Last Night

After seeing him last night, I have decided against two separate bedrooms.

It's funny how just one night can change your entire outlook, and it felt unbelievably nice to feel my body go light after so long.

I'm also very happy to say that I think my "obsession" with Rick has faded with help from those topped off Smirnoff juices from last night. Okay, the drinking had nothing to do with me changing my mind, but it certainly didn't hurt. Plus, I wanted to celebrate with my boys...including Toby.

Just being near him was enough for me to feel "better". Just looking at him made me smile, and not that bullshit i-want-to-do-you smile, but one of those genuine, you-make-me-light-up smiles. And while the lust was there (and always will be in some sense), it wasn't overpowering

I think I just want to express how happy I felt last night, and I don't want that feeling to go away, and quite honestly, I haven't been this happy since...well...since the last time he was here.

Thanks, Toby. Maybe I'm not being facetious when I say that a piece of me leaves when you're gone. I'm still waiting for you to come home.

Who Do You Think We'll End Up With?

I’ll end up living with Toby in a 2-bedroom apartment. He’ll have one room and I’ll have the other. I won’t ever go to his room, but he’ll frequent mine for sex (note to Toby: you should have never slept with me that morning, now I hold all the power, and my ego is not only inflated but beyond repair). We’ll foster kids and most likely adopt. We’ll be the ultimate power couple, except not married and people will just think we’re together, but we’re just living and sleeping together.

Toby and I will be doing one of two things. We’ll both be social service icons serving the likes of the under privileged and under served or he’ll be a big shot engineer and I’ll be doing entertainment PR. Our 2-bedroom apartment is one that I bought in Chelsea. He’ll move in after his MBA. We’ll have sick New Year’s Eve parties with all our friends invited. My friends’ kids aren’t allowed at my house. Toby may not mind, but it’s my house. We’ll never leave NYC because our jobs wouldn’t allow us to and Boston sucks.

We’ll always have oranges in our kitchen, and I’ll always make sure the apartment smells girly before I head out in the morning. Be careful when you come over though, we’ll probably have sex on the island in the kitchen, and I hate scrubbing down. He might though, remember he’s still friends with Wayne (who is a cleaning freak).

We won’t have any pets because I only like cats and he’s allergic, although, come to think of it, he has one now, so maybe Scandal will live with us. He’ll have a car that I’ll despise because I take the subway everywhere, unless I’m in entertainment in which case I’ll take a cab. When we go out, I’ll show him off like a trophy husband, but only my closest friends will know that we sleep in separate bedrooms.

Fantasy Bites

The other night, I was pleasuring myself and was going to turn my thoughts over to my current obsession (see last post). Then I realized fantasizing is for quitters. I’ve done this a million and a half times; dreaming and painting this beautiful picture on a canvas that is my mind. And when the paintbrush thoughts are put away on their shelves, I sit back and admire my picture. It needs to stop.

A picture is a picture is a picture. Nine times out of ten, fantasies don’t come true. Okay, I made that up, but think about it. When was the last time one of your fantasies came true?

I realized that I could keep how I feel locked up inside and dream about the boy I want in my bed. I could secretly wish for those Christian Audigier shoes (they are hot though). I could yearn for the chance to pursue something creatively stimulating in a cutthroat field, a cutthroat world, a cutthroat life.

Average life span is around 80 some odd years. Why dream about what I want as opposed to going out and getting it. I refuse to wait till the next lifetime to get what I want out of this lifetime. Maybe it’s living in New York that’s giving me this “take what you want” attitude, but it’s all clear. Life is too short to dilly dally and dream. Dying is easy; living is hard. Forget the skeletons in your closet and show off your live bodies. Are those last two lines morbid? My bad.

Common - I Want You

I don’t think I’ve been hit this hard in a really long time (and I just sat here reflecting for five minutes to see when the last time was). That’s not to say that I haven’t been hit this way before, I’m sure I have. It’s just been awhile.

His name is Rick, and don’t pretend like you didn’t know this story was going to be about a boy. He is currently (soon to be recent history) the single most object of my affection and the most charming man I’ve ever met. I won’t get into logistics on how we know each other, but I know him well enough to know that he is my Mother Theresa counterpart.

It was two years ago when we first met. It wasn’t anything out of a fairy tale, just another guy at the center. Of course I thought he was cute, but I was flaky and didn’t pursue. Besides, what would I say to him? My confidence hadn’t peaked till last year and I only saw him in passing. Fast forward to now.

It must have been the serious lack of rejection in my recent history that led me to the sea of disappoint that I’m wading in. Despite all my friends telling me that he didn’t really reject me (“unfortunately” he has a girlfriend). I pretend to read into the “unfortunately”, that maybe I have a chance, but lucky for me I’m smart enough to know better.

I find the need to express the way I feel about him here in hopes that the gods of the Internet will bring us together. He’s the one I’d go straight for. Nix the ring in my nose, the scarf on my head, the fingerless gloves. Delete all the celebrities and pretty boys from my life and let my hair grow long. Move out to east Harlem and let him make me his Maria. I’d be his ride or die chick. Yeah, it’s that serious.

Why are all the cute boys in Brooklyn?

…and I’m not trying to be facetious. They really are. They’re the ones who thrive off of their creative mindsets and don’t let the temptation of green drown their passion. More often than not, you can find these boys making pretty pennies off their talent. I should know.

Today, I won’t go into the complexities that is Lucifer. Just know that this half Ecuadorian, half Peruvian boy’s daily regimen of Capoeira carved his body into that of some kind of Greek phenomenon. Just trust me on this.

The tuba player is another Brooklyn gem. Once, I was going to meet a girlfriend for tea. It must have been sometime in the spring. He came up to me and flat out asked to “chill”. Usually, this is a big turn off for me, but for some reason, I gave him my number and we “chilled” (get your mind out the gutter, I didn’t sleep with him…yet). He’s known as “the tuba player” because he plays in a well-known street band across the city. And let me tell you, he blows it pretty well.

The last young fellow I want to talk about (and certainly not the least) is the b-boy. Obviously he’s the break-dancer in my life. Is that all I really need to say about him? He’s fun, kitschy, sexy, and did I mention he’s a break-dancer? Although, you should know, that they don’t call it “break-dancing”, its actually referred to as “breaking”. And that is the new thing that you, my friend, learned today. Back to the story at hand, b-boy and I had a lot of fun. We used to come home in the middle of the night and make out in random little doorways in the Upper East Side. It was my personal wish that someone would walk in on us. That’s just the exhibitionist in me. He gets the most airtime because he and I had the most in common. He’s the only one I would have ever considered a long-term stint with.

But why Brooklyn? While Brooklyn isn’t a terrible place to live, it makes me wonder why these not-so-butter faces end up congregating within blocks of each other (meanwhile, I’m in fear of bumping into past partners during my walk of shame). Individualistic minds tend to migrate and huddle together in the depths of contrast (see: Rent). Strange as they are attempting to swim up-stream, yet displaying huge bits of hypocrisy for clinging to like-minds. Though, genius if you ask me. All I'm saying is that if my friends want to drag me out to Coney Island again, sign me up.

Don't Crush Where You Work

Isn’t that advice a little too late for me? At my previous job, I not only had a crush on a (semi) supervisor, but I asked him for dinner and ultimately ended up sleeping with him. That was nearly a year ago. I’ve been better since then, keeping myself at bay by dating guys that aren’t even in my field. In any case, it is my own personal belief that “crushing where you work” is inevitable.

They say that proximity plays a large role in relationships and dating. My inclination to believe this stems from my last two boyfriends and crushes. All in close proximity. All convenient. All boosting my already devastatingly inflated ego.

The guy who sits behind me is adorable. He jokes around with me, and we have a similar sense of humor (as evidenced by our simultaneous laughter at Star and Bucwild in the morning). He’s this buff kind of short guy. To be completely honest, I wasn’t attracted to him until I -heard him on the phone. This guy is so tough; it’s just the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. Then again, maybe I’m just horny. Also, to note, I’m hung up on flashing my six pack whenever I change into my gym clothes at work. Just to see what he does. I think he likes it. Who wouldn’t?

I vaguely recall hearing stories about couples that found each other through the throngs of co-workers that they were blessed with the opportunity to find their “soul mate” in the havens that are their workplace. Then again, what am I talking about? I don’t believe in the idea of “love” or “soul mates”, and no, that doesn’t make me a pathetic sad woman (notice I didn’t mention lonely). I am merely an avid supporter of Mr. (Dr.?) Darwin and his mysterious malady, evolution syndrome.

In any event, I would love to know what my fans (do I have any?) out in blogger land feel about this topic? I haven’t even fanned the topic of supervisor versus subordinate, but would be interested in hearing about that as well.

Anxious - the Word of the Century.

Christoph and I broke it off November of last year. Those of you who have kept up with my blog were probably wondering what happened to the perfect union. In reality, Christoph was an amazing boyfriend who I respected greatly. But alas, we were two different souls who chose separate paths. He wanted to move back home, and I wanted to move up to NYC. We both wanted to see what was out there (i.e. I have wandering eyes), and decided that if we were meant for each other, we would find our way back to each other. It was the most mature mutual break-up in the history of break-ups, and now we are good friends. No long story. No drama. Just short, simple, and sweet.

Initially, I was really scared to date after Christoph. Would I ever find a man perfect enough to replace perfection? I highly doubted it. As I ventured out into the world of dating yet again, I found myself bombarded with a slew of extremely attractive men. The first I crossed paths with was my fellow co-worker. He was the typical, tall, dark, nerdy (book smart), handsome, shy guy that I’m into. I could give him a pseudonym, but he might sense it and get anxious. That was his problem. He was too anxious to function. In fact, I shouldn't say "was"; I should say "is". I asked him out to dinner. I asked him out to dinner while I was still with Christoph. I know I'm a jerk. What made things worse was that I told Christoph that my co-worker had asked me out and that I was tempted to say yes. Christoph still doesn't know the truth, nor do I plan on telling him.

In any case, my co-worker decided he would go out with me but then never followed through. This was probably because of the anxiety that whispered in his ear about how you should never mix business with pleasure. I'm sure this is true, but come on, I'm pretty irresistible (not to be confused with "hot", it's my own personal belief that I'm a "butter face", more on that later). I pursued him like it was my job (pun intended).

Well push came to shove and we never ended up going out. Now I’m at a new job, and coincidently, he’s working in another department at the same place. We’ve spoken since, and he’s seeing someone for his anxiety, but still gets anxious about anything involving me and/or dinner or just me. My ex co-worker is the guy my parents would want me to be with. He is the stereo-typical well-established nerdy doctor who would be able to take care of me and my future family. I just want to break him in.

Did I Tell You About Toby?

So on New Years Eve, I invited Toby to come to New York City and celebrate some friends and me at a snazzy loft in Chelsea, which isn’t really my style, but it is. You know Toby, right? The guy I was in lust with since 2000, Wayne’s best friend, and the playboy of the house. Right, so I asked him to come along as “friends”.

That’s complete bullshit, I knew I was going to sleep with him, or at least try to. So we come home that night, blown out of our minds and immediately fall asleep. At the suggestion of one of my friends, I didn’t wear panties (which I’ve come to find out, ALWAYS works).

Okay, okay, so drunk out of our minds, he didn’t even make a move till the morning, but after all that hype, all those years, the good looks, the black wife beaters, and the gym workouts, WHY was the sex not that great. Okay, I mean he was the first person I slept with since Christoph but was I really setting the expectation too high? It was literally an in, out, in, out, bang, bang, done. What the hell?

Look, I don’t think I set too high an expectation. All good-looking guys aren’t great in bed, but if I hear rumors about a guy and his ability to do something right, I am going to have a set expectation on the morning runaround.

I felt kind of shitty for judging him so I bought him eggs from the diner down the street. Was that tacky?

Mistress NYC.

Yes, it’s been a long time, but I’m back at least for now and that’s all that needs to be said. Last night, I went on an off the cuff date with Lucifer (clearly a pseudonym), a guy I used to, for lack of a better term, do. Lucifer and I “dated” for approximately a month or so and stopped seeing each other because he decided to reunite with his ex-girlfriend, who he now resides with. Well, it appears that things are not all white picket fence with a little dog running around because he called me to go out with him last night.

Upon completion of dinner at my very favorite Thai place, Spice, in my very favorite part of Manhattan, Union Square, we headed over to his apartment in Brooklyn (side note: it’s strange, because all the guys I’m currently dating live there – stay tuned for future blog entitled “Why are all the cute guys in Brooklyn?”). In any case, “his apartment” was really “their apartment”, and although she wasn’t there, she was all I could see; in the curtains, in the sofa, in the shower curtain, in the movie (it was her movie). Half way thru our thrilling viewing of “V for Vendetta”, Lucifer started getting a little restless and a little fresh, and I’ll gladly admit that I was not at all offended. In fact, since a few months ago when he broke things off with me, I knew that if given the chance, I would sleep with him again. Fooling around was becoming exceptionally passionate and about an hour into it, it hit me, I was officially the mistress.

At first I pulled away as I in no way wanted to participate in a home wrecking predicament. However, as I sat back and thought about it (whilst he kissed my neck, of course), I realized how sickly appealing this situation was. In those old movies and soap operas, the mistress is always this beautiful courtesan-like goddess who was inconspicuously known as “the other woman”. It felt very erotically empowering and confidence boosting. This extremely gorgeous albeit confused man wants to break his circle of trust to potentially bed me, someone clearly more stimulating then his current beau. You might be thinking that I should instead feel offended that this man wants nothing to do with me than to have sex, but I think you fail to realize what his role is in my life at that point in time, which was sex.

This leads me to my questions. In evolutionary terms, men are known to want to spread their seed around to perpetuate their genes. Along the same evolutionary terms, women are supposed to accept sperm competition as a way of perpetuating their gene line. This would mean then that both men and women would need to copulate in order to carry on their genetic values. Why is it, then, that men are praised for their need to have sex while woman are deprecated for the same reason? Cuckoldry ensures superior genetic quality and is justification for routine sex practices in my book. What are your rules?

In case you were wondering, I didn’t sleep with Lucifer last night. I told him to think about it, and to call me on Saturday.

Bikini Martini Wax.

I get a Sphinx bikini wax (completely bare, everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, is waxed off) every two weeks. My current boyfriend says that he doesn’t really mind either way, but he sure gets excited when he sees a fresh wax. I have an appointment to get one tomorrow. It hurts. The actually wax stripping off part isn’t that bad (don’t get me wrong, it still hurts), but oddly enough, the wax is so hot that it kind of hurts (since it doesn’t normally experience such variations in temperature in that area). So Mila, my wax lady, tells me take an Advil an hour before my appointment, to ease the pain. It doesn’t work. So she tries to use an exorbitant amount of “numbing” spray. It doesn’t work and it smells funny. So I just deal with it and try to absorb the current song on the world radio station they listen to at the salon. I also think it’s funny that I’m lying half naked on the table while she finishes waxing my eyebrows. It’s not that uncomfortable though because I’ve gotten used to Mila. She’s not so bad. After she’s completed my Sphinx, she always says “Have fun”. I love it.

Hey Virgin, Get a Life.

I’ve had two serious relationships, Mr. E and Christoph.

I met Mr. E when I was in my sophomore year at college. Either he and I hit it off or we were just really horny (I believe in the latter), but we started dating and became pretty serious for about eight months till I realized that all he did was bring me down. I never gave it up to him. He was either depressed or bipolar, and trust me, I have the credentials to pseudo-diagnose.

I met Christoph, my present-day boyfriend, before I met Mr. E, but we never interacted much till after Mr. E and I broke it off (or I broke it off with him). Let me tell you a little about Christoph. His roommates were very dear friends of mine, which is why we initially started interacting. We hit it off after a few innocent lunches, and here we are today on the verge of moving in together (his idea, not mine).

(CAUTION: PERSONAL INFORMATION REVELATION) I am now 23 years old, and I lost my virginity last year. At first, I thought I was so cool for waiting, and even cooler for waiting a whole year before giving it up to Christoph. As I asked colleagues and friends on their thoughts of the situation (given in a hypothetical context for fear of judgment), I found that either I had waited too long or that people were envious of my ability to control myself (probably the former).


If Christoph is “the one”, then he will be my first and last. So to blogger-land, I posit the following question, will I regret one day that I chose to wait so long as to only have one sexual experience in my lifetime or did I make a great decision and you will attempt to live vicariously through my real life dream of meeting the one and only who I am both mentally and physically compatible with?

What Women Want.

It is evolutionary. If you don’t believe, I suggest you read David Buss’s book, “"The Evolution of Desire"”. (I should mention that I had the esteemed pleasure of meeting him this past weekend). I just finished reading the chapter on “What Women Want”, and let me tell you that book is marked up with so many comments and discussion points with passages underlined all over the place. It is unbelievable how many traits in the opposite sex (in my case, males) can be traced back to the annals of evolution.

Some points that stuck out to me. Women want men they are compatible with. Who doesn’t? But seriously, Buss points out that women want men that have “similar characteristics” to themselves. This point is still gnawing on me. The reason being, Christoph (a pseudonym for my current boyfriend). He and I have vastly different characteristics. I’m what Buss calls the “extrovert who enjoys wild parties” while Christoph is the “introvert who prefers quiet evenings at home”. According to his passage, our relationship should be full of strife. However, I beg to differ. Christoph and I are in actuality extremely compatible and have in fact rubbed off on one another (figuratively, of course) in that he has become more outgoing and I have mellowed out (only slightly). So to you Dr. David Buss, who I bestow the deepest and utmost respect upon, I question your reasons of compatibility in the form of similar characteristics within mate choices.

The other part that stuck out to me was the “When Women Have Power” piece. It was an incredibly well written passage that provided concrete examples to the evolutionary history behind women who have power and the men they press upon themselves. I agree whole heartedly with this part of the chapter, in that women who have power only want men who have more power. No wonder the Queen of England never remarried.

To those of you in blogger land, I ask what your views are on the evolution of what women want. There will be more passages on the topic of desire and such as I continue my trip through this literary masterpiece, I urge you to read it as well so you may better understand the basis of my writing.

Attachment Theory

I'll come back and edit this post, but just so you know, love is just attachment.

Edit- Okay - so I'm not really sure if I believe in love. I come from the Steven Platek school of "love doesn't exist" so of course I'm slightly biased, but he makes a good point.

Mating is based on resources and genetics, right? The male with the better resources and better genetic make-up wins. So, how was love evolved? It wasn't.

The theory is this, the idea and feeling of "love" is simply strong feelings of attachment. I can cite a number of sources with in depth research on this theory and its origins, but just think about it.

Our ancestors dealt with mate retention in a similar fashion we do today. We yearn to keep a mate with an increased amount of resources and genetic superiority because in the end, those genes will perpetuate. The idea of love has no basis in this evolved method of mating and retention.

I'm not trying to be pessimistic, but if you put this theory into play, you realize that love doesn't exist, and it's a sad but true fact. I urge you to convince me otherwise, but don't try and convert me, I'm already an attachment theory believer.

What is beyond the drink?

Hi. I will go by bikini martini. It's a pseudonym that was given to me at my current place of employment, so in essence, there may be a slight chance that some of you out there in the blog world may know me, I urge you to keep my identity to yourself.

I entitled this blog "I Gossip About Sex, Not Ethics" mostly because all my gossip involves sex. One could go as far as saying I am sex-obsessed. You wouldn't be wrong.

I won't give you any more personal information about myself right off the bat, except that I am a female. Other personal items may ensue as I continue writing, but as for now, I will keep things under wrap. It provides you with a little mystery and, I would hope, will allow you to keep wanting more.

Do take my writing in stride, as I am sometimes an obnoxious and blunt individual. I welcome your comments, positive, negative, and neutral.