Play by the Rules, Boys.

Over the course of the past four months my friend, Shari, has been seeing this tasty little number, Raj. With an average of about one date per month, she went on date number four last night. Shari was staying with me for the weekend, so last night, he met us at my place and we headed over to some out-of-the-way bar in Soho. I had to immediately trek back home because the arepas I had earlier that night weren’t settling well in my stomach.

It was my first time meeting Raj, and after what I heard about it him, I was pretty psyched to meet him. He was a straight out of Brooklyn type kid who was clearly intelligent. It was clear that he was psychologically capable of reading a situation. Even Shari was able to pick up on his ability to "analyze".

I didn’t even hear Shari come home in the morning, which I suspect was around 4am (and I know you’re thinking, hey, light sleeper, let me try and break in. I’m not, go ahead and try it, you’ll be staring down the barrel of my .45 berretta that I’ll bitch slap you with.). To be honest, I had hoped she wouldn’t come back and would spend the night at Raj’s not because I didn’t want her here, god no. Shari is actually one of two of my closest friends. While she hasn’t given her virginity up yet, she isn’t as straight arrow as you might think. So, I was hoping she would get just a little lucky.

So anyway, I woke up at 9am and noticed that she was here, and immediately proceeded to wake her up and find out if she hooked up. She didn’t. This meant we launched into the post-date analysis. If you know me, you’d know that I hate analyzing a situation. Nothing should have to be analyzed, and everything should just be straightforward. Unfortunately, I’m the only one of my friends who thinks this way.

Thus, we analyzed. What was Raj’s deal? He pings Shari on the computer regularly. Shari proactively texts Raj while he continues to be reactive. He hasn’t kissed her yet. New-age computer conversations and text messaging. Four months, four dates. It may sound hackneyed, but it’s what our generation is about, and you know it, so deal with. In other words, a phone call would have made so much more sense, but we’re in 2011, so it doesn’t.

In any event, Shari has been putting in more of an effort than Raj. We could spend countless hours wondering if he was interested or not. My theory is simple. Why entertain a gorgeous, OVERLY educated female in your already complicated life if you’re not interested? Whether he is interested or not, why go through the trouble?

I’m very protective of my friends, so I’m judgmental of ANYONE they bring around me. Whether it’s a guy, girl, dog, or bamboo shoot. I hate dealing with partners of my friends who can’t follow the evolutionary rules. I am totally supportive of the fact that you can’t commit because it’s biological. But don’t string my friend along if you don’t know what you are interested in. It seems almost parsimonious that he is still around because he is interested in something long term.

I could go into the whole long ramble into how girls and guys can’t be friends (the short story is that one end is ALWAYS going to want to sleep with the other end, it’s just the way nature developed us), but I won’t go into that in this post.

Because we live in a society where commitment is the norm, I realize that guys have complexes about commitment since historically, there is minimal basis for a man to commit. I just don't condone uncertainty. I don’t get what the big deal is. Either you want to commit or you don’t. It doesn’t make any biological sense why guys can’t be straightforward like their ancestral counterparts. A coy female is more evolutionarily sound than a coy male.

I’m not saying Raj is one of these guys; it just brought this question to my mind. Guys are really easy to read. I’m not lying. They play by the evolutionary rules about 90% of the time, and it’s more than easy to get what you want out of them. When they don’t play by the rules, and a woman like me comes around to call them out, they end up wanting to kill themselves for being called out as an insecure male. It’s sad, but true, and frankly, I don’t care.

If Shari wants to bring Raj around me again, I’ll be interested in learning more about him so that I can analyze him and figure out what his deal is. Does he really want to be with Shari? Or is he just stringing her along until something better comes along? Obviously, I have my own theories, but perhaps you all out there have something to offer. I’d be happy to be debunked of my own preconceptions regarding a man’s ability to commit.

I have to once again dedicate this post to Shari, for without her, I would have jumped off the Walt Whitman Bridge years ago. I love you.

The Proverbial Sugar Mommy

So I think I’ve hit a crossroads in my life. I’m not exactly sure how or why, but I’ve come to question myself. Perhaps because I’ve invited too many people into my real life and its starting to collapse on itself. Before I went to college, I was such a loner, not to mention overweight. I had low self-esteem and the dude(s) I wanted didn’t want me back.

Fast forward to ten years later where not only am I over confident with an inflated sense of self, I have a body to match. I’ve been riding this wave for about five years where sex is just something I’ve added to my routine and relationships are a contrived behavior that neither I, nor anybody needs to participate in.

So I’m not really sure why I’m coming off feeling like I need to be with somebody. The cognitive dissonance that my mind and body is going through right now isn’t helping my already anxious self. I am actually willing to go as far as to blame society and related norms that include “settling down” and “marriage theory”.

Okay so anyway, given the unique nature of my personality, I’m one of the most rare finds in the human female species. I’m confident and independent. In turn, I’m aggressive because I know what I want, and will do what ever it takes to get it. I’ve lived by this mantra and it’s gone pretty well for me. I received my graduate degree in human sexuality. I have founded my own non-profit organization. I am financially independent, physically active, have a smoking physique, and I know how to take care of myself, and subsequently do. Did I mention I can cook?

You know, I always thought I was a great catch. I thought that given all the amazing qualities I just outlined above, I’d have to be very careful about the dudes I’m having casual sex with for fear they fall in love with me. On the contrary, given my aggressive nature, I’ve been hit up for countless sexual encounters, and the one guy I thought I could potentially have a real dinner with called me out. I don’t want to quote him exactly, but he indicated that my personality was great for sex, but not so much for a relationship.

It got me thinking about how men perceive the women they want to “be with”. I mean, evolutionarily, men are attracted to women who have a low waist to hip ratio to bear children (I’d get a point for that) and who have large breasts to nurse their many children (okay minus a point). When it comes to personalities, it is a little more complicated.

Women have been genetically evolved to be reliant on men since the dawn of time. So does it just make sense that men are more inclined to be attracted to a woman who is needy and dependent? Where does that leave the new-age woman who is a confident, independent, beater-wearing, aggressive-get-what-she-needs proverbial sugar mommy? Since I’m a firm believer in evolutionary theory, I’ve come to this crossroads that a guy can’t be seriously interested in me merely because I don’t “need him” and thus a complex has developed.

I know it sounds ridiculously obscene and nonsensical, but when it comes to instinctual evolutionary bullshit that I like to spew, we were meant to breed and genetically perpetuate. That being said, I don’t ever plan on giving in. I plan on staying confident and aggressive. I can take care of myself and anyone else who comes along, and if that means I can’t physically or emotionally “be with” someone, then so be it. I’ve been way to successful to ever see myself throwing anything away.

I’d like to dedicate this post to GB who I wanted to have a real dinner with in the past, but lost my chance. I bet I’ll make you happier than any girl that comes along, but I’m going to try and avoid being that girl. Good luck, GB.

Jab, Jab, Block.

I’m an asshole. I’m a hypocrite. I feel like jumping off a bridge. I quit sleeping with Pecs about two weeks ago when I realized I didn’t want to lose him to some nice girl he was eyeing. Thank god I’m rational enough to realize I had to end it before things progressed.

After the gushing and aw-ing of all my friends passed, I sat down and had some serious conversations regarding my state of mind. It’s all great and good that I’m able to stay reasonable and quit seeing this guy without being a psycho, but now what? He made it clear he isn’t interested in me, and frankly, I figured as much. I’m too much of a confident intimidating badass for him.

Whatever, I’m over it. But I think I’m in a different mindset. Sure, I still don’t agree with monogamy, but maybe there is something to having someone on call who you can not only have sex with, but perhaps a meaningful conversation thrown in between rounds.

I know. I am definitely not practicing what I preach, but I’m always one to break rules. I might have been that girl who just didn’t want to get her proverbial heart broken. I don’t ever want to be in a vulnerable state and subject myself to anything that will hurt. You see where I’m going with this? Relationships are like being in the ring. There’s always an adrenaline rush. Sometimes you have to take a break, but you let your guard down once, and you get knocked down. That’s how boxers are bred. We keep our arms up, elbows in. Defensive blocks are always in play, even when no punch is expected. We bob, we weave, and we avoid punches and clinches at any cost.

I’ve decided that I’m going to quit trying to play Black Ops. Why change my personality, when it’s gradually evolving on its own? I can have meaningful conversations with people who aren’t my best friends and family. Maybe I need to see what’s out there and “grow up” like everyone is telling me to. I’m not saying I want to settle down and have babies, but if a guy wants to wine and dine me, I might drop my elbows a little. You know, as stupid as it sounds, I’m going to dedicate this post to Pecs. If it weren’t for him, I probably wouldn’t have realized I was being such an asshole.

There's a First Time for Everything

Lately, a lot of virgins have been reaching out to me about advice regarding their first time in bed. I’m actually pretty flattered that of all the resources out there, I’d be the one you’d ask. All joking aside, I’ve actually come to appreciate virgins. One of my best friends is a virgin. I mean, you couldn’t tell by looking at or talking to her, but she is, and she’s awesome.

In any event, what can I really say about my first time? It was in the middle of a snowstorm, and Christoph and I were just really horny and bored, so we just went for it. It was what it was. It didn’t hurt like everyone ingrains into us growing up. Maybe there is some truth in the whole working-out-breaks-the-hymen theory. And I didn’t see fireworks, confetti, or anything mind blowing like I do now.

Now first and foremost, ladies, please know your anatomy. I’ve spoken to dozens of females who simply do not know their own anatomy. Our tax dollars at use. Okay, enough blame on the public school system (or even private for that matter). I can’t stress enough that you know your anatomy. Furthermore, its more important than just knowing how many holes you have. Know your body. Understand what makes you tick. Go back to previous post “Finish Her” and take time to investigate yourself. In the end, losing your virginity doesn’t have anything to do with orgasms and you won’t have one anyway, but it’s always good to be prepared. Ladies, bring condoms. Dudes won’t remember, and you can’t expect them to. I’ll recommend the Trojan For Her Pleasures (they are in a purple box). The ones with any type of lubricant are good, but I prefer the spermicidal lubricant (all the better to prevent any future baby martinis running around).

I hate addressing virgin dudes simply because I don’t trust them. However, I will say this much to you. Fucking relax. You get in there and pull a bang bang, homegirl will throw you out, and if she doesn’t, I’ll get the bat signal and throw your ass out myself. Even a virgin girl doesn’t want a “premature” end to her first time. If you know you’re going to bust quick, jerk off a few times that day to ensure maximum performance. Also, contrary to most advice, I’d also recommend skipping the foreplay. That shit is played out anyway. Please also know the female anatomy and what hole you’ll be landing in, if you aren’t already schooled, stop reading this, and google it. Bring condoms, females usually don’t stock up. Trojan Ribbed are what I recommend (they are in a yellow box). Again, spermicidal lubricant is preferred. The reason I recommend this one over the Ultra Thins, is simply to delay gratification. If you think you can handle having sex and not finishing too fast, invest in the Trojan Ultra Thins (they are in a dark blue box).

I mean, I think the bottom line for all parties involved is don’t stress out. Stressing out will only make it worse. Also, if you’re so concerned about getting hurt, invest in a bottle of lubricant, but be careful with that because sometimes you can be allergic and not know it, and itching down there is a pain in the ass, well a pain in the something down there.

A lot of people save themselves for the right person. I wasn’t that chick. I just couldn’t find a dude who wanted to bed a big girl. It didn’t matter; I waited a year before I gave it up to Christoph, and I wasn’t impressed with him or the act. I mean obviously things have changed, but in the end, losing your virginity is really not that serious. I will say that you should take care in losing it. It’s something you can’t take back and you’ll want to remember it as a positive experience. Perhaps, you don’t have to lose it to the bum on the corner of 23rd and 1st, but maybe your best friend could help you out one day when you’re both bored in the middle of a snowstorm.

I can guarantee that if you wait for that special someone, you WILL regret it whether you admit it or not. So, go out, lose it, and report back. This one is dedicated to all the virgins.

Dick in Jane

Did you know that penis size is correlated to genetic viability? It’s true. Big penises fair well in the environment. Growing up, all I heard from people was “big dick” this and “big dick” that. “Bigger is better”, etc etc. I grew up thinking that a big penis would result in a successful pair bond (see: relationship). So, imagine my surprise when I saw my first penis (let’s forget about the fact that I was in college), and it wasn’t as big as I thought it would be and actually complained about it to my friends.

I don’t know why I did that. I wasn’t going to sleep with the dude. I just had this picture in my mind of having a big penis. I was so ingrained to think that a big penis meant I’d have better sex (when I decided 10 years later that I’d have sex).

My first time was with an average sized penis. He fit in me okay and the sex was good. Soon thereafter, I’ve had pretty average sizes with a small one thrown in every now and then. In fact, I just assumed that the average sizes I was being pelted with (no pun intended, okay, pun is intended) were in fact “big dicks”. Up until Enrique, I’ve never experienced a “big dick”.

So as you’ve read, I couldn’t take Enrique. It hurt, barely fit in me, and I never invited him back over again. So it got me thinking what the big hype was with size. I could barely take an average guy (I mean, I’m physically shallow, so that makes sense), but how deep could an average female be? I mean physically, we females are all able to expand to all kinds of crazy sizes, but let’s be serious, even a rubber band has a breaking point.

Okay, so my friend Dom has a big penis. He’s not afraid to admit it and has confessed to me that many girls aren’t able to take it. In fact, only one of the girls he’s been with is able to take it easily. Dom is very good-looking, successful, smart, and has a big penis, it just makes him even more genetically superior. Or so we think.

Moving forward, I want to stick with average guys or less. I’m sorry fellows, but I’m pushing 30. My pussy is in its prime and I can’t go breaking it with some huge ass dude who thinks he’s getting lucky with some hot female boxer who should be able to take it, but is hiding a shallow well.

So you got my opinion on big penises. And I’d love to hear yours. It will help me understand the theory behind why females love a big penis, because I’m more than certain that you females out there prefer a big penis. And keep in mind, a big penis, doesn’t mean average sized, so send me your sizes too. For the record, if I had to choose, I’d take a good 3-4 inches over a girthy 10 any day.

(Editor's note: Title is courtesy of PP).

Black Ops

So the best thing about me is that I cut the bullshit out. Whether it comes to friends, family, or relationships, I don’t ever play games. I give things at face value and can literally read a persons mind by what they are saying and how they are acting. You know what I love about these no frills marathon sex sessions? The fact that we cut the bullshit and both of us are here for one thing and one thing only. There is no need to analyze the situation and wonder whether he likes me or if I like him because who the hell cares. I’m getting off in the end.

It’s not a terrible thing that guys are ready to wine and dine me to get into my pants, but I’m seriously over that crap, and quite honestly, was never really into it. I’m way too independent for that shit, and there’s only one thing I need from a guy that I can't get on my own (I've broken two vibrators, it's cheaper to just find a guy).

Okay so, besides Pecs, I’ve met several dozen guys over the past few months (and for the record, contrary to popular belief, I keep one sexual partner at a time, so besides Pecs, I haven’t slept with any of them yet). I didn’t play any games to meet them and stuck with my obnoxious, no-filter, tomboy, sex-obsessed self. It has resulted in a pretty attractive pool of suitors whom I could call upon if I’m ever feeling restless and without a current suitor. I’m finding, however, that these guys have been programmed to offer a wine and dine prior to any fun in my bed. It’s like they want to pay me in advance for my sexual services.

You know, I could go into an angry tirade about how ALL sex is prostitution no matter how you slice it and how being a whore should be considered a respectable, and profitable, occupation, and that the stigma NEEDS to be dropped. But I won’t. Instead today, I want to talk about a social experiment I want to conduct.

Given my unique personality, I attract a certain type of guy. A sex positive, ready and willing, and able-bodied guy (who usually works out and has a body I can climb). Okay, so I want to switch things up. I want to see what would happen if I put myself out there as a relationship-hungry, marriage-searching, biological clock-ticking, 20-something semi-desperate female.

Here’s the plan. Starting tomorrow, guys I meet will hear a completely different story about who I am. I want to see how many guys will take me out on a date. If the guy is stupid enough to fall for my ploy, I’m going to see how many dates I get before he drops me for not giving it up. My theory is that the average number of dates I’ll be going on will be 2, and after the last date, I’ll hear from him only sporadically and finally I’ll cease to exist. Guys...no, people are an easy read.

I know it sounds cruel-hearted, and it is, and I don’t care. It’s an experiment, a covert operation. And after all, you all are used to playing games, right?

Marriage...and Other Stuff

It’s May. The inevitable season for weddings is upon us, and I’ve been swallowed whole like Jon Voight in Anaconda when he was gobbled up by that giant snake and then spit him out later in front of J-Lo covered in intestinal fluid and saliva. I actually really like that scene.

I can’t stand weddings. Not because I have to mingle with people I haven’t seen for several years who spend 5 of the 10 minutes you speak with them about how much weight you lost, who you’re seeing, and when you’re getting married. No, that’s not why I can’t stand them, well, I mean mostly.

My friends know better than to talk about wedding bullshit with me, but they’re all believers of the perfect union between two people spending the rest of their lives in holy matrimony with a pair of kids in tow.

The sacredness surrounding marriage, or “sanctity” if you will, is forced to say the least. I guess I should start from the beginning. Assumptions around ancient man indicate there was no such thing as marriage. In fact, men vied for several females, and females chose males based on resources and genetic viability. Evolutionary, women would cuckold their mate if a more suitable mate happened to swing by.

Fine. So why does marriage even exist. Who knows? I blame Plato (as I do with everything that has to do with sexual taboo). As I previously mentioned, marriage involves lifelong union and presumably offspring. A law binding two people together so there is never any parental uncertainty. Crap.

If you think marriage is the next step in this thing we call life, that’s up to you. But the truth is, as soon as we hit puberty, we were supposed to begin pro creating, but that’s frowned upon. In fact, we’ve made it a business to publicize this “freak show” of “underage” pregnancies (See: Teen Mom, etc).

I’m not sure where I was going with this. I started out this piece wanting to discuss why people got married. Instead, I’m talking about evolution and bad TV shows. I think what I want to say without going into too much science crap is that marriage is unnatural. I’ve expressed my distaste in monogamy, so I won’t go into a tirade against it, but we were built to perpetuate our genes for purposes of superiority. It just doesn’t make sense to settle with one person when at any given moment a more genetically viable mate could pass by. And I’m not condoning cheating mostly because I’m not condoning exclusivity.

That’s not to say I don’t support my friends who are getting married. Let the record show that I am serving as a bridesmaid for one of my very dear friends. I just think that if she wants to cheat on her husband, I won’t only cover for her; I’ll pay for the hotel room and Trojans.

(Note: I want to dedicate this post to Nikki who is getting married in two weeks and I really couldn't be more happy for her.)

Finish Her

Did you know that females are capable of two types of orgasms during a given sexual tryst? I polled my friends about this. Everyone seems to be aware of the notorious clitoral orgasm. You know the one I’m talking about. The one we first discovered when we were hiding in our bedrooms late at night, living at our parents house, wearing our little flower night gowns.

Now we’re grown up, and it’s still pretty much the only one we know about, and frankly, the only one our male counterparts are familiar with and (hopefully) work hard at getting us off with.

However there is in fact another orgasm , that we, as women, are capable of achieving: the powerful, elusive, and mysterious vaginal orgasm. I first learned about the VO when I was in college. A sex-crazed friend of mine sat me down one night and described the difference between a clitoral versus vaginal orgasm. This friend was a male and I couldn’t take him seriously. What did this “guy” know about orgasms? He finishes through an oversized clitoris known as a penis. I was a virgin till graduate school. I only knew one orgasm. I only studied one orgasm. I only had one type orgasm, but I was intrigued.

I looked into the theory of the “vaginal orgasm”, the so-called G-spot, like an internal release button that’s power is unknown until triggered. Our fathers of sex, Sigmund Freud and Charles Darwin explained the evolutionary and sexual theory behind the “vaginal orgasm”. The possibility of a stronger, destructive, stimulator, I was more than sold, I was pre-ordering.

So, I decided to go on an “archeological dig”. Not the worst phrase considering my means. After several, SEVERAL feeble attempts at triggering this impalpable orgasm, I was beginning to lose faith in my Freudian and Darwinian gods. I’ll admit, it took some time, but one day, while attempting once again, I felt something. A few twists and turns later, drenched in sweat and exhaustion I arrived at my destination.

I mean, I didn’t really know how it would feel, but the effect was mind blowing. If you can remember your first every clitoral orgasm, it’s something like that, but better, because you know what you’re actually doing and how it’s going to feel after.

I was more blown by the fact that it was true. There are two types of orgasms. Both are unique but equally pleasurable. So the next question I had was how could I harness the power of the orgasm to achieve it when I wanted to.

Easier said than done, orgasms aren’t alarm clocks. It took several weeks to find said orgasm again, but this time, I attempted to find the spot, and I did. Slowly but surely, I was able to manipulate the energy that was my internal orgasm.

Okay, enough about that. I decided that I would throw another wrench into the mix (again, not the worst phrase considering my means), and see if a guy could produce the same effect. What I found was pretty interesting. Depending on whom I was with (and how long he could last), I could manipulate my body so as to have him hit the right spot.

Okay, so, I had two orgasms under my belt. I had the elusive vaginal orgasm, and the ever-popular clitoral orgasm. What do I do with them? Well, have sex obviously. What I found was with each partner and each mind-blowing orgasm I was becoming increasingly insatiable. What was even more interesting was that not only could I produce my desired effect, I was beginning to achieve multiple orgasms in quick speed of light succession with a recharge rate of about 2 minutes (gasp!).

This isn’t a “vaginal orgasm” tutorial, mostly because we’re all wired differently and there really is no such thing as a G-spot. I will, however, say this much. A VO isn’t a nub at the top of our crotch (see clitoris). It’s not a spot. It’s a method. Furthermore, it’s not always the guys’ job to produce the VO. In fact, for all intents and purposes, it’s the female’s responsibility to determine a. whether she can achieve the vaginal orgasm, and b. “work it” so that she can get hers. Other than that, I can’t help you.

My belief is that any female is capable of the VO, but it’s an acquired and practiced phenomenon. So ladies, I dedicate this post to you. Take the time out of your busy, career-driven, sex-filled, gym-going schedules and “search within” yourself. I promise, it’s more than worth it.

Pandora's Box

This isn’t an erotic story blog so I’ll save you from the specifics of my “best I’ve ever had” marathon sex session with Pecs from this past weekend. Although I think with these sessions, I opened up a Pandora’s box of questions. After consulting with my inner circle full of genius romantics and fiend-ish assholes, I realized I was being a closed minded jerk. I bet you’re wondering how a female so open with her sexuality and sexual practices could be so blind to the possibility of even newer practices. Give me a break, there’s always something new to learn in any disciple, even if you happen to be a master at it.

I pride myself in leaving emotions go at the door. Now you’re thinking that I was emotionally hurt in my past and so I have a bias, either that or I’m a sociopath. Fortunately, I haven’t had the opportunity to have my proverbial heart broken, nor am I fortunate to be born devoid of emotion. I also haven’t had the opportunity to be in “love”. Mostly because I don’t believe in love because evolutionary speaking, it doesn’t exist. Sorry to burst your bubble, but “love” is an evolved term and placeholder for attachment. I digress.

I’ve been partaking in these meaningless marathon sex sessions with a new young fellow in my life. Truth be told, it’s the most amazing sex I’ve had in my 7 years of sexual practice. So much so, it’s been leaving me in a euphoric haze for up to 5 days. Again, I digress.

It’s 2011 and females are as sexually active as ever. Short term mating is the wave of the future (if not the present), and the taboo around sex is quickly disintegrating (if not already). Meaningless sex for both parties involved, no emotion, no connection, just sex. Short term mating at its finest.

Traditional long-term mating involves dinner, drinks, and sometimes a movie. Sex comes in around date number three. “Copulation” has become a general practice in the search for a long-term mate. However, what I failed to realize (and thanks to my friend, Shari, for calling me out on this), is that short term mating has become a practice to find a long-term mate.

How does this relate to my marathon sex sessions and me? Let’s say that I’m a normal female. I’d be having sex with this guy to get my rocks off, leaving my emotions at the door, but wait; maybe this guy could be more than just a “live dildo”. Maybe, just maybe, he could be a potential long-term mate. So I scrutinize him. He’s a little short, but he is physically fit. He has a successful job, which in turn means stable income, which in TURN means resources. Okay, so a genetically viable mate, whom I’ve been short term mating with could be a potential long-term mate.

I can’t even type that with a straight face, but the question still remains, can you turn a short-term sexual relationship into a long-term more-than-just-sex relationship? After exploring the possibility that this could happen (because I’ve been so ingrained to think otherwise), I’ve come upon several theories behind the inner evolutionary workings of a short term to long term relationship, but I wanted to pose this question to the blog world. Can you turn a short-term mate into a long-term mate; can meaningless sex turn into a real relationship? Are there readers out there that have experienced this? If so, tell me about the experience, and how and why this happened. I’m curious to know the play by play. And for the record, I'm not looking for a long-term mate.

You’re Still Getting Laid

I spent about 10 minutes freaking out that Pecs and NF were the same person. I was disgustingly turned on by the fact that this was straight out of “You’ve Got Mail” – the sex version. We spent the next hour talking about the overlaps between “NF” and “Pecs” and what was true and what wasn’t.

Naturally, being blown out of the water meant none of my questions for NF were answered. To him, this was a game. To me, I felt like an idiot for falling for his mind games. I did my thesis on mind games. Some would even venture so far as to say I invented mind games. What the hell?

Still reeling from being mind fucked to another planet, we decided to walk around a little (translation: go back to my place). We went back to my place and enjoyed some of the 2-buck-chuck I stocked up on earlier that weekend and watched game 1s of the NBA finals (lets go CELTICS!).

We ended up in bed around 3pm. We got out of bed at 9:30pm. This dude, 5 foot 3 inches tall, uncut South East Asian, caramel skinned, impeccable pecs handled me 5 times in that time. And when I say he handled, I mean, he HANDLED. All positions, no holds bar, brief conversation breaks, videotaping, pictures, the whole nine. A perfect sexual rendez-vous for a lazy Sunday.

I’m not going to talk about how he screamed like a little bitch when my cat jumped on the bed or how we made plans to see each other next weekend when I’d rather just do him again tonight, tomorrow, and Wednesday.

Instead, I’d like to tread on the topic of “Friends With Benefits”. This is the worst term I’ve ever heard of. There is no such thing as a friend with benefits. If someone calls you a FWB, or suggests doing a FWB, throw caution to the wind. That person thinks it’s going to end up somewhere. It’s a prelude to “I can’t just be FWB with you anymore, I want to take this to the next level”.

Thus, I propose we bring a new phrase into our lingo, “Sex Friends”. These are friends that you have sex with and also hang out with. Mostly because you have too much in common to refrain from sleeping with each other. And why hold yourself back anyway?

I sent my new “sex friend”, NF/Pecs on his way back to Jersey like a good boy. I left a battle scar on his neck. I don’t care who he does before I see him again, but in the event that he does, the battle scar will indicate, “BM was here first!” And chances are, BM rides it better than you.

I’m nervous that he might fall in love with me, but then again, who doesn’t fall in love with me. Who knows, I might just give him a chance. Yeah right.

You've Got Laid

So about a month ago, I started following this guy on twitter (not Pecs). For the sake of this blog, let’s call him Nightfox or NF for short. NF is really private. So much so that people don’t even know who he is in real life. In fact, it was my own personal belief that he might actually be a she. This dude had some pretty funny things to say, some of my friends were following him, and so I thought what the hell. He has a decent following, so something must be interesting. I guess some of his tweets were funny. Well, funny enough for me to respond to, and of course he dug that, because before I knew it, we were g-chatting.

I liked the conversations I was having with NF. He reminded me of a 12-year old stuck in a 20-something body which consequently is the story of my life. I was intrigued, to say the least, that I was chatting with a faceless voice of the internet, being more than envious of his faithful following and badly wanting to meet the face behind the charisma, charm, and articulation that was his blog. I knew given the chance, I’d jump him. I knew right away he was interested, but NF played it cool. I knew that if he met me, I could have easily had my way with him, I’m more than convincing. The plan was to just have him meet me and see where it went. So we made plans to meet in the park for a coffee (okay at this point I thought the dude might be gay).

A week later, I started chit chatting with Pecs (who I befriended via NFs twitter page). Ironically, it turns out NF and Pecs are actually friends, which figures. They went to school together, they work out together, blah blah blah. So I thought to myself, fine, if NF wants to play his stupid mind games, what the hell, I’ll make plans to sleep with his hot friend, Pecs, who’s face I knew and pecs I wanted to know. Congratulate me.

I don’t think NF cared that I was sleeping with his friend, I mean he should because it’s me, but at least his buddy was getting some right? In any event, as per my last post, I made plans to meet Pecs for a down and dirty tryst. Coincidentally NF and I made plans to meet on the same day. I figured I could meet NF in the park, have conversations, and leave him hard in the park as I left to ride his friend, like a classic asshole.

All day, I was more nervous to meet NF than Pecs. Not only was he faceless, I was so taken with his writing that I couldn’t even focus on the questions I had planned on asking him if I ever met him. Yeah, it was that serious. And at this point, I was so nervous, I didn’t even want to sleep with him. I just wanted to meet him. I was mad at myself for not being able to calm the nervous energy in me. I’m that confident asshole who gets what she wants. Why I couldn’t relax, was beyond me.

I’m not an idiot. I made a plan to have my trainer and few boxing buddies meet me at the park to scope out the scene to make sure I was safe. NF could be a crazy berretta-wielding nutcase, right? I was smart about that. Found a seat on the south side of the park and listened to music to get me in the mood for my tryst with Pecs later. NF arrived early, and my heart was beating in my chest like a little bitch.

He was seated elsewhere in the park so I agreed to stroll around and locate him (in his black shirt, jeans, and “sexy shades” – his words, not mine). I threw on my natural sexy air of confidence and strolled to the east side of the park. I walked down the path, and looked to my left, and saw him. Black shirt, jeans, and sexy shades. It was NF, and it was Pecs. Pecs was NF. NF was Pecs.

Pecs

So I met this guy on twitter. Don't you love stories that start like that? Anyway, I met this guy on twitter and we've been sending each other PG-13 to rated R pictures back and forth for the past few days. He has a pretty amazing body including pecs that I want nothing more to do with than to climb.

As you probably know, I'm very open with my sexuality and sexual practices. That being said, please see conversation below between Pecs and I:

P: You seem like a fun girl.
Me: aw, you're just saying that because you want a massage. i give that for free, no need to suck up. but in all seriousness, i am fun.
Me: you seem like a fun dude.
P: Yeah I can tell. So lets get to the point, what are you looking for?
Me: sex. you?
P: Pretty much the same, as long as it doesn't come with any drama.
Me: don't know the definition of the word. ask my references (available upon request). < insert my number here >. let me know if you have a bb.

Shortly after this exchange, I received a message from Pecs and we proceeded to make plans to meet each other approximately a week after we started corresponding, a straight-forward, no frills, sex date.

I'll be sure to post about the encounter shortly following, but I ask my readers out there to tell me if you've ever made such an appointment in your books. A down and dirty play date. I won't judge you if his/her pecs were impeccable.

Broken Dance

So last night, I invited the age old disgustingly chiseled break dancer (as I remembered him) over for a drink (translation: sex). He was on the first day of a 9-day detox fast where he drinks water, shakes, and forgoes caffeine and alcohol. So I offered him water. I digress.

He's actually very good looking. A little smaller than I remembered him, and clothes less obnoxious, but I didn't hold it against him (I mean, later I did when I was describing him to my friends, but I didn't at the moment). We caught up on the recent events he was managing at SXSW, and decided that neither of us really cared, so we cut to the chase.

I remember him being 5 times in one night, sleeping in, going in late to work kind of stuff. So imagine my surprise when the rare "in and out, in and out, bang bang" reared it's ugly head. He was finished in 2, I needed another 20.

I mean, I get it. He hasn't gotten any in awhile (that's what happens when you lose 20lbs, buddy), he's on day 1 of his stupid fast, he's been stressed at work, blah blah blah, but you're not even 30 yet. I'll leave him on tap for one more ride, just to make sure it wasn't a fluke, but in my world, 2nd strike, and you're out.

I let him finish me off, it was the least I could offer.

Ow Papi

20 days later, I sleep with him.

Initial thoughts? None because it put me to sleep - in a good way.

Secondary thoughts? Ow.

I was actually one of those people who thought the bigger, the better, so bring it. Little did I know the trouble that it would get me into. Enrique came over and after a a formality of watching a movie (Up in the Air, which I recommend), I was a only slightly taken aback when I saw him, and furthermore thought it would work out. And after a much needed, great nights sleep, I woke up sore with a dull achy pain.

The term bittersweet was never used better.

I don't want to get any more explicit, because I'd rather keep this blog about my sexual exploits as appropriate as possible (does that even make sense?), but I open this up to the blogsphere and ask, has it ever been so big, it hurt? And if so, did you try it again?

Ay Papi

I went to my new favorite salsa bar a few weeks ago hoping to see “Guitar Hero”, the guitarist of the band playing the week before, who currently had in his possession my lust. A different band was playing, so I thought to make the most of it and met Enrique. He was cute enough and an excellent dancer so I gave him my number. He said he’d give me a call, and without fail, I received a text within 24 hours (for future reference, I would have preferred a phone call, but its fine). We made plans to meet later in the week for a drink.

He had me meet him in the East Village at this darling tapas place. I got there a few minutes early, sat down, and ordered white wine sangria (which is my current drink of choice). He arrived a few minutes later and we proceeded to sit down for some tapas and get to know each other.

I learned that Enrique had come to America 10 years ago from Puerto Rico. Has an MBA in Finance and lives in a quaint apartment in the lower east side. He was married once, no kids, and is very close with his family. I was nearly enamored.

We went salsa dancing shortly thereafter and had a great time. Unfortunately, I had to leave for an early engagement the next day, but we made plans to see each other the following night.

After drowning in a bottle of white wine at a friend’s place, we ventured over to the new favorite salsa bar that coincidentally was a block away. We ended up spending the entire night drinking sangria and dancing with anyone who could spin us around. Enrique showed up a little later and we all continued to have a great time, drinking, dancing until god knows when.

I didn’t take Enrique home with me, though he clearly had intentions to go with me. I’ll admit, there was a part of me that wanted to take him home, but I was inebriated, tired from dancing, and just not in the mood to be wooed.

Fast forward to a few days later when I receive a text from Enrique:

E: I thought we had an ‘understanding’
Me: what do you mean?
E: For us to have each other
Me: Do you mean sleep together?
E: I must have misunderstood, I apologize!!!!
Me: I am not ready
E: Good night.

My plan was simple, to sleep with this guy till I got bored with him and drop him. Apparently, his plan was simple too, to assume I was fast and sleep with me the first chance he got. I guess I shouldn’t be angry that he thought I was fast, as that is usually my plan of action, but seriously, what the hell.

It’s a little presumptuous to assume that a girl will sleep with you at any point of a courting, especially within the week of meeting. (And because I believe in double standards, I don’t believe it’s presumptuous for a girl to assume a guy will sleep with her at any point of courting). There are a number of reasons why he may have assumed I would sleep with him, but I won’t give him the benefit of the doubt. Sleeping with me is a privilege and should be treated as such. There isn’t an “understanding”. There’s a “BM has chosen you”. Needless to say, I will not be seeing Enrique again. I mean, unless I get really horny.

"Sex is Something I Really Don't Understand Too Hot"

"Sex is something I really don't understand too hot. You never know where the hell you are. I keep making up these sex rules for myself, and then I break them right away. Last year I made a rule that I was going to quit horsing around with girls that, deep down, gave me a pain in the ass. I broke it, though, the same week I made it - the same night, as a matter of fact." ~Holden Caulfield, The Catcher in the Rye

Depth of Emotion

My best friend, Shari, has bestowed upon her boyfriend a sort of ultimatum to express some “depth of emotion” by the end of summer. I can appreciate that Shari can tell me this because she knows I won’t judge her for doing it, and I won’t because she deserves someone to love her the way she wants and deserves. But in any event, I find the need to comment on this because it’s not my style and thereby needs commenting.

Now if you know me, you know that I follow the “Steven Platek” school of love in which you learn that love is an institution and marriage is an un-evolutionary ploy in which you are inherently denying yourself superior mates. Therefore, I will translate love into “feelings of attachment” or “feelings” for short.

It’s not only difficult but damn near impossible to a. Find someone you are compatible with b. Remain with said person (faithfully) for an extended period of time and then c. Have said person return this feeling (that is contrived in the first place).

I am convinced that Shari’s boyfriend wants to be with her, and while she is attempting to grasp at flyaway feelings with ultimatums and deadlines, I fear that it will inevitably result in a resentment involving both parties. She will resent him for having to force feelings and he will resent her for having been forced.

If all goes well, they’ll express their feelings at the right time in which both are comfortable with. I have faith in her because she deserves it and I have faith in him because he’s a good person. The bottom line is, neither should take life too seriously or too lightly. These two are different from one another, but don’t opposite attract? Having one with the other is what makes a relationship flourish.

Good luck Shari, this one’s for you.

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.