Wednesday, August 28, 2013

i'm a virgin again, according to science.

i had a really busy july, friends. i went to whole foods a lot, i had an out of body religious experience while watching queen beyonce's gyrating hips that were technically in the same room as i was, and oh yeah, i spent 31 more days NOT HAVING ANY SEX. which makes it just about a year, my dude. a year since i've had to lie back patiently cooing, "not there, just to the right. almost there, just up a little higher. one more time, just go a little faster" in my sweetest baby voice. a year since i've had to wedge a vibrator between my g spot and the scrotum slamming ineffectively into it. a year since i've had to suck my own buttsweat off of some asshole's dick.

in other words, it has been glorious. you know those women who are all up in the hair salon on friday night like, "grrrrrrl, i need to get me some dick this weekend?" i am not one of those assholes. i need to watch project runway tomorrow night. i need a 1/2 lb of tri tip and some hot links from lillie's q. i need a couple new pairs of old navy compression pants. but what i don't need is to agonize over why no one is responding to my perfectly hilarious okcupid or ignoring the tits that i've hoisted up to rest on my clavicle as i try to affect an approachable yet disaffected attitude at the bar. I FUCKING HATE ALL THAT SHIT, MAN. all that work, all that "reading internet listicles to try and figure out where all the single men hang out" work, is totally fucking boring. THERE ARE NO AVAILABLE MEN SITTING IN COFFEE SHOPS, SISTERS. the internet is a liar. see how many mondays i spent hovered over this netbook in metropolis dicking around on their free wi-fi? not a single time did anyone come over and offer to stir some of his cream into my coffee. hmph.

and yo, i could get fucked on craigslist or stalk an old boyfriend if i was really dying to get laid, but then i remember that i really don't need to almost bust my teeth out while skating around in my own urine in the bathtub trying to groom my pubic hair with a beard trimmer. or burn my legs with depilatory because i left the nair on and then went to wash the dishes or talk on the phone and forgot about the shit until i could smell it eating through the top layer of my skin. or douche with peroxide once a week. or keep a bottle cranberry pills in my desk drawer. or spring for one of those at-home HIV tests once a month. or get possible blood clots from being old and taking birth control. 

celibacy wouldn't even be that big of a deal if we didn't have, oh i don't know, instagram and magazines and shit. i don't need a support group, i just need the rest of you to stop pretending you're having THE HOTTEST SEX EVER all the goddamned time. if bitches really talked about the sex they are regularly subjected to in an honest way no one would think twice about those of us who've chosen not to have any. like, no one is ever SHOCKED that i don't eat at white castle. the typical response is, "yeah, i get it, diarrhea" while they simulate agonyface and clutch at their abdomens. but when i tell someone, "yeah, bro, i'm not really into sex right now" that statement is usually met with the type of astonishment i would reserve for a person who'd admitted to drinking his own vomit. then he asks, mouth agape, "but what do you mean?!" like i'm trying to explain how algorithms work or whether or not god is real. 

because everyone else is busy participating in the lie that sex isn't the most gross, awkward thing two people could ever do while horizontal and partially-clothed. WHAT IS THIS CONSPIRACY, JERKS. i was scrolling through some twitterings on the train yesterday morning and some girl was all 140 characters of hot sexing and i was like, omg shut up hooker these things you are saying are not real life. if i live-tweeted during sex my hootsuite would look something like this:

@wordscience: skipped 4play, as usual. dumb asshole.
@wordscience: oh, you "can't stay hard with a condom on?" nice try, bro.
@wordscience: STOP BLOWING AIR INTO MY VAGINA.
@wordscience: dripping sweat into my mouth, gross.
@wordscience: i have, like, 19 of his pubes stuck between my teeth.
@wordscience: GRAB THE BACK OF MY HEAD ONE MORE GD TIME, FOOL.
@wordscience: waiting for him to come.
@wordscience: still waiting for him to come.
@wordscience: abandoned hope of having my own orgasm, still waiting for his.
@wordscience: don't switch positions! that's like starting over! stop!!!
@wordscience: RT @DragonflyJonez What if McDonald's is still selling wings the same time McRibs drop? NIGGA. FRIED CHICKEN AND RIBS.
@wordscience: bumped head on wall 5, wait, now 6 times.
@wordscience: i think he's almost done!
@wordscience: false alarm, still waiting for him to come.
@wordscience: still waiting for him to come.
@wordscience: send help.
@wordscience: still waiting for him to come.
@wordscience: maybe if i let him in my ass it would speed this process along.
@wordscience: just got a 72-point word in words with friends, suckas.
@wordscience: FINALLY HE IS MAKING THE FACE. i better arch my back.
@wordscience: "come on my tits, i love it so much." *snort*
@wordscience: i wonder if he can stay awake long enough to go get me a goddamn burrito?

why i haven't had sex in 376+ days and counting:

these crazy high standards. I'M TIRED OF UNIMPORTANT SEX, MAN. my standards aren't even that goddamn specific, nor are they even that insurmountably high, but boy do they get in the way of dumb casual sex. i can't fuck any more stupid fucking people ever again. NOT EVER. and, while it would be nice, i don't have to be in love; but i would like to at least have respect for a motherfucker and engage in a handful of decent conversations with someone before i let him see my delicate meathole and so far there are no interesting people who want to have sex with me right now. or if there are i haven't met them. and i refuse to fill the empty space meant for them with some vapid piece of shit just because i'm lonely or whatever. i'm sick of banging people i'm ashamed to introduce my friends to. or people who never even want to get to the meet my friends stage of the game. and i don't even care anymore if that makes me uncool. SOMETIMES I THINK I WANT A MEANINGFUL RELATIONSHIP. there, i said it. deal with it.

oxytocin. because sexchemicals are the most terrifying thing. i used to sit outside of this one dude's house in my car. i wasn't old enough to buy alcohol and drown myself in it like a normal person, so i would go stock up at the drive-thru window then watch this dude who didn't want to sleep with me anymore through the giant windows in his living room, eating cold french fries and watching what he was watching on television, trying to place the faces of the handful of women who circulated in and out of his front door. i wasn't going to do anything, i just liked watching him. even though he had given me a birthday card that was signed "love you in a friend way." i probably spent two weeks drinking cokes and listening to soundbombing on cassette while squinting at his bedroom window and burning through tank after tank of gas. all of this i blame on oxytocin. GAH, fuck science.

there's a lot of really good shit on netflix right now. i can't fuck with orange is the new black, though. i have so far watched two full episodes and i just can't do it. house of cards is a goddamned jam, though. go watch it, right this minute. also, being a person takes a lot of motherfucking time and energy. I READ SO MANY BOOKS THIS YEAR. and i still have a dozen more on my list. also, i made a lot of doctor appointments. got myself a cleaning lady. tried a bunch of recipes in the smitten kitchen cook book. the internet is so full of shit i want to look at and read that i get overwhelmed just thinking about it. i don't have time for sex, i barely have time to eat dinner. people with active sex lives must not go anywhere, because if i have to wait two hours at the bar to get a table at farmhouse that doesn't leave even five minutes for me to be rooting around in some dude's butthole trying to locate his prostate. 

but i don't feel bad or lame because:

masturbating is pretty good, actually. lately i'm rul into lesbian porn. not the phony kind with all of that squealing histrionics, but that sensitive deep-kissing kind that looks like these bitches actually care about each other. i know, i'm old. and in real life you don't get to fast forward to the part you like and watch it over and over again until the battery in your lelo goes dead and your outer labia are smoking like an overheated car. i mean, not that i'd know about that or anything. like i was saying, sticking your hand in your pants for three minutes while eating your breakfast over the kitchen sink is really fucking convenient. and doesn't involve anyone else's feelings and/or beard particles in your shower.

i ain't caught that drug-resistant gonorrhea yet. WHAT THE FUCK, BRO. the longer i go without having sex the more terrified i become of ever engaging in that dirty business ever again because holy shit, dickmeasles. NO MA'AM. keeping my withered old vag to myself ensures that i'm not going to catch any cooties of the sexually transmissible variety and that is just fine, thank you.

i've been trying to get to know motherfuckers. and once i take a few minutes to actually get to know a dude, the less i want to get up from the dry spot to get him a glass of post-sex water. this year of masturbating on the toilet before taking a nap on saturday afternoons has really changed my perspective. i'm not trying to convince randoms not to steal my iphone on the way out of my apartment at 3am anymore; if i bang you, i need to already know you won't steal from me and that you don't post those ridiculous inspirational quote memes on facebook. i gotta know that you listen to good music and have at least a couple of opinions. (although if they contradict mine then i probably can't go through with it sorry not sorry.)

i hate taking my shirt off. i just don't want to do it. especially not if i have to replace it with one of those silky sex outfits that make it impossible not to slide out of the bed. i fractured a toe once because i slid off a high bed because the combination of oily sexlotion + my satin fucknightie didn't work well in tandem with some tacky dude's silky booty call sheets. my angled baby toe will forever serve as a reminder that NOT HAVING SEX AT ALL > EVERYTHING ELSE THAT EVER WAS.

it's a celi-bration, bitches.