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
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Once More With Feeling
I mentioned that on Saturday I was going to a pool party at the home (read: mansion) of a guy I used to go out with. I am generally the kind of person that maintains good relations with the boys I have dated. After all, unless something really regrettable happened, there’s no reason to burn a bridge. This is especially true when the dude in question has a pool and likes to throw big parties.
I do not, however, have sex with my exes. I like variety. I don’t like reruns.
Now far be it from me to ever look down on anyone for their sexual choices. I just personally don’t get Ex Sex. If I want to keep boning somebody, then I can continue to date them. When I don’t want to fuck them anymore, the relationship is over. It’s as simple as that. That’s why I am able to categorize guys so easily as boyfriends, ex-boyfriends, and booty calls. Perhaps it’s another symptom of my OCD, but I’m just happier when there’s a place for everything in my life, and everything is in its place.
To that end, I tend to avoid doing anything that would somehow blur those lines. If I used to date a guy, I’d rather make him still want me than actually let him have me. Accordingly, I spent the last three weeks working out like it was my job and avoiding my favorite, fattening foods. But I did not overtly flirt with Gatsby at his party. Sure, we talked, but it was not flirting. Him and I tried dating; we gave it a two-month run last year. And if it didn’t work then, it’s never going to work, so why bother trying again?
I guess that, for some people, Ex Sex is like a security blanket. You know what to expect, there are few surprises, and even the pillow talk has a comforting ring. At least, that’s what I’d assume. Because I’ve really only done it once. After The Teacher and I broke up, about three years later, we went out for drinks and ended up naked. While there was something to be said for the “hey, I remember you” moment, for the most part, I felt very unfulfilled. All it did was remind me of everything that had gone wrong, in spite of one of the few things we had always gotten right – drunken banging. But aside from that, the only thing less comforting than worrying whether a casual hookup will ever call you again is worrying whether a casual hookup that you dated for three years is every going to call you again.
Oh yeah, then he got engaged to his current wife, and the mother of his child, about six months later. Awesome.
So as far as I’m concerned, though I have no problem hanging out with them and raiding their liquor cabinets, exes should remain in the no-fly zone. I took a good look at Gatsby on Saturday, and though I still find him attractive, I just don’t need to go there. There are plenty of guys in this world that I haven’t yet dated that I can still sleep with.
Which reminds me…I’ve got two weeks, bitches. Count it.
xo
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
Monday, June 16, 2008
Spoiler Alert
[Ed. Note: Today I’m going to discuss the “Sex and the City” movie. If you're a chick that hasn't seen it yet – stop reading. If you’re a dude that wants nothing to do with the idea, then go shave your balls or check your fantasy baseball stats and come back tomorrow. Thank you, drive through.]
For obvious reasons, I love “Sex and the City.” I have loved it since its inception. I’ve drawn plenty of comparisons to Carrie Bradshaw in my day, especially back in college when I wrote a column for the local paper called “Champaign Sex on Beer Money.” I’ve also been compared to Samantha Jones, more often than not when I was doing “research” to write said column. I can’t say that anyone has ever called me Charlotte York or (thank God) Miranda Hobbes, though they certainly did their parts in Candace Bushnell’s delightful storyline. But for the most part, I’m a Carrie.
And really, what girl doesn’t identify with Carrie? She’s the quintessential city girl, looking for love and a great pair of shoes. Ever toeing the line between sexual and slutty, Ms. Bradshaw was on a journey of self-discovery. She never stopped trying to figure out what she wanted. As it turned out, she wanted the same thing we all wanted her to have. His name was Mr. Big and he represented that seemingly unattainable ideal that drives women crazy.
I think every girl has had her Big. He’s the one that you can never seem to pin down. He’s the one that doesn’t return your calls in a timely fashion. And in a way, you don’t really want him to. He’s the exact reason my colorist Kelly once said that “women are crazy.” We think we want a Steve, or even an Aidan…but in the end, we’ll kill ourselves to get Big.
Allow me to digress, for a moment, from “Sex and the City” to borrow from another great (albeit far less cerebral) achievement in women’s entertainment: “The Hills.” The notorious pseudo-philosopher Lauren “LC” Conrad once said, “I think that everyone can change if the right person comes along...and I think that every girl wants to be the right person. Every girl wants to be the one girl that can change that guy.” Yup, that sounds about right.
To her credit, Carrie rarely compromised herself to be with Big. Even in the movie, when he (sorta) proposed, and she started to organize their wedding, she didn’t balk when he freaked out about her ornate plans. Apparently, that was her downfall, although I think we all knew they had to keep the “are they or aren’t they?” going for 145 minutes so we’d get the big “of course they are” payoff in the end. And we did. Carrie and Big seemingly lived Happily Ever After…at least until the inevitable sequel. With an opening weekend of $55.7 million, you can bet your sweet ass there’s going to be a sequel. Sarah Jessica Parker’s got a kid (and an ambiguously gay husband) to feed. Anyways...
Now how does all of that relate to my own life (because, really, when do I not relate everything to my own life?) Well, I’ve had a Mr. Big. He’s the one I don’t like to talk about. And boy, did I try to change him. He fought me every step of the way. And while, like Carrie, I didn’t compromise who I was, I did compromise on what I wanted. In hindsight, that’s why I never got it. If, when things don’t go your way, you start to chip away at your own list of needs and must-haves, then you’re going to end up with something that is substandard to what you deserve. Even when Mr. Big got gun-shy and left Carrie at the alter, she didn’t back down. She licked her wounds, reorganized her life, and moved on. Because of that (and because it’s a movie) he came back.
Just as we want the man that doesn’t change everything about himself to be with us, I think most men want the same thing. Thus, I know when I meet my next Mr. Big that the girl he falls for needs to be the girl I am. Not a convoluted version tailored to meet his needs, but rather just plain old me, warts-and-all…or, in Carrie’s case, moles-and-all. And if/when the Big Day with my Mr. Big finally comes, I’ll know that we got there because we share a mutual respect for each other’s true selves. Neither one of us will have accommodated the other any more than we felt naturally inclined to do so. My Big will show up, and so will I, with my best friends wearing fabulous dresses by my side and me, minus the stupid blue bird thingie Carrie was wearing, playing the part of the bride.
The End.
xo
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
Friday, June 13, 2008
A Guy In Every Port
Like I said yesterday, I will be doing some traveling over the next two weeks. Specifically, I am leaving for Florida next Wednesday, get back on Sunday, then go to New York on Tuesday. Both of these trips are for work, but in the past I haven’t let that affect my fun. I generally do whatever it is I have to do during normal business hours. Then I have the nights off to enjoy myself. By now, I don’t think I have to tell you what it is that I have “enjoyed” doing. Okay, fine I will – I hook up.
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
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
Thursday, June 12, 2008
This Ain't Oprah's Book Club - Part III
I finally sat down and forced myself to swallow a huge chunk of the book I’m reading, “The Game.” It’s been a long time since I’ve forced myself to swallow anything. Neil Strauss, the author, is making me remember why.
When we last left off, Strauss had only just met Mystery, the pick up artist (PUA) extraordinaire who had his own show on VH-1. Perhaps you remember it. It was lame. Style is Neil’s alter ego who has become so obsessed with casually bedding women that he has decided to study every aspect of this activity, from memorizing the most successful opening lines to perfecting hypnosis.
Yes, hypnosis. Or things just like it. Strauss – excuse me, Style – calls it “chick crack”:
“Most women, they say, respond to routines involving tests, psychological games, fortune-telling, and cold-reading like addicts respond to free drugs.”
As it turns out, there is a large underground society of men trading secrets and teaching each other how to play the proverbial game. This takes place both on-line and in person. Mystery is but one of many “gurus” on the subject, all of whom employ different tactics to achieve the same goal. Most of the men they charge for these tutorials are shy, player-wannabe types, some of whom have reached adulthood without ever having sex. As it turns out, that can really fuck a guy up. Some of theses dudes seem to have vendettas against the gender that’s denied them from reaching sexual satisfaction with a partner. The result: outright misogyny. One guru even suggests using the book “Dog Training,” by Lew Burke, for tips on handling girls.
Of course, there are exceptions to the rule. One PUA called Sweater (yes, they all have ridiculous nicknames…oh wait, so do the guys in this blog) actually gives up the game when he finds a woman he wants to be with monogamously. He tells Style:
“As far as I’m concerned, I’m getting out at the top. I’ve come to understand that without commitment, you cannot have depth in anything, whether it’s a relationship, a business, or a hobby.”
Now as much as I hate to admit that I agreed with anything in this book, that part resonated with me. By some accounts, I have been a player. I have used men for sex, among other things, without remorse. And taking time off from doing that has allowed me to realize that I’ve been cheating myself out of the feelings of attachment that can eventually lead to true love. I believe that love is why human beings are here. Sure we may act like animals, hunting prey and mating to ensure population proliferation, but at the end of the day we have the opposable thumbs and emotions. That what makes separates man from beast, although this book tends to blur the line between the two.
I have about 200 pages left. I’ll be traveling a lot over the next two weeks [Ed Note: not sure how that’s going to affect my blog posts, but I’m hoping it won’t] so I intend to finish this bitch while I’m inevitably delayed at O’Hare. Hopefully, this is going to lead me to some grandiose epiphany about my past relationships, playing the game, and my future, but I’m really just hoping it doesn’t make me hate men any more than it already has.
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
More Miscellaneousness
My week has already been crazier than a shithouse rat, so today I’m just going to touch on a few things:
1. This weekend, I’m supposed to go to another party at Gatsby’s house. A pool party. As you may recall, he’s one of the (many) guys I dated between The Ex and Poor Bastard. There’s nothing like knowing you have to hang out with a dude you used to date while wearing a bikini to make you not want to eat for a week. So now I’m horny and hungry. Awesome.
2. A couple of people have mentioned to me that we should have some sort of party and/or organized-mass-binge-drinking-type function to celebrate the end of my celibacy. After giving the matter much consideration, I don’t think it’s wise for me to black out on the first day I can have sex again…because then I’m going to do something stupid. And then I might feel compelled to start The Celibacy Project all over again. And then I will have to slit my wrists.
3. Yet another one of my ex-boyfriends is officially engaged. Isn’t that just fucking wonderful?
That’s all I got. Back to the madness.
xo
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
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Happily Never After
My friend MC always comes through in the clutch. Just when I’m ready to beat my head against a wall because I don’t know what to write about, he e-mails me yet another article about sex. Yesterday it was one about married couples doing it every day. True story.
Two couples, who didn’t know each other and live on opposite sides of the country, both decided to have sex every night for a predetermined period of time and then write a book about it. The Mullers did it for a year, while the Browns did it for 101 days. According to a 2004 study, the average married couple does it just 66 times a year.
That’s it. I’m never getting married.
To be honest, a lifetime of monogamy scares the crap out of me. Clearly, I have ADD when it comes to men. I like variety. But I don’t want to be a swinger. So if I do get married you can be damn sure the guy I’m settling down with knows The Kama Sutra and could teach a class on cunnilingus. If I have to have sex with the same person every day, it better be great fucking sex.
I just can’t imagine not having sex. Well, besides this little three-month adventure.
If you’ve been following my shit show since day one of The Celibacy Project, then you were probably on the original e-mail I sent to 100 of my nearest and dearest in which I declared my intent. I got a lot of interesting replies to that, but one from my friend JT made me laugh out loud. She’s been with her husband for several years now, and she wrote back “if you wanted to stop having sex, you could have gotten married like I did.” I’m sure she’s exaggerating. At least, I hope she is. Because if she’s not then I don’t understand why anyone would commit themselves to a lifetime of never getting laid. I understand that married sex can get boring, but that’s all the more reason to start busting out bullwhips and sex swings. At least, that’s what I would do. Note To Self: perhaps it’s time to retire the handcuffs until I really need them to get off.
According to the article, both of the couples concluded their experiments had a positive effect on their marriage. How could it not? I think the physical connection is one of the most important parts of a relationship. When that goes, the end is generally near. And until I think that’s something that I can maintain, and I know I’ve found a penis I’m willing to please for the rest of my life, I’m not even going to think about getting married. If it happens, great. If it doesn’t I’ll be sure to start another blog about how much sex I’m having that all of you can read when you get married. Suckers.
My friend’s shrink put it this way, which I think sums it up rather nicely “to have a successful relationship, a couple needs to be connected at the head, the heart, and the pelvis.” Word.
xo
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
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