Wednesday, November 2, 2011

new sex rules for 2012.

omg omg omg, holy omfg, it's already 11/11? WHAT IN THE FUCKING HELL HAVE I BEEN DOING?! making peanut butter sandwiches in lieu of cooking a real dinner, making pretty decent progress sounding out the big words in "infinite jest" because i have diarrhea all the time, and listening to department of eagles records. that's what. holy crap, the year is fucking over already. yes, OVER. the mindless blur of murdered indians and overstuffed turkeys that is november bleeds right into the plus-sized red velvet pajamas and dystopian loneliness that ho ho hos its way to the glittery new year. a new year, of course, that brings with it little promise of fresh starts and bright beginnings. every january i buy a new calendar (to replace the back-to-school one i purchased in august with the wide-eyed hope of all the possibilty that accompanies those empty lined pages: the one i spilled a latte on, rendering the tan, wrinkled pages unappealing to me; the one i tried to keep a food log in, but stopped because there were too many days filled with lies like "1/2 a cookie" and "large serving of kale;" the one filled with potential plans that i had to scratch out because bitches be bailing on my ass ALL THE GODDAMNED TIME), with the hopes that the dawning of another year when i will most certainly get older (and inch ever closer to wiser) fills me with promise.

the promise of what remains to be seen. i don't make resolutions because fuck that. i'm already enough of a goddamned loser, i don't need a fucking piece of paper mocking me from where i've taped it on the refrigerator (where i hope it also might discourage me from pulling out that pint of ben and jerry's i've been "just having a spoonful of" for the last hour and a fucking half). what is it that makes us this way? because i know i'm not the only one. i would rather pretend i'm not eating it and get out of bed thirty-seven motherfucking times to walk into the kitchen and scrape the spoon i've left on the counter FOR THIS EXPRESS PURPOSE around the melty edge of the carton until something resembling a mountain (seriously, like, the K2 of late night snack) is built atop, eat it over the sink, put the carton away, delude myself into thinking of myself as health-conscious, go back to sobbing through the kardashian wedding, then repeat the same cycle ten minutes later.

okay, four minutes later.

why not just loosen the elastic on my inside pants and drag the whole thing into bed? why not just soften the entire pint, drop it into a bag of tortilla chips, sprinkle some lime juice in, pour some salsa over, add a dollop of brownie batter, and shake it up with some crumbled gorgonzola and a pound of semi-raw bacon? because i haven't given up on life yet. which is the same goddamned reason i am compelled to purchase a bright, shiny slice of hope in the form of a child's assignment notebook every august, and the same goddamned reason i throw that one in the trash and purchase one meant for adults (or burnouts who are giving school another shot the spring semester) every january. even though i should abandon all hope of a happy life full of realized dreams and actualized purpose, i'm still over here placing all my bets on the next calendar year. come on, 2012!

i had dinner with some of my black friends* a couple weeks ago. akilah and i went in on some prix fixe living social deal at branch 27, and i was irritated before i even got to the fucking restaurant. my life refuses to understand the words "on time," so i missed the good express train and was forced to take the one full of creeps. then, no cabs. not a single one. by the time i got to dinner i was a sweaty mess, and eating dinner feels SO GOOD when you're damp and can smell your deodorant working harder than you want it to. awesome.

so akilah had invited some dude to dinner, unbeknownst to me, and when i rounded the corner to join her at our table my stomach fell right out of my butt. 1 i had no idea whether or not it was a set-up, and she's sneaky that way and 2 most dudes are boring and i didn't want some asshole ruining my dinner. also, if i'd known a man was joining us i wouldn't have worn my meat-eating pants. i know, WHO CARES WHAT A DUDE THINKS ABOUT YOUR PANTS? the answer is: everyone. it doesn't even matter if you're sexually interested in him or not, no one wants to wear her pie shirt and her meat pants out with a dude who might be convinced to pay for the meal they're eating. no one is going to pull his amex out for my greasy cat hair pants. i mean, i wouldn't even expect him to. add to that my rushing latesweat and you have a recipe for easily the most uncomfortable meal i've sat through in a while.

i kept trying to gauge from akilah's face whether she was trying to fuck him or if i was supposed to, but that bitch is a fucking pro. equal parts friendly and flirtatious, ie IMPOSSIBLE TO GODDAMNED READ. and your worst fucking nightmare. akilah is one of my best friends, but she is also one of these insanely (unfairly!) pretty women with a nice ass and huge rack who can get away with talking to every dude like she wants to bang him even if she hates his guts. and he won't even be salty at her! if i'm not interested in a gentleman chances are that he is so not interested in me that my even considering that possibility is laughable, but if he happens to be nice to me i usually scowl and make snide jokes that insinuate he's fucking stupid. endearing, i know. anyway, i couldn't tell what was happening, and that makes me uncomfortable. i like to pretend to be in control of social situations that could possibly end up leaving me melting into a pool of shame.

but then dude described his drink as having been "infused with the smoky essence of black pepper and a hint of sweetness," and i was like "I'M JUST GOING TO UNBUTTON MY PANTS AND HANDLE THESE PORK EMPANADAS." come on, son. "smoky essence?!" YOU'RE MAKING MY PENIS SOFT. i can't bang a dude who talks like that about his dinner. unless we're filming an episode of top chef, "this is delicious" will goddamned suffice.

after a while the conversation turned, as it often does between a group of veritable strangers, to hardcore sex acts. i'm not even sure how we ended up there, but my pants were already undone and i'd probably farted at least a dozen times, so i can't front like a little sex talk makes me blush. akilah is recently single and was talking about all of these dudes who've come out of the woodwork (that means facebook creepers) to ask her out. oh to be fucking gorgeous. have you ever listened to a hot broad talk about casually discarding dudes due to flaws the ordinary among us would "just learn to live with." this whore. you know how many times i've said, "it's okay, maybe you're just stressed out?" to some sniveling asshole connected to a flag just barely at half-mast? TEN FUCKING THOUSAND. she regaled us with the story of some soft serve dude she fired after his first day on the job, and i like "i hate this jerk."

because i'm the kind of nerd who always has a notebook on her person, i got mine out and found a pen so that we could make a list of the new sex rules for 2012. because i can't resolve to "eat better" or "be nicer to people," but i most certainly can decide exactly what kind of dicks we should be putting in our mouths.

rule 1: maybe we don't have to have sex. god, i met some stupid dude on saturday. i was downtown, getting ready to blow half my paycheck at akira, and i was coming up the escalator at monroe when this dude literally ran to jump on it behind me. first thing i thought: HE IS GOING TO ROB ME. second: I AM WEARING PUBLIC PAJAMAS. when we got to the top he asked if i was listening to my ipod loudly, and i said, "yes, because i don't like the sound of anyone else's voice." what a fucking bitch. undeterred, he told me that he worked security (he was wearing a uniform, which i heretofore hadn't noticed because i'm an asshole who wears sunglasses all the time) and was warning women not to turn their music all the way up because flash mobs of kids were sneaking up on them to steal their holiday packages. i was not carrying a holiday package. long story short, he gave me his number. and i took it, even though he'd asked me, "what do you like to do for fun?" have you ever heard an answer to that question, particularly when posed on the spot, that was either interesting or exciting to you? i know i know, i deserve to die alone. seriously, if even one of you can tell me SOMETHING TRUE that you do for fun that is anything different than ANYONE ELSE ON EARTH i will buy you dinner. blarf. so today is wednesday and i texted him at the advice of the young people in my life who think calling is stupid, and i've heard nothing in response. and you know how i feel? GODDAMNED RELIEVED. because my third thought was: oh man, sex is so gross and i'm really fucking tired. do i really have to call him? and no, i obviously did not.

rule 2: no quiet dudes.
A CAVEAT: you know how i feel about dudes who talk too much. i hate them, and they should die. so i don't mean dudes who are shitty conversationalists, because the last thing i'm interested in is michael vick's stats from last sunday. this rule refers to the bedroom, because banging a dude who thinks he's too fucking cool to tell you how good it feels is totally fucking lame. maybe this is a black thing, because i haven't yet held a peach-colored set of testicles gently in the palm pf my hand, but white dudes in porn are always grunting and letting out tarzan screams all over the place. black men, EVEN WHEN THEY ARE INSIDE YOU, always give you that look that says, "yeah, gurl, i'm tearing this ass UP." no, homie, you ain't. that's actually the inner fold of my labia that you're blindly stabbing while making faces at yourself in the mirror pretending to be wesley pipes. it's never "hey! i like this! having sex with you is exciting for me! thank you so much for your effort!" nope, all you're going to get is, "YOU LOVE THIS, DON'T YOU. SAY YOU LOVE IT." i never do. i always stop them at that part and ask if he might be a doll and get my silver vibrator out of the drawer so we might hurry this along a bit. that right there is an ego destroyer, plus it'll make you laugh and laugh to watch his stupid boner wobbling around as he slips and slides in his socks (WHAT IS WITH THE SOCKS, DUDES?) while digging through your lingerie and shit.

rule 3: no arrogant dudes and no argumentative dudes.
this one sells itself. if you are bossy and smart, as i imagine all of my internet girlfriends are in spades, then you have undoubtedly come across a dude who COULD NOT FUCKING DEAL WITH IT. no matter how progressive, how understanding, how in love with you he claimed to be, at some point in your life or another you have had a dude with an ego problem get all up in your face because you outsmarted him or wouldn't let him have all of the power. i'm a fan of being bossed around, but only by a dude who gets that i haven't relinquished control to him just because i let him order me around while he isn't wearing any pants. it's such a thin line with most of these assholes. give an inch by asking a dude to tell you what to do in a hot way, then he takes a goddamn mile's worth of "get me this" and "get me that" when the two of you have your clothes on in the middle of the electronics aisle at costco. um, no thank you. and i know there are SO MANY PEOPLE who get turned on by a heated argument, but i'm not one of them. especially because i don't get into sexy arguments like "why did you leave your beard stubble all over the sink?" or "no, it's YOUR turn to take the recycling out." pfffft. mostly dudes want to argue with me about one of two things 1 who's smarter or 2 who's funnier. the answer to both of these questions is usually me, but if it isn't i am quick to concede the victory. (seriously, though, it's always me.) and all that fuss makes me fucking tired, man. and after a certain age is it too much to ask to just kick our feet up and agree with each other about everything? jesus christ.

rule 4: no spitting. this repulses me, so i'm not going to dwell on it, but the dude akilah brought to dinner referenced "spitting in a woman's vagina" as a sexy thing to do, and i nearly vomited at the table. I JUST CAN'T with this one. not ever. decide amongst yourselves whether or not you think it's hot to CLEAR ALL OF THE PHLEGM OUT OF YOUR THROAT AND EXPECTORATE ALL OVER SOME GENTLEMAN'S ERECTION, but imma be over here squeezing my eyes shut and rocking in the corner to soothe myself until this spitstorm passes. holy mother of god, let some dickbag assault me in this filthy way. i will lose my shit completely. i'm not dry, and there's lube in the nightstand, buddy, so if i look down and see your cheeks moving to work up a bunch of spit in your mouth that you are planning to discharge into my vagina i am going to kick your jaw right off your fucking skull. omg. i don't even want to talk about this anymore. i'm dying inside.

rule 5: no ATM. i didn't even know this was a thing. my original "no atm" rule just meant "never give a dude money ever even if he's starving to death in front of you and that five dollars might save his life," but our dinner companion informed me that this acronym means "anal to mouth." ANAL TO MOUTH. for the slow kids, this means your sex partner PULLS SOMETHING OUT OF YOUR BUTT before INSERTING IT INTO YOUR MOUTH. boy, shit is on everybody's mind lately, eh? hot damn. i don't know who does this, or if it's intentional, but this might be the worst thing i've ever heard. worse than the fucking spitting, because you can get e.coli from your own butt and that would be tragic. that's one thing i learned from IBD, that you have to be careful where the shit that is always leaking from every one of your orifices ends up. because it's full of toxic disgustingness that could ruin some unsuspecting person's day. once when i'd been in the hospital for ten days basically marinating in my own excrement (it wasn't that bad, but i am PROVING A POINT) i got an infection in my LADYBUSINESS because she had come into contact with so much smelly poop. being a human is fucking awful. so, if he's pounding you in the dirt star, you might want to tell him he can't stick it in your vagina without a thorough bleaching either. nothing turns up the sex heat like a clinical talk about intestinal bacteria. YUM.

so i'm probably just going to stay celibate for another year because i hate entertaining new people and there's chlamydia and whatnot just lurking behind the crevices of everyone's testicles just waiting to jump onto my vagina lips and eat its way through my tender flesh and destroy my brain, but you girls have fun. just write all this on the back of your hand so you don't forget.

*only my BLACK FRIENDS make a big fucking deal when i hang out with them, because it doesn't happen often, which is the only reason i make note of it. to shut them the fuck up. my phone is like a goddamned benetton ad, man. all shades and colors! it's just that all my black bitches act like coming up my way equals a trip to siberia. assholes. white people live near me, and they always tip 20%. JUST SAYING.

**reader submissions welcome for any rules i've missed., kittens. HOLLER.