Because A Lady Never Tells... But a Broad Just Might

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

A First: Hooker Style

President’s Day weekend found me on a whirlwind road trip with two of my oldest friends. Not that they are senior citizens; I met them when I was five and my parents moved into their current residence. “Anne” lived directly across the street (still does), and “Sally” lived a few doors down. I’d gone to a concert with Anne on New Year’s Day and she told me about this trip. She had met a guy online years ago due to mutual musical interests and they’ve been communicating online, via text and sometimes on the phone ever since (except for a brief period during which he unexpectedly got married and dropped out of her life. That marriage ended in his fourth divorce.). He lives in Arkansas, we live in Chicago, and they decided to meet up. Sally was going along for the ride and Anne suggested I come, too.

I love road trips, I love Tennessee, and this sounded like a wonderfully insane idea. I love meeting strangers off the internet (hush; you are way, way more likely to be killed by someone you actually know – like a spouse) and traveling across two state lines in pursuit of an internet paramour appeals to both the romantic and the dirty girl in me. Because you don’t drive nine hours just for sex, but you’re kidding yourself if you think you’re traveling nine hours just to say hello and have a few drinks. Plus, there were two hotel rooms booked. And I am nothing if not the kind of gal that will accompany you on a large-scale mission of an amorous nature.

The ladies picked me up around 1 a.m. Saturday morning – the plan was to drive all night (and yes – we listened to the song a couple of times, the Cyndi Lauper version) and check into a hotel Saturday afternoon. The drive there was a breeze – we were all excited, we had a lot of gossip to share, we stopped at gas stations in the middle of nowhere and teased the odd men who worked at them. On the way, Anne informed me that her gentleman friend – henceforth known as “Jake” – had a brother, with whom she was also in contact with (in a much more innocent way). His wife had left him the day before and he was coming to Memphis, too. We joked about incestuous threesomes, though the general consensus was that I was the one most likely to hook up with the brother, whom we’ll call “Dan.”

We got to the hotel, and Sally and I were crashing. Anne, however, was too excited/nervous to sleep. So Sally and I basically completely neglected our duties as friends and left Anne in her room to wait for the men, alone, while we napped next door. I blame the delirium acquired by staying up all night, but I still deserve a spanking for this lack of proper friend etiquette.

Luckily, they turned out to be a) the people they had claimed to be, and b) not psychopaths. We would later thank them “for not killing us.” After Sally and I awoke and showered, we all headed to Sun Studio. That was fun, but irrelevant to the story, really. Later in the evening, we walked to Beale Street, had dinner, and began drinking.

Now, Dan was much more outgoing than Jake, who was somewhat quiet and had a kind of brooding look. He reminded me of Bill Compton of True Blood fame. Nervous, Anne was talking to Dan more than Jake because it was easier. Sally and I decided this was a huge mistake and vowed to occupy Dan’s attention more, and push Anne into the arms of Jake as frequently as possible.

We got drunk. Jake got bolder and danced with Anne, had his arm around her constantly, and began putting the moves on her. We tried out a few blues bars but most of the bands were mediocre cover bands and the bars were full of middle-aged couples. So we wound up at a no-cover dance club that appeared to be in an old theater. It was a very strange place and, initially, we were 5 of maybe 10 patrons in the place. But it got busy as the night wore on and we actually had a very good time (even though I think it’s probably very wrong to go to a weird dance club during a 48-hour stay in Memphis).

Eventually we headed home, with a brief-ish stop at Coyote Ugly, which was nearly empty and kind of awful. The bartenders got on the bar to... walk a bit and occasionally whisper to one another. It wasn’t very sexy.
I do not remember this, but apparently on the way home, Anne was again talking to Dan. Completely forgetting the progress she had made with Jake throughout the night, and feeling a bit randy and attracted to Dan, I began loudly demanding that Anne join Jake, who was walking in front of us. Allegedly, I yelled “It’s for your own good!,” pushed her, and was pretty much a loudmouthed bitch. I have never claimed that I am always a classy drunk.

We got back to the hotel and Anne, Jake and Dan all went to their room. Sally and I raised our eyebrows at one another but said nothing.

Not long after, Dan came to our room and sat on Sally’s bed; she was washing her face. She got into bed and shortly thereafter, we heard telltale moans coming from the next room – Anne’s headboards were on the same wall as our headboards. Do you ever wonder why hotels do not arrange the rooms so that this doesn’t happen?

We laughed and Sally fell asleep. I thought Dan was asleep as well, and washed my face and put on my pajamas. When I returned to my bed, he began talking to me and the fact that Sally has a live-in boyfriend came up. I assumed this had been brought up over the course of the evening, but he seemed unaware. He jumped out of her bed immediately. I told him it was probably fine if he slept there, provided he kept his hands to himself, but he insisted upon sharing my bed.

He got into bed with me and I turned toward the wall so that we weren’t sleeping face to face in a bed that wanted us to believe it was a queen through clever use of tiny pillows, but was only a full. He immediately spooned me and began talking about his wife – how they’d met, telling me that he had given up certain dreams to marry her, that they didn’t have sex that often, and he grew increasingly sad and then sounded choked up and then may or may not have been crying into my hair. I was slightly mortified and did not turn to him to check this out, like someone with a slightly warmer heart then mine might have done.

Eventually, I felt him readjust his pants. Then his hand was on the waist of my pants, moving to pull them down. I can’t explain why, but I still did not turn to face him. As I began to help him remove my pants, he asked, “Are you for real?!” He sounded completely incredulous. As though he’d been making the move with every intention of failing. It was a bizarre reaction, I thought. Maybe the girls in Arkansas play hard to get.

“I know we shouldn’t,” I said, finally picking up my head to look over his shoulder at Sally sleeping in her bed. Note that, in my drunken state,  it was my friend’s presence and not his wedding ring that gave me pause. But we did anyway. I turned back to the wall and he slid in while spooning me. Eventually he asked me to turn onto my stomach and I braced my hands against the headboard to try and keep the bed from creaking too loudly.

He slept in my bed awhile but left the room very early in the morning. When she and I woke up, Sally jokingly asked whether he and I had done anything. “We hooked up,” I said. I don’t normally mean sex when I say this, but she knew right away. She expressed surprise with only trace amounts of righteous anger (and this is why I love her). I told her I’d been certain she had woken up during it. She assured me she had not.

The guys were leaving that day and we went to Anne’s room to say goodbye to them. Dan and I shared a very awkward hug – we did not fit together and I think my shoulder hit his chest as we both stared at the carpet. About two weeks later, he announced his impending divorce on Facebook. I am positive that I had little to do with it.

And as for the title of this post? Well, this was the first time I have ever had sex without kissing my partner at all. Not one single kiss. Just like a hooker.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

One Night Stands: Holiday Edition

A return to being single means a return to casual sex, if one is to get laid at all. D2 and I did not date for very long, but it was the first time in years that I was in a monogamous relationship/getting sex regularly. And it was good sex. He got off on getting me off, so that always happened first and foremost. A lady can't ask for too much more (except, you know, regular phones calls and text messages). And it sucks to lose that.

What have I been doing since? Well, first up was the night before Christmas Eve. Like a genius, I decided to stay out until 4 a.m. with a close friend. As we left a bar in Lincoln Park and began looking for cabs, we ran into a guy I'd slept with before. I have seen him around my neighborhood (significantly west of LP) a few times but I primarily know him from a bad-choices 4 a.m. bar in Humboldt Park. He is known as "The Clapper" because he gets drunk, sometimes takes his shirt off in the bar, and always ruins the music by loudly clapping along at a very fast tempo. It's awful. The first time we ever made out, I was "taking one for the team" in an attempt to stop his clapping. No one was impressed with this amazing and novel idea, by the way.

So let's just say that, when I hook up with this guy, it is never one of my finer moments.

He offered to share the cab he and a friend had just hailed. He started holding  my hand after we dropped the friend off. I don't think he was as drunk as he's been every other time I've met him, because he actually conversed with me like a normal and decent person, and did not clap once. He lives a few blocks away from me and told the cabbie to just drop him at my place. I invited him in. We drank wine.

The sex was okay, but he also decided that he needed to harshly bite and SLAP my breasts. The first time he slapped them, I (appropriately, I think) exclaimed, "WHAT THE FUCK?!" He looked confused and asked, "You don't like that?" Really, dude? Is boob-slapping something you just do? Or do you maybe ask a girl if she likes it rough, first? He tried that shit again and I shot him down. We had hazy, unmemorable sex. He snuck out while I was "sleeping" (i.e. pretending to sleep and waiting for him to leave so I could go get a glass of water in peace). My breasts hurt for days. Though I got my period a few days later so that probably contributed to the ache.

Then came New Years Eve. I honestly wasn't looking for action that night. I mean, I'm always kind of looking for action. But I was just ready to go out and get drunk with some of my favorite ladies. We hit three bars, drank too much (I also tried 4 Loko for the first time and I truly think it heightened my inebriation because I actually didn't drink a ton that night), I fell down and skinned my knee. It was a great time. 

We were ending the evening at a late-night bar when I met John. A common enough name that I don't feel at all bad about using it. Honestly, I remember: entering the bar. Taking several blurry pictures of their decorations. Ordering a specialty martini (drunk -- I am more a whiskey, wine and beer broad). Spilling half the martini on my chair. Then it's blurry and suddenly, I'm saying goodbye to my friends while waiting for a cab with John. Thus, I have absolutely no recollection of actually meeting the guy.

I know we went back to my place and I brought a Solo cup of wine into my room with us, which we almost immediately knocked over while making out. We had sex for a bit and then stopped because he had to pee. Fade to black.

My next memory is of the type I've experienced only a few times. I awoke and, with my eyes still closed, briefly wondered who and where I was. Still with my eyes closed, I became aware that I was on the wrong side of my bed, which I was sharing with someone else. I figured he was probably a real asshole if I couldn't even remember meeting him (supposing that my judgement must have been pretty compromised at the end of the night).
I opened my eyes to find a slightly older man. Good looking, full head of hair. He kissed me and we got back to business. This time, we didn't finish because he was too thirsty.

We got some water and began talking. He was not a creep. He was actually pretty smart and funny. Very political -- very far left on the political spectrum, which was sexy. We talked about music and politics and I was very turned on by it all.

After this post-coital getting to know one another, we had sex once more (and actually completed the act). He stayed and chatted a bit more before my ever-increasing hangover and his approaching work engagement brought an end to our afternoon together. 

He told me he wanted to take me to see a documentary he'd referenced and we exchanged numbers. Now, it is my belief that a one-night stand between adults should end honestly and absolutely no false promises need to be made. I'm a grown woman and can handle the aftermath of an honest-to-god one night stand. He was ten years older than me. So I figured, you know, he really wanted to take me out.

So I was briefly in love with this witty, smart, charming man who was going to take me to a motherfucking documentary like some kind of proper person and not the degenerates I usually wind up in love with.

When he hadn't called a week later, I fell into a crushing depression. That lasted a few days.

Then I realized I'd made a horribly rookie mistake in believing him. But I was vulnerable. In the wake of the depressingly uneventful end of my relationship with D2, I was hoping to immediately meet the man I should be with. I had not really thought of D2 in terms of his potential as "the one"* but I had to know that someone who was better suited for the position exists out there.

Well, I guess it's not John. I may have to actually date to find someone, and not just meet a dude at a bar during a 3:30 a.m. blackout.

Next up, I will tell you of the pisser and the sad southern boy.

*I do not believe in "the one" but am using it here as someone I would accept as my "one," i.e. the person I could commit to very long-term, or possibly marry

Monday, January 10, 2011

Well. Hello There.

Ah, to begin a blog and promptly forget about it. Or not really forget about it – just have nothing much to write because I was involved with one man and felt that blogging about our sex life was in poor taste.

Well, that is over now and I deem it appropriate blog material. This particular fellow was of the type I gravitate toward: an angry, misanthropic white man. However, he was less angry and misanthropic than the guy I dated two and a half years ago. So I consider this a step up.

What do these white guys have to be so angry about?! You’ve got me. Their essential issue with the world seems to be that people are stupid. Now, I know that I am intelligent. I would wager that I am smarter than both of these men. But they are of moderate intelligence and they see and hear people doing and saying dumb stuff, and it pisses them off. Whoa, does it piss them off.

The first guy, D1 (both having names that begin with D), would do some pretty idiotic things himself, though. He wound up in jail – and according to him, this was maybe the 15th time he’d been thrown in the clink, or whatever the degenerates are calling it these days – for driving on a suspended license. Which he knew about. What the hell? But of course, his ire was then directed at the law and law enforcement. Not at his own damn self for breaking a law of which he was entirely aware.

Because, essentially, he felt he was super special. He would make fun of hipsters who thought they were unique like snowflakes, but he obviously felt that he was above everything. The law, everyone we came into contact with, the world in general. Also, he was adopted and I think this contributed to the anger issues. And I have a strange, deep and stupid love for adopted men.

Why do I fall for guys like this? Well, I maintain a rather positive outlook but approach life with a fair amount of skepticism and a large amount of sarcasm. So I think that they are drawn to the sarcasm, mistaking it for a shared disdain of... everything. And, on my side, I want so badly to be the little ray of sunshine that puts a smile on the face of this perpetual Donny Downer. It’s like how girls want to be the one that changes a bad boy. I want to be the single person in a bitter man’s life who a) he doesn’t think is a moron, and b) makes him happy. It should be noted that D1 not only referred to his mother as an idiot, but told me that, at her birthday dinner, she informed him quite seriously that he was a real asshole. He is her only child. I should have run far, far away when he revealed that.

Obviously, my attempts to brighten the mysteriously dark life of a misanthrope do not work. Initially, I think that at least sex will cheer them up. And sometimes it does. D1 was a big cuddler, which I found baffling. He’d pull me close after sex and tuck my head under his chin and say, “sometimes I think this is nearly my favorite part.” God, I wish I had that on video so I could broadcast it to the world.  

But the next day, it was back to talking shit and being unhappy. The unhappiness seems intentional. I was never Facebook friends with D1 because, as much as I adored him, I was also completely intimidated by him and never made a first move. He didn’t request me, so I didn’t request him. Honestly, though we dated an entire summer, I’m not sure he knew my last name. 

D2 – the recent break-up – asked for my full name after maybe one date and immediately requested me on Facebook, which I thought was kind of jumping the gun, but also found flattering. Now I had access to his innermost thoughts via status updates! And now I saw just how much he reveled in his anger. “FML” was used once or twice, and he is 31 years old. That term is for teenagers who have not yet mastered how to properly express (and, often, for the sake of appearances, repress or at least stifle) their emotions. One of his latest statuses: Last year my new years resolution was to be more hate filled. I think I accomplished that. So this year, my resolution is to be more vengeful.   

This one actually scared me slightly, as it came about a week and a half after I broke up with him. 

What happened with these two relationships? Well, I don’t really know. It seems I do not have what it takes to keep a perpetually dissatisfied man... satisfied. D1 became hard to pin down and eventually stopped calling me, standing me up on my birthday. I got drunk and cried in several different bar bathrooms that evening. It was lovely. 

D2 also stopped calling. After making several romantic yet practical gestures of affection – picking me up at the airport, buying me a toothbrush for his place, cleaning his apartment top to bottom due to my cat allergy – we made it official, and he promptly became a total suckfest of a boyfriend. When I realized that I was the one always texting him, I stopped doing so in order to see how long it would take before he contacted me. We did not talk for three weeks. I’m the one who eventually broke down and asked him whether this was a break-up. He was wondering the same thing. Really? Wow. The evident lack of interest was astounding. This was really the ultimate in ambivalence. 

But I told him he could have another chance. Then he proceeded to still not contact me for several days. 

When I broke up with him via text a few days before Christmas – cruel, but appropriate punishment, in my estimation – he claimed he had sent me a text the day before and it had not gone through. I am usually rather gullible but even I did not believe that.  

So that is the short-ish version of my absence. Luckily, I did not really see myself marrying this man or willingly bearing his little malcontents, so I’m not exactly heartbroken. But as a pretty perpetually single woman, the utter failure of this attempt at being a girlfriend – my inability to get even my boyfriend to call me – give me the sads a bit.  

Luckily, this means I can discuss the (pretty hot) sex we had. And the subsequent sex I’ve had with others. I’m back in the saddle again (if by “the saddle” we mean engaging in casual sex at irregular intervals). And I just started the school term so I’ll be writing to procrastinate.