I am...a New Yorker

[Previous entry: "Belle of the Ball"]

Sunday, December 1, 2002
Breaking My Vow

That lump is still on my shin; it feels less hard, practically squishy, than it was in May. Still, six months and now two doctors insist it’s nothing.

Surprising email from a Christian, telling me "the way, the truth, and the light" was seeking me, but would I seek Him? I asked her if she had, by chance, actually read my fucking journal. I will never cease to be surprised that Christians are so unaware that different spiritual paths exist.

Nothing, like a stupidhead.

Too damn much television.

I am...going back and forth about the celibacy thing. In the back of my minds, I had several “outs” for myself at the time. You know, rationalizations like, “girls don’t count” or “only intercourse counts” or “it’s OK if I’m definitely, positively, mutually in love.”

So screw that noise, because 23 year old Swedish/Italian boys, for whom I am a double fantasy no less, simply don’t grow on trees. I fucked his brains out, or perhaps vice versa, and I have no regrets. I wasn’t looking for the love of my life, just getting my bird stuffed on Thanksgiving eve.

He was not super tall, lean, blonde, blue-eyed or impossibly chiseled, like most Swedes I’ve met. He got his coloring and first name from his Italian mother. He had the earnest, straightforward openness I found so refreshing in my Swedish classmates in high school and college. In spite of his olive complexion, he had that rosy-cheeked healthy glow I tend to associate with Swedes.

And, god bless him, but his apartment looked like an IKEA outlet. I tried to imagine what he did in the Swedish army that allowed his hands to remain soft, like a wee boy’s. I loved the way, so warm and soft, they fairly glided all over my skin. He kissed me gently, yet passionately – which is really quite a feat.

Youth is eager, as he said, so I wish I’d slowed him down a bit more. But otherwise, woo hoo! It was what it was and, thankfully, wasn’t preceded by 6 months or 5 years of will-we-or-won’t-we time wasting torture.

. . .

The main reason I opted for celibacy back around my birthday was because I had other things to concentrate on, particularly getting into school. So I got into NYU, CUNY is contingent on one blocked transcript (I smell a rant coming), and my essays are complete for Columbia (again, awaiting a transcript from Cal State Foolerton (aka Richard Nixon U.), a racist intellectualism-free hell I wish I’d never set eyes on).

After the first of the year, I will be able to get back on a debt repayment plan, as I did 5 years ago, and fix my stinkin' credit, so I can find a real apartment. I'm sick of feeling guilty for being poor and having some tough breaks, as if I wasn't working two jobs and going to school for most of my adult life, as if I wasn't doing my best and more. So I either accomplished or made great headway toward all the goals I had in mind to accomplish while I was closed to visitors.

But sometimes, I just need to get laid.

The real “out” I gave myself was that perhaps this was to be more of an emotional celibacy. It’s never been the people I slept with who I’ve felt bad about. It’s always been the ones who wouldn’t sleep with me, or where there was some block to what I saw as a good, potential match. It’s the lack of closure, as the kids say, that really plagues me.

It’s the sense of rejection and the pain of incompleteness with Nerd Boy I regret. I don’t feel the least bit tormented by the gorgeous boy with that classic, dark New York face and tremendous package who I kissed and groped in a doorway last week. Nor is the Swede keeping me up nights.

I’d very much love it if I could find both the sex and emotional/intellectual connection (dare I hope for even more?) in one person, but I vacillate on how long I’m willing to wait for a train that might never pull into my station. Sure, I have a romantic heart down below all the lust and crust, as I discovered with Rafe. Unlike so many women I see, however, I realize how few deserve that much of me; ergo, I don’t grant access to my best stuff willy-nilly. It’s not that I don’t do it ever, but I am selective.

What kills me is when people tell me things such as that I should lower my standards (when again, I think most women should raise theirs, thus eliminating the sense of entitlement so many men, Americans at least, feel toward women and a woefully warped sense of women's importance, based far too much on a terribly narrow definition of beauty). It’s not like I’m getting asked out by and turning down the handsome, Indian doctor I saw over the weekend. Another favorite is, “It happens when you’re not looking,” as if I was looking to fall for a beautiful, brilliant, sensitive 24 year old coworker who let me into his world just so far, only to slam the door in my face. Yes, that was my plan all along.

This is my sex life, and welcome to it. For the most part, regular masturbation saves me from really bad, but regular sex with men who only appreciate my body, even if they have no interest in how it actually works. Once or twice a year, or every few years, an opportunity arises for an absurd fling. It’s never girl meets boy for me, however.

There is always some strange twist -- like girl meets randy, retired, Hasidic landlord and discovers pussy is Kosher. Also possible is girl meets little red-haired stripper for coffee and ends up in lesbian bondage sex club on a rainy Sunday night, spinning tiny red head in a patent leather corset too fast on some vertical wheel of fortune thing, like Simon Le Bon in the Wild Boys video, sans copious bulge.

Eric refers to these experiences as “things that could only happen to you, Erica.” For once, he’s right. They happen only when I least suspect it. I certainly can’t go looking for it, no.

So, no sex for 9 months, officially celibate for 10 weeks –- time to settle your bets folks. I never said I wasn’t one happy whore.

[Next entry: "Goofy for the First Snow"]
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