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.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

how to make public small talk with someone you used to have sex with.

UGH ROMANCE IS THE WORST. dating and mating and caring and sharing are the most terrible things i could ever imagine. here's how it would go if you and i started dating but then were forced to break up because you are probably the asshole and obviously not perfect me:

i will delete your number from my phone the instant i feel like things are going south. not because i don't want you to get in touch with me. because ALL I WANT IN THE WORLD is for you to get in touch with me. and tell me how pretty my hair is or how beautiful my eyes look when magnified by these coke bottle glasses. this is purely a measure to prevent me from making the horrible mistake of texting you my innermost sadfeelings. everyone knows that those are to be eaten, not blathered incoherently into my soon-to-be ex-lover's voicemail.

when the guillotine finally drops, i will unfollow your twitter. there are very few hilarious people on the old tweeting machine. you are not one of them. that is perfectly acceptable. i was mostly following you to keep an eye on your @mentions, anyway. i'ma also block you on facebook because omg TAGGED PHOTOS, welp. maybe you bitches are smarter and stronger than i am with a better grasp of restraint, but fuck if i ever could just cold turkey stop internet stalking somebody even if he'd just shattered my soul into a billion tiny little pieces. like, i am literally taping the heart fragments back together with my dominant hand while scrolling through his tumblr with the other. it's so gross and lame but if he's subtweeting about me i really need to fucking know it, okay?


my version of the story will make you look like an asshole. i, on the other hand, will look like a fucking rockstar. or maybe a kicked puppy, depending on the emotion i'm trying to elicit from my audience at the time. but you won't have to worry about that, because you're never going to hear about it. i haven't ever been in the kind of relationship where we had mutual friends who had to pick sides or whom i had to worry would go back and tell dude that the hot dude i started posting on instagram two days after we broke up is really my goddamned nephew.

seriously, though, it's cool. the worst thing i'm going to do is throw all that shit you left at my place in the dumpster and tell everyone who used to see us eating scones together at ennui that you died. i'm not going to get a discover card in your name because i have your social security number nor will i send menacing letters to your mom's house because that asshole never liked me anyway, i'ma just be over here listening to this ani difranco playlist i made and washing my hair with my tears. and that's fine as long as you 1 never text me about coming over to "watch jimmy fallon" (oh, fuck you) or 2 remember every place i like to go and never show your face there. we may not have mutual friends, sir, but I GET CUSTODY OF MOTHERFUCKING BIG STAR. you also may not show up at: maude's, au cheval, little goat, scofflaw, lao sze chuan, lula cafe, longman & eagle, southport grocery, m. henrietta, metropolis, kuma's, carriage house, fat rice, parson's, the aviary, ruxbin, trenchermen, the publican, union pizza, the bedford, state and lake, hopleaf, the whistler, tiny lounge, empire liquors, the scout, m lounge, garcia's on western, the jimmy john's in downtown evanston, holiday club, the roger's park giordano's, the walgreens on irving park and sheridan, every cvs on the north side, bar deville, antique taco, danny's, matchbox, lady gregory, branch 27, five star, the tamale cart on the corner of lunt and clark, sushi samba, untitled (in case i ever decide to go there), pops for champagne, or any mcdonald's drive thru north of division. as a matter of fact, you should probably just fucking move. CHICAGO IS MINE.

i do one outside thing every summer, and every summer that one thing is to stand outside for four or five hours at the silver room block party. it's the funnest thing in the city, especially if you like watching happy brown babies drunk on sunshine dancing to soul music in the middle of the street. it's also the sexiest party of the summer, as it is always teeming with the kind of black people who wear headwraps in real life and make vegan meals and are really opinionated about which is the best dead prez record. needless to say, this motherfucker is a veritable hotbed of handsome dudes i once upon a time made out with, and every year i am forced to make small talk with some shitbag i let feel me up two years ago who doesn't have the good sense to cross to the other side of the street when he sees me loading up at the beer tent. 

it can't just be me. why can't all of our exes just do us the favor of never leaving their houses ever again? or, at the very least, not set foot in our territories?! i'm not going to the comic book store, bro, so why the fuck are you at this artsy theater? YOU DON'T EVEN LIKE SUBTITLES, MAN. you're only here because you thought i'd be here and you only thought i'd be here because i took you here before. at least that is what i'm telling myself while trying not to move my bag too much so the staff won't notice how much wine i've hidden inside as i awkwardly hug you and your new girlfriend hello. at the block party i ran into zac, who immediately started making fun of my "silly girl jokes" while wearing what appeared to be pajama pants at 4pm on a saturday in public. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! this is why i want to burn shit to the ground, because dudes who don't even fuck that good think they can take cheap shots just because they used to have a key to your old apartment. i would have cut his throat and shit down his neck if i weren't such a refined bag of manners. here's my survival guide for how to get through running into someone who used to see how hairy your butthole is.

1 can you run away without looking like a dick? if dude has seen you already GAME OVER, sister. you have to just stand your ass right there and shift awkwardly from foot to foot while waiting for him to say something dumb and overly familiar. especially if, god forbid, he is MAKING HIS WAY THROUGH THE CROWD TO SPEAK TO YOU. then there is absolutely no escape, unless you're goddamned harry potter.  i like to use the time spent watching someone i used to love walk in slow motion toward me thinking about all of things that make me the most happy: tiny baby animals, overpriced lipsticks, welsh rarebit, ice cold allagash, elastic-waist pants, and raised toilet seats. that way i'm in a good mood when he says something like, "still walking around with gravy on your shirt, eh?" and am less likely to burst into tears.

2 politely ask him how he is doing and try to sound like you're interested in any other answer than "actively dying of cancer." but don't say some nasty shit like, "you still fucking that baldheaded bitch i saw you with on facebook before you blocked me?" because then you fucking lose. keep in mind that BITCHES IS WATCHING. and i know, baby. we are all just wounded little creatures trying to land a solid punch before some shitbag kicks us in the back of the knees when we least expect it, but you have to resist that urge and think like a motherfucking sociopath. smile, nod, and ask about his mother. while smiling and nodding. and trying to relax your hands, which have undoubtedly balled into fists at the sight of his smug face. 

3 when he asks how you're doing, try not to brag too much even though i totally deserve to because FUCK HIM. this is a tough one. what i wanted to say: "YOU REFUSED TO EAT THAT PASTA SALAD I MADE ON YOUR BIRTHDAY THAT ONE TIME BECAUSE YOU SAID IT LOOKED GROSS AND YOU BROKE UP WITH ME IN A TEXT BUT BITCH I WROTE A BOOK IT'S AT #1,253,864 ON AMAZON'S BESTSELLER LIST SO DIE IN A MOTHERFUCKING FIRE YOU ARE TERRIBLE AT CUNNILINGUS YOUR HAIR LOOKS LIKE SHIT." what i actually said: "i'm cool, bro." and then i almost chewed off my own fucking tongue while trying to smile like i actually meant it.

4 don't start thinking about how good he looks now. is that a distinguished touch of gray in that handsome beard? did he really just say he started doing crossfit? GODDAMN I LIKES ME AN OL' SEASONED PIECE OF TOUGH-ASS MEAT. especially when it's 6'5" and smelling like a heady combination of egyptian musk and rhinocerous pheromones. also, he should stop smiling like that before i hike my dress up and slide this diaper to the side in the middle of the goddamned street. man, isn't it just easier to get back into bed with someone who already knows your roadmap of weird scars and strange growths? i hate explaining all of my gross bruises and skin disease to some new person. "no, that's a bug bite that never properly healed. yes, my baby toe curls that way naturally." being a person is totally exhausting. and ugh, don't even mention the shitting. i also like knowing that i'm probably not going to get murdered. MUST RESIST BUT HOW.

5 right before you suggest that maybe you guys should meet up for some casual, friendly drinks, remember the last fucked up thing that asshole did to you. i mean, don't reminisce to the point that you boil your internal organs with toxic rage, but remember that time he called you in the hospital after a brutal endoscopy whining about how he couldn't come visit because he was so busy and never signed up to be with someone who was so sick all the time anyway? YEAH, THAT THING. doesn't look so appealing anymore, now does he? i'm rul good at this part, the remembering all the bad shit part, because i basically catalog the infractions against me over the course of any interpersonal relationship for safekeeping until a motherfucker fucks with me and i can use those memories to keep myself from lending that asshole fifty emergency dollars. or giving in to some "for old times sake" comfort sex. i'm pretty much the worst. but that shit comes in handy, for real. all i have to do is think about how dude was supposed to move in to this giant, expensive place i only rented because he vowed to go halfsies and when he didn't i spent an entire year lonely as fuck stealing cable and eating ramen, then i magically don't want to fuck him anymore. do i hope he gets disemboweled by a grizzly bear with acid-tipped claws? SOMETIMES. will i ever let that dude halfheartedly mash his genitals against the inside of my thigh again? OH HELL NAWL.

i made it through mostly unscathed, though. smiled at a lot of babies, gave a lot of lukewarm hugs to dudes whose balls i've already seen. i even managed to play nice long enough to instagram how much i don't care about that dude anymore and can totally pose for a convincing selfie. deceptive smiles that say, "see! here we are! a grinning pair of happy exes pretending one never sent the other a dog turd hidden in a heart-shaped box! we are so evolved now! this is totally how romance works in the future! breaking up is so hilarious and amazing!"