until much later in life. And by the time I finally chose to embrace my “Jewish Side” in college, I was past the point where any religion’s stance on pre-marital sex could have an effect on things I’d already done. When I lost my virginity to Skater Boy in high school, never once did the thought of whether or not I should “do it” before I got married cross my mind.

[Ed. Note: Can you imagine if I would have chosen Catholicism after the fact? That would have been the world’s longest confession, followed by a thousand Hail Mary’s, probably making it the second largest amount of time I would have ever spent on my knees. Moving on…]

Perhaps if I had been baptized and confirmed, I might have taken to that whole idea of “abstinence.” Then none of the things that inspired me to write this blog would have ever happened. But that becomes a nature vs. nurture argument. You can bring a girl to Jesus, but you can’t make her drink (the wine.) Furthermore, a young woman I know who I thought to be somewhat conservative once told me “hey, I went to Catholic school for twelve years, it’s like a breeding ground for wildness!” So maybe that doesn’t matter afterall, as perhaps most Jewish, Cathololic, Muslim, Buddhist and even Scientology girls aren’t always the best poster children for chastity.

In the article MC sent me, it says studies have actually shown “that most teenagers who say they will remain abstinent, like those at the ball, end up having sex before marriage, and they are far less likely to use condoms than their peers.” So “no sex” turns into “unsafe sex.” That’s a little disheartening. At least I’ve always been a firm believer in condoms, even if I never had to make a choice between my faith and my sexuality. For the record, I don’t have the patience to get into a discussion right now about an organization that condemns both birth control and abortion. All I will say about that is oy vey.

While it’s nice that I’ve found myself involved in a religion that regards sex as a naturally and potentially beneficial bodily function, I guess that taking first communion would not have had any bearing on the decisions I would’ve made anyways. Of course, that’s not why I selected Judaism as my spirituality of choice. But I can’t say (given my questionable life history) the fact that Jews don't believe in Hell didn’t have anything to do with it, either.

xo

The Hexagon Of Trust

2008-05-20T09:44:00.000-07:00

You know the expression “keep your friends close and your enemies closer”? Yeah, well I don’t really do that. I keep my enemies (or anyone I dislike because they don’t improve on the silence when they speak) as far away from me as I can. Unfortunately, I tend to keep my closest friends even further away than that. I have six girls in my life that I consider to be my “best friends.” That means they know where the bodies are buried and nothing short of Sodium Pentathol would make them tell anyone where that is. Granted, part of the reason they do this for me is because I happen to possess some equally interesting information about them. But I’ve also proven to be a damn good friend over the years, the kind that would drop everything to help you move out of your ex-boyfriend’s apartment the moment it became necessary, which I’ve actually been called upon to do twice.

It has always served me well to keep these friends tucked away all over the country. RK and JK are here, of course, because you need to have some alibis close by. But CK is in Tampa, AT is in San Diego, JH is in D.C. and EC is three hours away in Champaign, Illinois. It’s nice to have friends who you can go visit that live in interesting places, and I also see it as being similar to why they don’t let Bush and Cheney travel together on Air Force One. If, Heaven forbid, the terrorists ever took down one of the aforementioned cities, there would still be friends around who know where I keep The List and can dispose of it should anything happen to me. Lord knows, I don’t need my parents finding that literature in the event of my untimely demise. And don’t even get me started on the shit they’d discover in my nightstand; I’ve seen adult websites that carry a smaller and less varied sex toy inventory than I do.

So anyways, the reason I’m telling you this is that, up until recently, these are generally the people I chose to share my intimate secrets with. But now that I’m pulling all of the skeletons out of my closet and making them dance for you here, obviously that’s changed a little bit. Certainly before it gets to you, a lot of this information still passes through the six of them to be (over)analyzed in that special way that only girls can. But now, I have to say that I’m really glad it’s getting to all of you eventually, because lately I’ve been told by several people who read it that it’s actually helped them to examine their own lives.

Wow. Really? You mean I’m not the only one who goes through all of this crap? Fuckin’ A!

No, seriously. I mean, I figured that since I have SO many experiences that certainly a couple of them had to mirror those of others. But still, it’s very gratifying to know that when I get dreamy-eyed and talk about my first time, or discuss the difficulty in letting go of a human security blanket, some of you are right there with me. Last week, my friend SD e-mailed me and said “your blog is making me find out some things about myself. You’re actually helping more than yourself.” And he’s over forty! Then yesterday, CC sent me a message that included the following, which made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside:

“The unique thing your blog has allowed, is not only for you to open up and work through the quarter-life crisis via a public forum, but also for the readers (or maybe just me) to work through similar thoughts by feeling validated that someone else is experiencing the same things…Your real gift as a writer, in my opinion, is that you’ve begun to write in a way that is honest with yourself and thus allows both friends and strangers to feel like we too are headed in the right direction…though we don’t have a freaking clue where that direction will take us.”

Not to toot my horn – oh fuck it, all I can do it toot my own anything these days – but in a little over a month I’ve had 2,669 (haha) unique visitors access this blog 4,967 times. Over half of those readers have been back at least once or twice to follow my progress. Yesterday was a big day for The Celibacy Project, but I don’t have anything particularly enlightening to declare about myself and the state of my sexuality today. So instead, I just wanted to say this again: thank you so much for reading along, you guys. I’m glad I’ve let you into what’s becoming one big ass Circle of Trust because you make waking up, not having sex, and writing about it almost every day worth it.

xo

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do - Take Two

2008-05-19T10:39:00.000-07:00

Wow, what a weekend. And I do not mean that in a good way. On Friday night, I had dinner with Poor Bastard. We went to a restaurant that gets very crowded so our table couldn’t have been more than a foot away from the people next to us. Because of that, we weren't able to engage in any serious conversations and upon realizing this, I was relieved. Then last night, while I was with my best friends RK and JK, PB sent me a text saying that he was out drinking with Criss Angel…as in the guy that can levitate, has fucked half of Hollywood, and wears more jewelry than any man (Freaker of Minds or otherwise) should be able to wear in public without being summarily shot.

Now without getting into the reasons why PB was with Criss Angel (long story short: he knows people) let’s just say I was certain that he was going to use the opportunity to garner something I would find interesting: Britney Dirt. As I’ve alluded to here I am COMPLETELY infatuated with the tarnished pop star and it’s no secret that something went down between her and Angel just before her Titanic-esque VMA's performance last year which, true story, I threw up immediately after watching. Whether it was nerves or food poisoning, I’m still not entirely sure, but my friends all bore witness to me pacing the floor like an overbearing stage mom in the moments leading up to her disastrous (and perhaps vomit-inducing) “comeback” performance. Oh Brit, why must you test my love? It’s getting awfully lonely out here on this limb by myself.

So anyways…because Poor Bastard knows how much I adore Britney, there was no doubt in my mind that he was going to ask Angel for some stories he could repeat to me later. I was also sure these weren’t about to be sent to me via text last night. Oh no, those would necessitate at least a phone conversation or perhaps even several. PB knew I would hang on his every word of behind-the-scenes gossip. As I was explaining this to my girlfriends, RK caught on quickly. “He’s just doing this to have something to talk to you about,” she said. And, of course, she was correct. But when she followed that by asking “How much longer can you keep this up?” I realized it was time to put an end to these shenanigans.

So this morning, I sent him an e-mail:

Dear PB –

We have been broken up since the beginning of April but this isn’t the break that I initially wanted or needed. While I truly appreciate your friendship and everything you’ve done for me both when we were together and when we were not, I cannot do this anymore. On Friday night, I could see in your eyes that you want more than I will ever be able to give you. And though I know you don’t like to hear it, the sad truth of the matter is we are never going to be a couple again. I’m sorry.

Moving forward, I think it’s best that we simply don’t contact one another for a while. I know this will be difficult for us, we’ve grown very used to relying on each other for emotional support and even entertainment throughout the day. I cannot say that I will not miss your silly texts that always made me smile. But if I’m going to be totally honest with myself, and you, those texts are the last thing I need right now. I’m trying to be on my own, without any semblance of a boyfriend or a relationship. At the moment, you’re basically a boyfriend to me, but without any of the fringe physical benefits, and that’s certainly not fair to you. I think I need to be out of your life in order for you to move on. So again, while I cannot thank you enough for all of the strength and stability you’ve provided in my life, now I need to do this on my own. I will always care about you. Just not in the way you would like me to. And like I said, for that I am very, very sorry.

– Allie

The truth is, my relationship with Poor Bastard was sort of (okay, not sort of, IT WAS) a rebound from the situation I was in before. That one didn’t end well. But I knew PB wasn’t going to hurt me like the guy before him did so I allowed myself to get caught up in a relationship that I didn’t really want to be a part of. Then, when I broke up with him and declared celibacy, he became a band-aid on my singleness. I’m simply not used to not having a guy to turn to, lean on, or flirt with (though, to be fair, I’ve really tried to avoid going down that route with him since we broke up) and PB seemed more than happy to fulfill those roles even without the “boyfriend” status. He just wanted to be a part of my life. So I let him, even though I was doing us both more harm than good. It’s like the break-up never really took. And now it has to.

Thus I finally took care of business and now we enter a new phase of The Celibacy Project: actual, honest-to-God, no-boyfriend, nobody-sending-me-flowers, no-one-to-call-before-I-go-to-bed, it’s now-or-never loneliness. And I think I’m finally ready for it. It’s not going to be easy, but very little about this unique time in my life ever is.

So I finally ripped off the band-aid. I’m actually nervous, but I know I’ll be okay and that in the long run I’m better off without him (just as he’s better off without me.) If there’s one thing Britney’s taught me about, it’s the ability to survive whatever life throws at you by summoning one’s own strength, courage and sanity and surrounding yourself with good people devoid of ulterior motives.

And if there’s two things she’s taught me about, it’s that we shall overcome, and that I should seriously lay off the Cheetos.

xo

Crisis Of Faith: Averted

2008-05-17T09:26:00.000-07:00

So I’ve been reading that non-fiction novel “The Game,” and while I’m saving my next Book Club assessment until I’ve gotten a little further into it, right now I’d like to talk about the way it’s making me feel.

This book is sick, sick, sick. I can’t fault guys for wanting to get laid, but Jesus Tapdancing Christ! Are women really so easy to bed that all it takes is a applying a simple procedure, like sex is a math equation and we’re just the X Factor?

After only four chapters, I wanted to text Mind Fucker to get his reaction to my own initial reactions, but since my head was already ten different kinds of fucked up, I went the safe route and sent a text to The Renegade Millionaire instead. Here’s how that conversation progressed:

AB: Oh my God, RM, I’m reading this book called “The Game.” I’m only four chapters in and it’s making me hate guys and lose faith in humanity. Seriously.

RM: I’ve read it. Way too much work. Most guys do not employ such contrived tactics. Some do, however. We all have our own style (good or bad) and we don’t usually change it. But know: most men are pigs.

AB: That’s it. I’m going to die alone.

RM: No, just with a pig. C’mon Allie. Besides me, of course, you didn’t know this? You think all those guys were upstanding, straightforward and in it for your mind?

AB: No! But I thought I was playing them right back. Now I want to find the right guy, without games. This book makes it sound like all guys just want to play them! I’m finally ready to stop the insanity and it turns out it’s all insanity. What happened to love? I’m joining a convent.

RM: Slow down Sister Mary Alice! Here’s the deal. You have yet to meet the kind of guy you are looking for. Bars and clubs have drunks and sluts. That’s not where he is, is it? Change your pattern. Not having sex is a start but quit doing the same other things and hope for a different outcome. Also, for the first time in your slutty life you are truly open to love. Now you might actually see it with a clear head and heart when it comes strolling by.

He was right.

AB: Ok, I have crawled back in from the ledge. Lack of human contact does strange things to a person. I feel like I just had a Mr. Hyde moment. Who are you? Where am I? Thanks, as always, RM. By the way…call me slutty again and the next time I see you I’ll kick you in your old-but-surprisingly-taut balls.

xo

I'm A Glutton For Punishment And Good Wine

2008-05-16T09:21:00.000-07:00

Some days I get to try to write something pithy about someone else’s relationship, life experiences, or even their book, rather than focus entirely on my own story. But some days, I have to come clean about something I want to change about myself or a cycle I’m trying to break, and in this case it’s Poor Bastard. I feel really bad. But that’s exactly what he wants.

I know what you’re thinking. Why the hell is she still talking to him much less going to dinner with him at Bin 36 tonight? Well, okay, now you’re thinking that because I’ve been too embarrassed to tell you about our dinner plans until today.

But here’s what happened. Since I broke up with PB he’s become the cartoon character with a constant rain cloud over his head. One bad thing after another keeps happening to him and I swear to God, these are LEGITIMATE THINGS. It’s like I freaking cursed him.

First his best friend’s soon-to-be-ex-wife called his parents, yes his parents, and told them PB was responsible for her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s substance-abuse problem, which just got him kicked off his Major League Baseball team. I can assure you this was never the case. She’s just being the gold-digging bitch that she is and trying to take the blame for this off herself so she can walk away with more money in her divorce settlement. For the record, I do not insult other women like that unless I really, really believe in what I’m saying. She’s just not a nice person. And PB didn’t deserve that.

Then, because Poor Bastard really is a sweet, sweet guy, he’s been paying off his ex-wife’s credit card bills since he divorced her, and he knows she can’t afford it. When I met him he thought he had taken care of it all, but then wouldn’t you know it? He gets a call from another debt collector, this time for $7,000. Perhaps I should buy him dinner tonight.

Most recently, he dislocated his shoulder. PB used to be a PGA golfer. But he screwed up his shoulder and didn’t take care of it properly, and now it’s all messed up. He can still kick ass at golf, but he hardly plays anymore because it just messes him up more. By the way, when he went to get his shoulder relocated or whatever, it took twelve tries, and the doctor said it was one of the worst situations like that he’s ever seen. The entire area wasn’t black and blue…it was just black. I know this because he sent a picture of it to my cell phone.

So as all of this stuff keeps happening, I can’t bring myself to stop talking to him. I’ve explained to him, many, many times that I’m in a different place now and I don’t see us ever getting back together. And he tells me he understands and that he just wants to be friends. But somehow, I don’t believe him.

Because while all of this shit’s been hitting the fan, he’s turned into Super PB. My friend SW told me about this phenomenon when I broke up with The Ex, because he did the exact same thing. The Super version of your ex takes inventory of everything that could possibly be responsible for the breakup, whether you’ve mentioned it or not, and then does the complete opposite in an attempt to win you back. For instance, I tried to get him to read when we were dating, but he quickly lost interest. In Harry freaking Potter. Now Super PB’s practically giving me weekly book reports about Lord Voldemort. Also, PB is a big guy (I have this strange things for bigger dudes that we’ll have to get into some other time) and now he’s been going to the gym every day, in spite of the bum shoulder. I wouldn't want him to lose weight even if we were still together!

I get the feeling he thinks that it’s these adjustments he’s making to his life that are keeping me around, when really it’s because I feel so bad about the things in his life he can’t change that I can’t bring myself to completely extricate myself from it.

I am a terrible person.

But he just makes me feel so terrible for him.

So yeah, we’re going to dinner again. I know I’m going to have to put an end to this eventually, but I’d like to see him get his life back on track first. And, in a twisted sort of way, this might be to his benefit because in turning into Super PB, he is actually bettering his life. In the last month, when he isn’t busy braving a total shit storm, he’s been seeing a trainer, a nutritionist, and a physical therapist about his arm. He’s started giving golf lessons again (which he likes) and he’s signed up for his first PGA Tournament (which he loves) in four years. He’s vowed to take care of his shoulder and get back in the game. That’s got to be a good, thing, right?

Ugh. I don’t know. Once again, I have no idea what I’m doing.

But I guess that’s how I ended up here, writing this blog to work through things. Some of you probably think I’m doing the right thing, and some of you probably think I’m evil. But at the end of the day, I really only answer to myself. What I do doesn’t actually affect your life, so it’s not like I can ask you to back me up on this one. At least I’m finally calling the situation out for what it really is, rather than giving another review about a book on relationships or talking about getting drunk again. Now I just have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about it.

Happy Friday Everyone.

xo

Living, Breathing Birth Control

2008-05-15T11:37:00.000-07:00

Last night I hung out with my friend Mama B, who in the last year got married and had a baby, all at the age of 25. In case you were wondering (and you probably were) the wedding definitely came first. But we’re pretty sure she was already a little pregnant under the chuppah and that’s why should couldn’t seem to lose that last five pounds right before the Big Day. So now she has a husband, a child, and a lot more things to worry about than most 25-year-olds I know.

To her credit, she’s doing a damn good job of handling it all. She actually said to me “I wasn’t ready for this,” but when she spoke those words she did so without the slightest hint of regret. Still…as adorable as her daughter is, this whole situation scares the absolute shit out of me. Here I am, at 27, just starting to maybe, possibly, figure out who I am. At 25, she pretty much needed to have that part figured out, since she's complicated the scenario by adding “wife” and “mother” to her psychological inventory.

Right now I should probably tell you that I have little to no experience with children. I’m an only child so there were never any kid brothers or sisters running around. I was never a big fan of babysitting. I didn’t have any younger cousins that lived nearby until I was about twelve, and by that point I had little interest in, and perhaps even a bit of contempt for, the infants that were inevitably going to get a cut of Grandma’s Birthday Money Fund.

So last night was sort of a new experience for me when I stopped by the condo where she lives with her husband. The place pretty much looks like a baby war zone; think Sarajevo with stuffed animals. For such a little thing, the girl sure does have a lot of crap. Like I said, I’ve never been one to fawn over kids. Thus when Baby’s Daddy offered to let me hold her I pretty much responded “Uh………okay. How do I do that?” He put this wiggly little creature in my arms and immediately started to laugh. He called to his wife and pointed out that of every woman who has held the baby so far, I definitely looked the most uncomfortable and out of place. He said some guys even seemed more at ease than I did. I told him to shut the hell up or I’d drop his kid. Just kidding. I didn’t say that, but I was so scared to death that I might accidentally do so that I held onto that thing like I do my Gucci purse on the subway.

She yawned and looked up at me with her big, blue eyes and, I’m not sure whether or not Mama B saw this, but I swear to God my own eyes got a little wet. I don’t know why. I’m still trying to figure it out. Maybe it’s because in seeing their little nuclear family function, I realized how far away I am from anything resembling that situation. In a way, that’s a good thing. About 9 months ago, not long after The Ex, I dated a guy that I call Gatsby, mostly because he likes to have big parties at his VERY big house, like the character in F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel. And at 38, my Gatsby had an audibly ticking biological clock. Though we didn’t date for very long, we definitely talked about what we each wanted in the future and he, plain and simple, wanted lots of kids. He came from a big family and that was just how they did things. But I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around that at the time. Sure he was an awesome guy, we had a lot of fun together, I loved his house, and I loved his parties. But if he was in the market for a baby vessel, then I was definitely not the girl for him. Of course, at the time that made me wonder…would I ever be that girl?

I think that I want kids someday. I don’t know that for sure, but I feel that with the right guy, I’m going to want to have his babies. In watching Mama B and Baby’s Daddy work together, you could tell their seven-and-a-half year dating history certainly helped the cohesiveness of the parenting partnership. So that just further convinces me that when I do finally settle down with someone and start procreating, I better make damn sure it’s with the right person and that I’m in it for the long haul. I believe that if I had gone that route with The Ex or, God forbid, Poor Bastard, I would’ve ended up with a form of postpartum depression so terrible they could’ve named it after me. So until I’m absolutely, positively sure I’ve found the one whose kid I’m willing to carry around inside of my body for awhile, I’m going to do everything in my power to remain without child. My current state of abstinence is certainly a good start.

Mama B’s baby is cute as hell and I’m so happy it’s working out for her. To have a husband she loves and a beautiful child to show for it is a wonderful thing that I really do hope I get to experience someday. But when that little mouth let out the world’s biggest scream last night, I have to admit that it just made me want to pick up condoms and/or get a hysterectomy as soon as The Celibacy Project ends, if not sooner.

xo

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

2008-05-14T09:47:00.000-07:00

After writing about my use of “The Rules” the other day I received nearly identical messages from two male friends of mine suggesting I read “The Game.” So yesterday I went to buy a copy, figuring it would be an easy one to get through (I mean, c’mon, it was written for guys) and that I could write something witty about it by the end of the night. $35 later, I am now the proud owner of a fake leather-bound, 452-page book by some douchebasket named Neil Strauss. Instead of just one post, processing the fat bastard will probably require several. So in the next few weeks, I vow to make my way through this guide to picking up women, so that you don’t have to.

All douche comments aside, I am trying to go into this with an open mind. If us girls can have “The Rules” (full title: Time-tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right) then certainly guys can have “The Game,” (full title: “Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists.”) Wow. A “secret society” of "pickup artists," you say? And all this time I thought they just called them “frat houses.”

Immediately, it’s easy to see the very basic differences between what men and women seem to think they want. If there were a book for women on how to consciously pick up men for sex, it could pretty much be called “Have A Vagina.” Similarly, I doubt there are very many books out there teaching men how to find a woman willing to take that diamond ring off their hands. Most women want to get married. Most men want to have sex. That’s why we watch romantic comedies while you guys prefer yourselves some good, hardcore porn.

Since I claim to be a pro-sex feminist (sort of the black sheep of the Women’s Rights Movement) I am certainly not the kind of gal to deny a man’s right to sexualize pretty much everything. I think a lot of men are just wired that way; on this very blog I’ve acknowledged their evolutionary drive to plant a lot of seeds. But even being the appreciator of all things sexual that I am, I couldn’t help but balk at the Table of Contents. Ladies, I’ll spare you the nearly 40 bucks with tax and just reprint them here:

Step One: Select A Target
Step Two: Approach And Open
Step Three: Demonstrate Value
Step Four: Disarm The Obstacles
Step Five: Isolate The Target
Step Six: Create An Emotional Connection
Step Seven: Extract To A Seduction Location
Step Eight: Pump Buying Temperature [Ed. Note: what the hell does that even mean??]
Step Nine: Make A Physical Connection
Step Ten: Blast Last-Minute Resistance
Step Eleven: Manage Expectations

The damn thing even comes with a glossary. Is this really it? Is this how every guy treats a conquest, whether or not he needs a book to teach him how to do it? I turned to a man that always tells it like it is – Mind Fucker – who’s got enough game to fill an unabridged dictionary. He said “guys with confidence/good rap get laid – no exceptions. ‘The Game’ is merely a framework or toolbox, if you will, for guys with no money, looks, personality, etc.” Like most of the things he says, I found that rather intriguing. Mind Fucker, and both of the guys who recommended this book to me, are three dudes who do not have a problem getting laid. Hell, I’ve even messed around with two of them. Okay, maybe that’s not the best example. But these are guys that don’t need the actual advice, they all just found it somewhat entertaining.

Well I’m not in it for the entertainment value (though I will say the first few pages are pretty well-written.) I’m in it to break down the different ways guys have broken me down over the years. I want to understand how boys know just the right amount of bullshit to throw in my direction. Then maybe, just maybe, when The Celibacy Project is over, I’ll actually be able to fend it off. Since I’ve expressed several times now that I’m starting to think an actual relationship might be nice when this experiment has ended, I don’t think it’s MY rules that I need to concern myself with so much anymore. I think it’s time I also started to factor in the major importance of THEIR game. MS and ZW, you did me a very big favor by recommending I pick up this book. You also might have done a disservice to men in general, all of whom just became a little less likely to find out how good I really am (hint: amazing.)

xo

Why I Love Sex

2008-05-13T11:04:00.000-07:00

Last week, when I told you about The List, I mentioned the first person I'd slept with, a guy I call Skater Boy.

When SB and I met in high school, he sat across from me in psychology class. Actually, he rarely sat there because he usually got kicked out for being a smart ass. Since I’m a bit of a smart ass myself (not sure if you’ve picked up on that) but was also a well-behaved student, I was intrigued by his ability to speak his mind, even when our teacher threatened him with detention. I’m pretty sure SB might have even sworn at him once and I’m not gonna lie, that was hot.

By this point, I was pretty much your stereotypical cheerleader: blonde, blue-eyed, and sporting a very short (but school-sanctioned) skirt on Fridays. He, on the other hand, had shaggy red hair and wore tie-dyed t-shirts and hemp necklaces. But despite our outward differences, we seemed to get along, proving what’s inside a person is just as important to the attraction as the outside features. Though, to be fair, I thought he was totally cute, even if he didn’t play football.

We’d make eyes at each other in class (when he was actually there) but neither one of us seemed able to believe that the other was interested. So when he finally asked me for my number, the anticipation had built up to the point that I was actually shaking as I wrote it down.

Our initial phone conversations lasted hours, and it became clear we had stumbled upon something special. On our first date, he took me to China Town for dinner at a restaurant called The Mandar-Inn, but somehow got us so lost that we ended up in the middle of Cabrini Green. I could tell he was embarrassed, but he tried to laugh it off. In fact, we both ended up laughing about it and we still do now when we occasionally keep in touch.

When we finally made it to the restaurant that night, and we couldn’t stop holding hands over the table or even break eye contact, something inside of me somehow knew he was going to be the one I gave my virginity to.

It didn’t happen that night, of course (keep in mind that’s when sex was still a really big deal to me) rather we waited several more months until I was ready. That was what he wanted. He had already gotten his whole “virginity thing” out of the way, and he used his experiences to bring out my sexual side. He patiently showed me the merits of receiving pleasure, when in the past I had really only given it.

When he went on a trip to New Mexico he brought me back a most unusual souvenir. It was a vibrator. At first I was disappointed, because I had asked for a dreamcatcher, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be the only 17-year-old I knew with her very own sex toy. Though I was skeptical, when we finally tried it out, it didn’t take long for me to become a true believer. Obviously. And once I became accustomed to the idea of penetration, we decided it was time to go all the way.

I couldn’t have asked for a sweeter experience. His parents were out of town so I lied to my own and said I was staying at a girlfriend's. When he got home from work that night, he made me dinner, we had a glass of wine, and that’s when I got nervous. But he cared about me so much that he wanted to make my first time as special and painless as possible. We went to his bedroom, where there were candles lit and a Dave Matthews CD quietly playing in the background (shut up, it was 1998.) He kissed me softly and things progressed slowly until the moment itself, which to be perfectly honest, did not feel that great. Fortunately, it didn’t last very long (hey even an experienced guy can get a little too excited sometimes) and when it ended I remember thinking to myself “I’m a woman now.” It sounds stupid, but that’s how I felt. Then, as soon as he was ready, we tried again, only this time it was much better. All of our fooling around, plus the help of our battery-operated friend, had taught my body how to build to a climax. So the very second time I had intercourse, I had an orgasm. And that, my friends, is why I love sex.

I bet with the colorful history I’ve alluded to, you were probably expecting a gangbang in Cancun with an entire Mariachi Band. Not so much. Believe me, I’ve done some crazy things in my day, but I don’t tend to remember the little details about them the way I do about that night. I’m probably better off that way, come to think of it. I’m not kidding, I’ve done some craaaazy shit.

But to have that “first time” story, I feel lucky. For so many girls I know, it took years for them to enjoy sex. I was blessed to have a partner who wouldn’t stand for anything less than mutual satisfaction. At the same time, I suppose I was cursed by this, because learning to appreciate sex so early probably has something to do with why I’ve had so much of it since. Over the years, however, my motivations have certainly changed, and because of that I haven’t had nearly enough sex that meant as much to me as it did that night. But as I look forward to ending my celibacy, I can’t help but wax sentimental on how nice it would be to feel that way again.

So I owe Skater Boy a thank you for making my first experience one that I never want to forget. If it weren’t for him, it might have been years before I learned how to make sex work for me. Then again, if it weren’t for him, I might have spent every night at home studying instead of fucking, eventually curing cancer or winning a Nobel Peace Prize. Nevertheless, he was both a wonderful teacher and boyfriend. He introduced me to romance, vibrators and orgasms. And for that, he deserves his own Nobel Prize...if only they have one for sexual achievement.

xo

One Good Turn Deserves Another

2008-05-12T10:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I received a text from a girl I’ve been friends with for quite awhile. It read: “R U crazy?? Just read your blog about The Rules. You’ve been using them 4ever and now you’ve admitted that to every guy you’ve ever used them on. What R U thinking??”

She brings up a good point. I know that some of the boys who read this blog have been victims of my addiction to “The Rules.” In fact, since first reading them in 2001, I’ve been one of their biggest proponents. When girls I know are having problems with the boys they like that seem to stem from their own inability to hold back, my first suggestion is that they go out and buy themselves a copy. I should’ve asked the book's authors about a profit-sharing plan or, at the very least, a PR fee, a long time ago. In fact, I’ve literally bought at least ten copies of them just to give to friends that I thought should use them. So yes, in a way, I suppose it’s a little strange that I finally went on record and copped to employing them.

However…the reason I did that is because I really don’t believe in them anymore. I’ve been using them for seven years and guess what? I’m still single. I’ve been told the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting a different result. So that’s why I’m now practicing the ancient art of celibacy and attempting to look at sex and relationships in an entirely new way.

But still, my friend is right, I did sell myself out a bit. I also sold out every girl to whom I’ve ever extolled the virtues of “The Rules.” So today, I’ve going to make amends for that by telling you ladies about something that boys do.

The following was explained to me in the strictest of confidence by a guy that I dated who is a consummate Alpha Male. While I’m not saying every guy does this (just as not every girl uses “The Rules” or even their own versions like the “AB/CK Rules”) I am sure he’s neither the first nor the last guy to exercise these tactics. By the way, he made me promise never to tell anyone where I heard this for fear that he’d have his Man Card revoked if other guys found out. But since that dude then broke my heart, and I wouldn’t care if he got his manhood, much less his Man Card, removed, I have no problem passing on the information. Plus, it’s actually pretty funny. So here it is:

When girls are out in a group, and there’s alcohol involved, certain archetypes inevitably emerge. When a group of guys wants to approach this group, they need to determine which girls are playing which parts and then divide and conquer. First, they must identify who embodies the role of “The Mother Hen.” She’s the one who is the most responsible, and often the least inebriated, so therefore accountable for keeping the flock together. Sometimes, she’s also the least likely to hook up anyways, so one of the boys (aka: The Wingman) must “take one for the team,” by distracting her with entertaining conversation, and perhaps more alcohol. On the other end of the spectrum, we have the “The Wounded Duck.” She’s the one that looks like one more shot will put her over the edge. Other common traits of TWD include eyes that can’t seem to focus and consistent use of the phrase “Oh my God, I am soooo drunk.” A lot of times, the guy who manned up and took out TMH last time will have first dibs on her this time around.

The rest of the chicks fall somewhere in between, but are all considerably easier to apprehend once TMH is properly occupied by TWM. So the guys will literally have a conversation in which they devise a battle plan and determine their points of attack. If all goes well and they all do what they’re supposed to, everyone ends up getting laid. Mission accomplished.

Crazy, right? I thought so, too. But when he told me this I thought back to some of our Girls’ Nights Out and realized this actually might have occurred. I think it goes without saying that I’ve never been The Mother Hen type, but I have certainly spent my fair share of evenings playing the part of The Wounded Duck. And in the future, now that I know that makes me easy pickings to a group of predatory dudes, I’ll certainly be more careful in an effort to keep my celibacy in tact.

So that, my dear girlfriend, was for you and all the other gals that read this blog. While it’s highly situational and doesn’t necessarily have the millions of believers that made “The Rules” a bestseller, it certainly gives you something to think about.

xo

Why I Deserve This Hangover

2008-05-10T10:35:00.000-07:00

Last night was an epic clusterfuck of drunken retardedness.

Yeah, I think that sums it up rather nicely.

We started off at the Pontiac Café for “Rockstar Karaoke” which is karaoke but with a live band playing the music. This was a celebration of my friend TM’s birthday and/or a ZBT reunion, I’m still not sure which. Rockstar Karaoke is a lot like American Idol except everyone is drunk and for the most part untalented. After hearing a bunch of assholes (I mean my friends) destroy perfectly good songs, we went to Lumen where I ran into The Playboy, one of the guys I dated between The Ex and Poor Bastard. He, like so many before him, tried to chip away at my resolve, but a free drink is a free drink, so I thanked him for it and moved on. Then I made a graceful (read: stumbling) exit and had the bright idea to go to yet another bar. In the basement of the dungeon that is Stone Lotus I ran into Hot Dude, who wanted nothing to do with me this time. I think after the whole “boner-in-my-back” incident last month, he’s decided I’m a cock tease. Woo-hoo! I have never, ever been considered a cock tease before. At this point the memories start to get a little fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure my best friend RK managed to find me belly-to-the-bar, drinking bottled water. That could’ve been the best decision I made all night. The second best decision was then immediately getting in a cab and going home. According to my Blackberry, I had a brief text conversation with the Renegade Millionaire, which is fair game because A. He lives 2,000 miles away and B. He’s a big supporter of the cause, so rather than flirting we sent each other Meatloaf lyrics. I can’t make this shit up, people. This morning I woke up next to a bowl of noodles I don’t remember making (I should probably call my friends at Dominos and let them know I’m okay) and a business card in my wallet from some guy named Ronald that I couldn’t pick out of a line-up if you paid me.

So yeah, it was that kind of night.

Don't Hate The Player OR The Game. Hate Both.

2008-05-09T10:11:00.000-07:00

I wasn’t kidding yesterday when I said Single Allie loves to text message boys. At the height of my singledom, in just one month, I came in at a whopping 5,267 messages. That’s roughly 169 texts a day. When I got that bill I felt a mixture of pride and self-loathing. But mostly pride. What can I say? I’m an excellent communicator, even if my thumbs go a little numb sometimes.

But something as simple as communicating via text, phone, or even e-mail for that matter, takes on a whole new dynamic when there’s sexuality involved. Let’s be honest, when boys and girls interact, it becomes a game. But every game has to have rules. So where do we turn to for these?

Well I’m about to sell out my gender (sorry ladies) by telling you that there’s actually a book called “The Rules.” My copy is seven years old now. It’s been dog-eared, highlighted, and lent out numerous times.

Unfortunately, “The Rules” can seem a tad misogynistic, and might even set women back a hundred years with credos like “Rule #5: Don’t call him and rarely return his calls” and “Rule #7: Don’t accept a Saturday night date after a Wednesday.” But when The Ex and I broke up and I suddenly found myself back in the dating world, I used them as a refresher course as to how to play the game. Then when a guy I refer to as The Billionaire expressed interest in me, and I sort of felt out of my comfort zone, I followed them to the letter. I figured, why not?

I never initiated a text conversation and I always let him have the last word. I patiently waited for him to ask me on a date, which he finally did. Slowly, things progressed just the way the book said it would, until – gasp – I broke down and gave him head (hey that’s my go-to move.) In doing so, I totally broke “Rule #9: How to Act on Dates 1, 2, and 3.” And once you break "The Rules," you can’t go back and start over, it’s an all-or-nothing practice.

As it turned out, The Billionaire and I were better off as friends and I still see him from time to time in that capacity. I’m glad I never slept with him (at least I followed Rule #15: Don’t rush into sex) because it’s easier for us to maintain a congenial relationship without that awkward “we’ve seen each other completely naked” tension.

So while The Rules have their merits if you’re willing to banish your libido, I’ve found that a modified version devised by myself and my friend CK works best for me. The AB/CK Rules mostly have to do with the practice of text-flirting, something that didn’t even exist as an issue when “The Rules” were first written in 1996.

Here are some examples:

When a guy you like sends you a text, we call that “having the ball.” That means the power is momentarily on your side and how you decide to use it could have a butterfly effect on the entire interaction. We try to hold on to the ball for as long as we can (a power play, if you will) until we’ve come up with the perfect response. Then we throw the ball back, and immediately call each other for moral support, counting the minutes until it’s returned to our side of the court. We have a strict policy against double-texting (i.e., sending a second text before the first one has been answered) because that implies desperation. We respect – and expect – that texts without questions in them will not always be answered. Yes, I know this all sounds ridiculous to some of you guys. But girls, you know exactly what I’m talking about. So the AB/CK Rules seem to work, or at least we’ve convinced ourselves they do, and that’s good enough to keep us going and keep us sane.

However, a book that I’ve mentioned here called “Better Single Than Sorry,” says you should never start playing those games to begin with. Jen Schefft is the author, she of The Bachelor and The Bachelorette fame. She won the heart of millionaire Andrew Firestone but then dumped him. As The Bachelorette she turned down the proposals of not one, but two hotties. And then she dated Chicago’s nightlife impresario Billy Dec. Clearly, the girl knows how to pick 'em.

In her book, my friend Jen (I’ve only met her once but I like to call her my friend) writes:

“Whenever I’ve tried to follow one of those play-hard-to-get rules….instead of ending up with a boyfriend, I’m left with a massive headache.”

“There is a lot be said for not forcing yourself on someone. Think about it: If a man calls you a millions times and you don’t call him back, there is a reason. When that happens to me, I cringe every time his name pops up on my phone or e-mail. Reverse the situation and ask yourself, Do you want to be that girl he’s cringing at?”

“When I’m in the getting-to-know-you stage, I go with what feels right and I don’t stress about it. I want to be myself. Even more important, I just want to be…Always remember, that as a confident woman, you don’t need to play games. Be happy with you and everything else will fall into place.”

My friend Jen makes some good points. In the beginning of any relationship, it’s good to believe that less is more when it comes to communication. It can be kind of exciting to wait for the boy you like to text you, and if you actually called or e-mailed him every time you really wanted to, you’d look like a stalker. Moreover, some guys get turned off by girls that play hard to get in such an obvious manner. A boy’s ego is a powerful but fragile thing, and if he thinks you’re not interested (say by not calling him and rarely returning his calls) he goes into self-preservation mode and will move on in effort to save face.

Finally, if you’re always playing the game, or following “The Rules,” then you don’t get a real sense of what the relationship is actually about. Jen says:

“[When] my friends end up falling in love…There is zero game playing. Neither party is worried about doing or saying the right thing. You’re acting completely like yourself. You give that person as much time and attention as you want; your actions are not calculated. All the usual dating nonsense – like trying to figure out what it means when he says ‘Bye’ as opposed to ‘Talk to you later’ – doesn’t get in the way.”

The truth is, we no longer live in the age when it’s inappropriate for a woman to call a man or ask him out. However, a little demureness never hurt anyone either, and by waiting for the guy to initiate the situation, you know he’s doing it because he wants to, not because he felt bad turning you down. So I’ve decided to abandon “The Rules” when I start dating again. If I find someone with whom I can communicate openly and who doesn’t make me want to play games, well then I just might be onto something. But that doesn’t mean I’m never going to wait a few minutes before texting him back. That gives me time to think, and it makes him want it more. After all, in the dating world, guys already have two balls. So as a girl, sometimes it’s good to hold onto one.

xo

Those Fucking Hormones

2008-05-08T09:49:00.000-07:00

Lately, in addition to tanning, working out, and masturbating to pass the time, I’ve been reading books that reaffirm what I’m doing to help me maintain my sanity as I try to remain celibate. Their covers are usually bright pink and bear names like “Better Single Than Sorry,” and “It’s Called A Break-Up Because It’s Broken.” Cute, right? And while they certainly ain’t Shakespeare, they keep me from texting boys (one of Single Allie’s biggest vices) so that’s a good thing.

The one I’m currently plowing through is called “Be Honest, You’re Not That Into Him Either,” and it was written by a sex therapist named Dr. Ian Kerner. It’s actually pretty funny. He talks a lot about sex (my long-lost friend), breaking down the emotional and biological reasons as to why women and men internalize it differently.

In light of my admission yesterday that I keep a list (and a rather long one, at that) of all the people I’ve been with, that got me thinking. One reason I’ve had so many partners, with so few regrets, is because I think I can fuck like a man. By that, I mean I can seemingly separate my mind from my body and allow the latter to enjoy getting it on without the former getting in the way. I’m not saying I don’t have morals or a conscience, or anything like that. But compared to some women I know, I find it much easier to have sex with someone without forming an attachment to them. Or do I?

According to Dr. Kerner, my attempts to treat sex as merely a physical act are in direct conflict with my biological makeup. Apparently, us humans produce a hormone called “oxytocin,” and when released, this shit can actually make you experience feelings of bonding with the person you just slept with. Both men and women have it, but here’s where it gets more complicated: the female orgasm can bring it out and when it does, it makes us want to cuddle. It doesn’t always affect men the same way. Sometimes, it can just make them sleepy. Ain’t that a bitch? Talk about the true battle of the sexes...

I don’t think I have to tell you that with sex, getting off isn’t always guaranteed. However, it’s usually more likely to happen for a man than it is for a woman. If you consider the act of intercourse itself, it can only begin when the guy is ready (as indicated by his shit-eating grin and the boner he keeps poking you with) and it has to end when that erection is gone. A lot of the time, it’s his climax that makes the little guy turn into an even littler guy. For women, however, the big finish is a lot more elusive; it takes practice, patience and communication to make it happen. So when we do finally have an orgasm, and we get a hit of that sweet oxytocin, we automatically feel a sense of attachment to the person who gave it to us. So if I’m reading this right, our bodies make us to want to be in a relationship with the person who just fulfilled our needs. Guess I never got that memo. Or perhaps I did but it went straight to my spam folder.

But if that’s the case, why is it possible for guys to just love ‘em and leave ‘em so easily? That’s where our evolutionary traits come into play. Says Dr. Kerner:

“Men, so the theory goes, are driven to spread their seed to as many willing recipients as possible and are thus biologically inclined to be promiscuous…Women, ostensibly seeking to further the race, search for a single, strong, provider. Sex, under the female scenario, is more a means to an end.”

For us, it’s not just about the orgasm. It’s also supposed to be about closeness and an emotional connection. So what the hell happened to me, then?

Warning: there’s an Allie B. Epiphany approaching.

I guess that all this time I might have been deluding myself just a tad. When I say goodbye to a man I’ve been intimate with, in the back of my mind I think I’ll never hear from him again and I tell myself that’s okay. My best friend RK has a mantra: “hope for the best, expect the worst. That way you won’t be disappointed.” So with respect to that maxim, I convince myself I don’t care, and after awhile I buy into my own bullshit. But the truth is, if I stopped to think about it, there have definitely been times when I have cared, I just refused to admit it. By denying myself the attachment that my very own hormones want me to desire, I’ve racked up a lot of experiences absent of the emotions that makes sex the incredible thing that it is.

Now I don’t mean to get all philosophical on your asses, but in pondering the question “why are we here?” the only answer I can think of is love. When you’re in love, and I mean the real thing, not just lust coupled with a sense of excitement, there is no feeling greater than existing in that state…except perhaps having an orgasm with the person you’re in love with.

So while casual sex can be fun, and I’ve certainly had my fair share of climaxes as a result of it, I’ve been doing myself a disservice by mentally distancing myself from my partners after the act. I’ve been so adamant about protecting my heart that I’ve built up walls my mind and body are constantly trying to break through. Don’t get me wrong, a one-night stand with a David Beckham look-alike can be fulfilling in it’s own right. That’s a challenge that results in instant gratification. And sometimes, everyone needs that. But wouldn’t I rather wait to have sex with the David Beckham look-alike that cares about me as much as I want to let myself care about him?

Ugh. This is making my brain hurt. But so it goes here in Celibate World. I guess three months without sex really gives you a chance to think about all the nuances of intercourse without actually having it. I’m not saying that when this is all over, I’m never going to have casual sex again. It’s sort of a part of adult, single life and sometimes, you just want to bone. But thanks to Dr. Kerner, I know that as hard as I may try, it’s impossible to really cut off my heart from my vagina. So I think instead of protecting myself from getting hurt by a one-night stand, I should try protecting myself from the one-night stands for a little while. Unless, of course, David Beckham calls.

xo

The List

2008-05-07T11:33:00.000-07:00

One of the most interesting things about writing this blog is that I can use it to reveal secrets about myself to a largely unknown readership. Believe it or not, I actually find this therapeutic. In calling myself out for (and often making light of) past indiscretions I come to terms with them and then I can move forward. Sometimes these things are interesting to you. Sometimes they’re not, but you read them anyways. So to reward you for your loyalty, through the good posts and the not-so-good ones, I’m going to let you in on something that I’m certain you’ll find entertaining or, at the very least, intriguing. Are you ready for my confession? Here goes…

I keep a list.

Perhaps it’s a testament to my latent Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or maybe I do it because I feel a need to keep track of my numbers. But the truth is, since high school, I’ve kept a list of everyone I’ve ever hooked up with – numbered, named, and coded – briefly detailing each hookup.

Crazy right? Perhaps. Although I’m not the only girl I know who does it. But of those that do, let’s be honest, my list is probably one of the most extensive. I’m certainly not ashamed to admit that. But I’m also not going to give you actual figures, so don’t even ask. That’s on a need-to-know-basis and it’s something I don’t think the blogosphere really needs to know. I will, however, give you an idea of what it entails since I’m aware that some of you who read this are actually on it. Betcha you’d like to see it. Not a chance. I keep that shit well-hidden. I’m promiscuously organized, but I’m not an idiot.

I started it in high school with boys that I did nothing more than kiss. This began when I was fourteen, with an inept exchange of saliva while watching The Lion King in his parents’ basement. Yeah, I know. So innocent and so cheesy. Those were the days.

But kissing doesn’t have a code so on the first page the only symbol that gets utilized is a “!!” That says I told the boy I loved him, and that I really meant it, or at least as much as I could at the time. A single “!” just means I told him I loved him. Oh c’mon, you know you’ve done that, too.

On page two you’ll find some “*'s” which represent a Clintonian interpretation of sex. By then I was sixteen and I happened to find something I was good at, so that kept my virginity in tact. That goes on for another page until we get to my very “first,” which earned him an underline under his name. We’ll call him Skater Boy and he was the polar opposite of the guys I usually dated in high school. He didn’t play football, he didn’t hang out with my friends. He even had a tattoo and pierced tongue, quite taboo for a high school student in 1998. Nobody could understand how we ended up together, but in a way that just made me like him more. Sometimes, opposites really do attract, and I’m still glad we "did it." There’s also a “!!” by his name because we dated for eight wonderful puppy love-filled months.

After that came my first long-term relationship, one that lasted three years, spanning high school and some college. Now that was a boy who earned his “!!” too, as well as his “*’s” and quite a few underlines. He’s married with a kid now, and I’m actually happy for him, but I will never stop loving his memory. Sigh.

When that ended, things got….well……rather punctuated. What follows are pages (and pages, and even more pages) of short-term relationships interspersed with a healthy amount of hookups. No matter how insignificant or brief, they’re on The List, both first and last names, when I can remember them. For some, I had to use a few descriptive words like “Pete (Guy on Cruise)” or "Chris (The Bartender in San Franciso)," to put it in context and help jog my memory. But they’re all on there, every last one, from the first person I kissed to the last guy I slept with. It’s a veritable who’s-who on the red carpet leading to my vagina. Take that, E! News Live.

Now I know this might seem strange to a lot of people, that I would take the time to keep my own sexual census. But it’s something that’s allowed me to remain in control of my hypersexuality because at least I know exactly what I’ve done. I’m sure plenty of people, some with a less varied history than mine, can’t come up with an exact number of how many partners they’ve had. I can. I don’t leave things out, because I don’t feel a need to. I don’t have regrets…well actually, I have one, but that’s fodder for an entire post of it’s own. Besides that, each one of the inventoried situations is something I knowingly entered with the intention of enjoying myself. And, for the most part, I did.

Today, I’m glad I have The List because it’s currently allowing me to look back, reminisce, and realize just where (and with who) I've been. Now that I’m taking time off to decide how I want my dating and sex life to proceed in the future, it is crucial that I recognize just how little curiosity I have left when it comes to these matters. I've conquered quite a bit of terrority. At the same time, in comparing “!’s” to “!!’s” I have learned the “!’s” weren’t really worth the time or effort, and maybe some of the “*’s” and the underlines (while fun) weren’t really, either. Of course, a few of these, no matter how brief and meaningless, will always serve as noteworthy highlights in this tome. I’ll never forget you Oli (The English Guy), Joe (From California) or Mike (the Delta Tau Delta Butterface.) Cheers. This Bud’s for you.

Come July, as I move forward with The List, I hope the chapters start to get a little shorter. I know the first guy I sleep with post-The Celibacy Project probably won’t be the guy I marry, but what if he is? Then I suppose I will just have to make him the conclusion to my story and retire The List to a safety deposit box where he'll never find it. In Fort Knox.

xo

My Sugar Daddy Phase

2008-05-06T09:43:00.000-07:00

Today I want to touch on a subject that I’d like to think I’ve officially put in my past. It’s one that’s earned me some criticism over the years, even from my closest friends. So let’s just get it over with and get it out in the open – and by “it” I mean my love of Sugar Daddies, and my Sugar Baby days.

I’ve dated a couple of quite older men, which may or may not come as a surprise to you. My senses of humor and perception have rather adult foundations and I’ve always been very mature for my age. So when I was 22, and picked up by a guy who was 36, even my mother wasn’t surprised, though she certainly wasn’t pleased.

The Surfer lived in Orange County (of course he did) and I met him on a layover at an airport bar (of course I did.) At the time, I was a senior in college and accustomed to boys that had to ask their parents for money so we could go on a date. But The Surfer was successful, at the top of his game and, as I have since realized, looking for a trophy wife. I wasn’t really sure what that entailed, but he certainly did have a nice house and I thought I looked good in his Ferrari. Plus, there was something to be said for having those new, deluxe experiences that were so unfamiliar to me. Drinking Dom Perignon on a carriage ride through downtown Chicago. Flying first class into LAX and sitting next to D-list celebrities. Of course, he was getting something in return, he had a cute 22-year-old to parade up and down Pacific Coast Highway. But he was good-looking, so it was a mutually beneficial relationship, with just a hint of financial power dynamics present.

Later on, when all was said and done between The Ex and me, I found myself back in the Sugar Baby game. Only this time, my motivations were far less pure and a lot more cynical, perhaps even predatory. The Ex, though not a bad person by any means, was very, very cheap. For instance, for the last nine months of our relationship he never once took me out to dinner because he “couldn’t afford it.” But that didn’t stop him from running up tabs at Elephant and Castle after work with his colleagues twice a week. So he was selectively frugal, and he selected me get screwed in that deal. Suddenly, the trophy wife thing started to look a whole lot more attractive. However the problem with that is the more an older man is willing to spoil you, the more likely it is he’s using his money to compensate for other things. And a lot of times, these deficiencies fall under an aesthetic, or even an anatomical, category. So then dating rich, older men started to make me feel a little bit like a courtesan. For those of you that aren’t up on your 16th-century terminology, I’ll save you the trouble of Googling that one: it means hooker. Moving on…

All of that changed that day I met the Renegade Millionaire. He was the oldest guy I’ve ever dated, at 23 years my senior when I was 26. But he was also one of the smartest, sexiest, funniest guys I’ve ever known. Our paths crossed under unusual circumstances in New York City last fall. Then he ended up flying back to Chicago with me to catch a Cubs’ Playoffs game. A few months later, we did Vegas, and we sure did do it in style; VIP all the way, from the high rollers tables to the strip clubs. I’ll never forget when he walked me into the Gucci store and let me pick out whichever handbag I wanted. But the difference between the Renegade Millionaire and the Sugar Daddy-types before him was that we had a genuine connection. I wasn’t just his arm candy and he wasn’t just my meal ticket. We had real conversations about life and love, art and music, politics and philosophy. If there wasn’t such an age difference (not to mention he lives in Seattle) I feel we could have even had a relationship. And to be honest, though I have no way of proving this, I think without his millions I still would have liked being with him.

But alas, I’ll never know that for sure. At least I hope not, as far as his security and happiness are concerned. What I do know is that I was, and always will be, grateful to have him in my life. Because the truth is, Sugar Daddies will come and go, depending on my age and their marital status. But a true friend and lover, millionaire or otherwise, even one that’s about to turn 50, will always have a place in my heart.

The bottom line, and what I’m trying to say is, after having what I’ve had with the Renegade Millionaire, I can no longer fuck older guys just for their money. Not in good faith, at least, and that seems like something I’m aspiring to have in the backdrop of my life these days. I can, however, continue to fuck older guys that have money (hey I’m not about to relegate myself to slumming it here) just as long as I find their personality far more attractive than I do their tax bracket. If you’re reading this, RM, and I know you are: thank you for teaching me that lesson….and for the purse.

xo

The Edge Of 27

2008-05-05T10:22:00.000-07:00

So Beer on the Pier was a blast, if for no other reason then it brought us gals together for a night of acting like a bunch of drunken asshats. This is something we perfected in college and, if Saturday was any indication, we still got it. But I’m starting to wonder if and when the party is ever going to end.

Most of us are 27, and out of the twelve of us that were friends in school, only two are married. Three are in serious relationships - none of them are engaged. The rest of us are just out of relationships or have never really been in one. I know this isn’t common. I’ve heard the average age that a woman in the US gets married is 25. But I’ve also heard marriages that take place during the early twenties are more likely to end up in divorce. So while the first statistic makes us abnormal, the second one makes us kind of lucky.

Here’s the thing about my friends. They’re all attractive, intelligent, successful girls who enjoyed partying in college and still do when their schedules allow for it. That’s the weird part about being 27. It’s like we’re all on the cusp of adulthood; we have careers and grown-up responsibilities, hell some of us even have mortgages. But at the same time, we’re not above wearing matching t-shirts to a drinking game tournament or attending a drunken barn dance. Incidentally, that barn dance takes place in two weeks. And you know what? One of us will probably throw up that night. But the event is for charity and we’ve got a limo to take us to and from the suburbs. So while we’re still a bunch of asshats, now we are responsible asshats. See what I mean? It’s like living in limbo.

A girl I know sent out a message on Facebook called “Being Twenty-Something” that addressed what its author called the “quarter-life crisis.” Without just pasting the whole thing in this post, here were some of the highlights:

“It is when you stop going along with the crowd and start realizing that there are many things about yourself that you didn't know and may not like. You start feeling insecure and wonder where you will be in a year or two, but then get scared because you barely know where you are now.”

“You go through the same emotions and questions over and over, and talk with your friends about the same topics because you cannot seem to make a decision. You worry about loans, money, the future and making a life for yourself... and while winning the race would be great, right now you'd just like to be a contender!”

“You get your heart broken and wonder how someone you loved could do such damage to you. Or you lie in bed and wonder why you can't meet anyone decent enough that you want to get to know better. Or maybe you love someone but love someone else too and cannot figure out why you're doing this because you know that you aren't a bad person. One night stands and random hook ups start to look cheap. Getting wasted and acting like an idiot starts to look pathetic.”

Pathetic? I mean, let’s not get crazy here. There is still a time and a place for everything. But some of this stuff obviously resonated with me as a result of The Celibacy Project. It also made me feel better to know that I’m clearly not the only one who considers these things. The twenties are a challenging, but often rewarding, time when our victories should be celebrated. But our failures need to be exonerated. We’re all just figuring this out for ourselves and there’s no set timeline for any of us to succeed.

The truth is, as much as there are societal pressures on us ladies to settle down and start procreating, I think we’re all better off for having not caved in yet. I came awfully close to it with The Ex, and if I had I’m sure I’d be considering a divorce by now. That’s harsh, but I’m serious. Doing something because you think you should, rather than because you really want to, will never turn out the way you’d hoped and it can often turn out much worse.

So basically, the "quarter-life crisis" doesn’t mean we have to grow up entirely. Not yet, at least, or you'll be hard-pressed to pry the Long Island Iced Tea out of my cold, dead hands. But it does mean we need to start taking ourselves, and our relationships, a little more seriously. It's shit-or-get-off-the-pot time, people. If you’re in a healthy relationship that meets your needs, great, when you’re ready then take that train to the end of the line. But if something is missing, and always has been, after several years of dating then for God’s sake, cut your losses. We’re not on a schedule here, but we also shouldn’t be wasting these precious “me” years with somebody who doesn’t deserve to be in them. That’s why over half of my friends are now single. We’ve all either just come out of those situations, or we’ve totally avoided being in them in the first place. And you know what? I think that’s one of the most responsible things we could be choosing to do right now.

I’m sure my friends would gladly drink (wine, not shots…eh, fuck it, both) to that.

xo

So Many Beers, So Little Time

2008-05-03T11:26:00.000-07:00

Today should be an adventure. At 5:00pm myself and ten of my closest friends are heading to an event called “Beer on the Pier.” It’s a four-hour, all-you-can-drink, beers-from-around-the-world tasting event held at (obviously) Navy Pier. And, as we all know by now, I sure do love me some drinking on the weekends.

The blessing and the curse of this evening is that I have to be in bed early, or at least early enough to be up and on my way to the suburbs at 9:30am. The event itself will end at 9:30pm, at which point I should probably mosey on home. That will prevent me from engaging in any late night antics that could inevitably lead me to hooking up. And it will keep me from showing up looking like a drunken asshole wherever New Guy happens to be which, ps, is what occurred last Saturday night. (pps-nothing happened.)

But what I am most concerned about is the large amount of beer I will be consuming today coupled with an undoubtedly large number of male attendees. Then again, I don’t know if I’d even want to tell my grandkids I met their Papa at something called “Beer on the Pier.” Instead, I think I’ll hold out to meet Mr. Right at our annual Flippy Cup Tournament in July. Now that’s classy.

xo

My Friend The Lesbian

2008-05-02T08:00:00.000-07:00

American Idol Fantasy League was cancelled this week so I had to do something to get myself out of my apartment. Last night, I made plans with My Friend The Lesbian and we had drinks at a place in Boystown called The Kit Kat Lounge and Supper Club.

The funny thing about MFTL is that I knew her before this whole love-of-vaginas thing came about. One day, she was telling me about the boy she was pursuing and the next, she introduced me to someone she called her “girlfriend.” But this girlfriend looked an awful lot like a boyfriend. I guess that’s how it goes in Lesbian Land. It’s a nice place to visit (I may have driven through it once or twice) but I wouldn’t want to live there. Girls are crazy.

When she initially learned about The Celibacy Project, MFTL suggested I get a Neutrogena face buffer in lieu of a vibrator. Apparently, it’ll get you off and it’s great for the pores down there. Good to know. Then she suggested we have drinks at the aforementioned restaurant and I figured, why not? I don’t see enough transsexual female impersonators perform on a daily basis.

The martini-fueled conversation that took place there was actually quite poignant. She told me the story of how she ended up with her current girlfriend, who was three months pregnant when they met! Now they have a long-distance relationship, an adorable baby girl, and they’re madly in love. If I didn’t enjoy penetration so much I’d think she might be onto something.

What I found most interesting about this scenario was that because the girlfriend was pregnant, they waited a long time to get intimate. Now there’s a novel idea as far as I’m concerned. When I asked how it was possible to keep pursuing a relationship without a sexual component, she said whenever they touched it was electric; they both knew when it finally happened it was going to be good. Wow.

So here’s what I’m thinking. When The Celibacy Project is over, I don’t know if I’m going to want to have sex for just the sake of having sex again. Remember on Seinfeld when they discontinued The Sponge as a birth control method and Elaine stockpiled them? She then had to decide whether or not a guy was “sponge-worthy.” Well, I feel like when these three months are over there’s a chance I might not want to give up my celibacy so easily. That will require me to decide whether or not a guy is “Allie-worthy,” and that could mean waiting like MFTL and her girlfriend did. She said that when they finally got around to doing it, there was a bubble bath, candlelight, rose petals...the whole nine yards. That actually sounds kind of nice, like something that just might be worth waiting for. Maybe.

When I first met MFTL she was straight, confused, and unhappy. Today she’s exactly where she wants to be – in a committed relationship based on trust and love patiently built from the ground up. It’s so nice to see that My Friend The Lesbian has finally got her shit together. Now I guess it’s my turn.

xo

Holy Shit, It's Been A Month!

2008-05-01T09:25:00.000-07:00

And now, without further adieu, I present to you:

30 Things I Have Learned In The Last 30 Days

1. This could be one of the craziest things I’ve ever done but it’s also one of the most normal things a person can do. A lot of guys I know find this whole thing a bit funny because they’ve all had to go three months without sex. Just not by choice.
2. Ex-boyfriends are necessary evils, like death and taxes. All necessary evils should be avoided except when they’re unavoidable…or when they’re the only person that can buy you dinner who you know you won’t want to sleep with afterwards.
3. Kissing a boy is not completely antithetical to celibacy…but it’s also a gateway drug and I should just say no.
4. In the words of Woody Allen, “Don’t knock masturbation, it’s sex with someone I love.”
5. Poor Bastard can never, ever find out about this blog.
6. Most of the people in my life have always known that I’m willing to be open and honest about my sexual nature. A lot of them just didn’t think I was going to be this open and honest. I heart you, Mommy. And Daddy. And Grandma.
7. The Celibacy Project is a marathon, not a sprint. Like my friend AK says, once I get past the hump, it should get easier. There are so many jokes to be made here about “humps” and “humping” that I’m not even going to bother, you can just come up with your own.
8. One of the reasons guys keep coming onto me lately is because I’m starting to value myself more and that confidence shines through, perhaps making me more attractive.
9. The second reason guys keep coming onto me lately is because they only want to take my celibacy away from me. Bastards.
10. The third reason guys keep coming onto me lately – especially the hot ones – is because God hates me.
11. Bad Reality TV might actually be better than bad sex.
12. Not spending time with guys means spending a lot more time with girls. And good women derive strength from other good women. I am blessed to have such amazing women in my life.
13. I might have been/still am a sex addict.
14. I will not date any more douchebags because in a relationship, douchiness just begets more douchiness (for more on that, Google: “Heidi and Spencer.”)
15. The guy that works at the Dominos by my apartment is the new man in my life.
16. It is better to be looked over than overlooked (thank you, Mind Fucker.)
17. Saying something like bj’s comes off as less offensive when you rhyme it with something like pj’s. Then it’s almost cutesy.
18. It’s a lot easier to see the flaws in a relationship after the fact…and the only way to atone for them at that point is to avoid making the same mistakes again.
19. My boy JL is a graphics genius and totally deserves a shout-out for all of his help. I don’t know shit about Photoshop.
20. Nuns have it a little bit easier than me because they don’t know what they’re missing.
21. There’s something to be said for being single and it definitely has something – not everything, but something – to do with being able to sleep diagonally in my bed.
22. One of the most disrespectful things I can do to a guy is let him think that we’re meant to be together when there’s no way in hell we actually are.
23. This is also one of the most disrespectful things I can do to myself.
24. Love rules. Settling drools.
25. Energizer batteries really do keep going and going.
26. If I throw myself a party on day 92 to celebrate, I might have to have it in solitary confinement with a muzzle on like Hannibal Lector so I don’t tear the first guy I see to pieces.
27. It is possible for two people that got divorced after thirty years, and their daughter who was around for the majority of them, to sit down and have a nice, civil evening together and even laugh like they used to be able to. Because at the end of the day, blood is thicker than water and it can also be the tie that binds. There will always be love there, you just have to give it a chance to shine through.
28. People actually want to read about this shit. Who knew?
29. I can go thirty days without sex and still feel good about myself. In fact, I can feel even better than I do when I am hopping in and out of beds all the time. Minus the actual orgasms. Mmmmmmmmm. Orgasms.

30. Sex or no sex, Celibacy Project or personal enlightenment, addiction or recreation, I can be one horny little girl. But I know now that I can control that if I really, really want to…for at least thirty days. Go Team Allie.

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

2008-04-30T07:45:00.000-07:00

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 Blogger.com 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.

xo

When It Rains, It Pours

2008-04-29T08:53:00.000-07:00

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?

xo

On The Subject Of Family

2008-04-28T10:57:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

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.

Miscellaneousness

2008-04-26T09:12:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

I'll Try Anything Twice

2008-04-25T12:31:00.000-07:00

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.

Hello My Name Is Allie

2008-04-23T09:16:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

An Ode To Myself

2008-04-23T08:51:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

The Weezer Rule Redux

2008-04-22T08:57:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

All The World's A Stage

2008-04-21T11:24:00.000-07:00

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.

However…

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.

xo

I Think I've Learned My Lesson

2008-04-19T20:12:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

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

2008-04-18T08:55:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

Things That Make Me Go Hmmm

2008-04-17T08:34:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

A Day In The Life Of A Nun

2008-04-16T10:37:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

The Definition Of Celibate

2008-04-15T10:51:00.000-07:00

[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.

xo

Sexless In The City

2008-04-14T09:12:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

At Least The Sushi Was Good

2008-04-12T15:50:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

You're Perfect, Now Change

2008-04-11T11:17:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

The Ten And A Half Commandments

2008-04-10T10:31:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

All Dressed Up And No Place To Go

2008-04-09T10:32:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

Assoholics Anonymous

2008-04-08T09:08:00.000-07:00

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.
Anyways….

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.

xo

*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.

Let's Talk About Friday Night

2008-04-07T09:03:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

Allie: 1 Temptation: 0

2008-04-05T10:51:00.000-07:00

'Nuff Said.

Let's Get Ready To Rumble

2008-04-04T09:37:00.000-07:00

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!

xo

The New Office Pool

2008-04-03T10:10:00.000-07:00

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.

xo

I'm Still A (Reality TV) Whore

2008-04-02T10:28:00.000-07:00

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.
Anyways…

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.

xo

You Should Probably Buy Stock In Duracell

2008-04-01T13:15:00.000-07:00

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?

Well….

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:
http://www.newscientist.com/article/dn11819-oral-sex-can-cause-throat-cancer.html

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.

xo

Celibacy Is The New Black

2008-03-31T08:38:00.000-07:00

In my 10+ years of sexual activeness, I’ve had many different experiences.
If you know me at all, then I suppose it goes without saying that these experiences have occurred in the company of a variety of consenting adults. But just in case you don’t know me, allow me to elaborate: I might have been a tad bit slutty at times.
Sorry, Mom. Anyways…
I’m the first to admit it. The stories of my sexual exploits have entertained the masses for years. I even wrote a column in college called “Champaign Sex on Beer Money.” I was voted “Horniest Girl” in my sorority. In some circles, my oral abilities are considered legendary. In a way, these things make me proud. Not because it indicates that I’ve gotten around, thankyouverymuch, but because it shows that I’m comfortable with the choices I have made. And up until this point, I have been.

But now it’s time to take a step back from the stuff that’s essentially made me who I am for as long as I can remember. It’s time to clear my head and cleanse my sexual palate. It’s time to figure out who Allie really is when she’s not bumping drunken uglies at 3am on a Sunday morning.

It’s time for me to be celibate. For three whole months.

Starting…
Tomorrow. Perhaps I should go out tonight.

As for this blog, in case you’re wondering why I decided to write about such a personal decision (um, since when is anything I do personal?) the reasons are threefold:

1. Writing is my passion, and it has been since before I had ever discovered my sexuality. So part of getting back to Allie is getting back to what Allie loves.

2. I thought you might find this premise entertaining. At the very least, you doubt I can pull it off. Uh yeah, me too. And aside from that, if absolutely nothing else, this public declaration of my intent forces me to be accountable.

3. If I’m not flirting or fucking, then really, what the hell else am I supposed to do with my free time every night?

So there you have it. Three months. That’s probably the longest I’ve gone without sex since I started having sex. In fact, I know it is. But what’s three months, really? Just 90 days of no physical contact with members of the opposite sex (okay fine, people in general) aside from hugging or the requisite “hi-how-are-ya?” cheek kiss that Jewish people seem to have perfected. I can still go out, at least until further notice, because I’m not sure how easy this is going to be once alcohol enters the mix. Although, in my personal experience, “easy” and “alcohol” seem to go hand in hand. Ba-dum-dum. Thank you, I’ll be here all quarter.

What the hell did I just sign up for? I guess we’ll find out together…but, more importantly, I’m also going to find out alone.

Here goes nothing. Literally.

xo