Footsie

The first thing I noticed about him was his height. He was tall. Not freakishly so, but tall enough to make my knees a little weak. We talked a bit of shop over oysters and Manhattans. His job, of course, was more interesting than mine so we mostly talked about him. His career seemed dreamy – filled with music and big names. His brown eyes made me blush and the whiskey made me slutty. Naturally, I found myself back at his apartment.

He was a lot older than me – nearly twice my age. He lived in a tiny studio apartment on the east side of town. It was more or less a janitor’s closet with a kitchen. It was cheaply renovated and featured the same flashy fake marble flooring I had in my apartment. He didn’t have any furniture. The only place to sit was on a thin mattress that looked like it came off of a futon. A couple of pillows and some crumbled sheets were laying on top of it. “Oh, that must be the bed” I muddled under my breath. We met online – Tinder more specifically. I really shouldn’t have given him the benefit of the doubt after seeing his apartment. But he was handsome, and I’m recklessly shallow – so I stayed.

He took me up to the roof of his apartment and kissed me slowly – thoughtfully. When he pulled away and I looked up towards the sky, I could actually see a few stars. Inside, he poured me wine and told me stories about being a teenager in the nineties. It made him seem so cool in a way I’m embarrassed to admit. I Imagined him and his friends being like the cool kids in the teen dramas I would watch on tv as a child and it made me weirdly envious.

Just before I let myself get swept up by his cool charm,  I noticed something odd. He really liked feet. He touched my feet more than anything on my body and although I would try to politely wiggle them away – he would always find them. “Sorry, I have kind of a fetish.” He giggled mischievously. “Oh, I don’t mind.” I lied, giggling back. I thought it was weird, but it was still better than watching New Girl alone in my apartment, surrounded by cats. 

I went out with him again. We had a nice dinner and laughed and talked like old friends. He was incredibly hyperactive. He had such a surprising amount of energy that I wondered if he needed adult Ritalin. People who can’t still generally make me very anxious but I felt at ease with him for some reason. I trusted that because he was much older than me, that he was the level headed man I needed in my life. Then, he finished the evening on my feet.

“Well, at least it wasn’t on your face.” I have always loved my cousin’s strong sense of reason. “But my feet…isn’t that kind of weird?” Foot fetishes were a new topic for my circle of friends. We mostly all had the same confused reaction like, why feet? and honestly I still don’t know. He didn’t either – because I asked him. Even though I was slightly horrified by the mental image of him sucking on my toes, I went out with him again. New York City has significantly lowered my standards.

On our third date, we ate Indian and his eyes swelled up like grapefruits. Not from the Indian but from my cat, Pippin, who had decided to curl up on his face while I was in the other room. He didn’t even push him off – he just let it happen. He just sat still on my couch, with a cat wrapped around his face, well-knowing he was allergic to cats. It should have been a red flag. He still managed to be charming though, even through the sniffles and coughs. He left my feet alone, and I was incredibly relieved. We spent a lovely evening together, but the morning would prove to be much different.

In the middle of the night something truly disturbing happened. I woke up and skipped out of bed and into the bathroom. I looked down just before I disrobed and what I saw horrified me. There, in my toilet, lay a gigantic, disintegrating turd. I nearly vomited. My roommate still wasn’t home from being out the night before so it couldn’t have been anybody else. I flushed it down and shoved my head in a towel and screamed. I walked back into my room like nothing had happened. I climbed into bed and tried desperately not to wake him. He rolled over and put his arm around me, pulling me closer. I wanted to climb out of my skin.

Just before he left, he kissed me on the cheek and called me kiddo. I shuttered. We didn’t speak again after that. We didn’t need to. I was lonely from my last break up and looking for love in all of the wrong places. Fortunately enough it was not with a middle-aged man with a foot fetish.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Broke & Basic

I squatted awkwardly under the bathtub faucet, waiting for the icy water to trickle out into my cupped palms. I collected water, I splashed it about my body. It went on like this for several minutes until I felt clean. The cold and hot water didn’t mix in my apartment and all that could be endured was a frigid little stream. Shivering and crying I did my best to keep it together. There I was, on the edge of absolute failure. It was one of the most real moments of my young life – and all I could think was, I’m a rich girl from the suburbs, how did I get here?

There is nothing glamorous about New York. I am not Taylor Swift, and it had not been waiting for me. I fought my way here above all odds and everyone’s better judgement (including my own). But damn it, I was here. Even if I was hating every minute of it. Since my arrival in January,  I have changed apartments twice. Once because our landlord simply never returned from Israel to let us move in, apparently that’s more common then you’d think. The second because our “Beautiful Bedstuy Apartment” was deemed unlivable by the New York City Housing Authority. We needed to vacate, fast. It was decided to be un livable due to roaches, broken windows that were never going to be fixed, a diseased stray cat named Tiger living in our hallway, and of course the scalding water that rained down upon us from the shower head like hellfire. Of course, my roommate Kelly, who I and my friends lovingly renamed Smelly Kelly, contributed to the apartment’s foul conditions. She was the type of girl who saved everything – even old milk. She would leave glasses of it inside the fridge or under her bed for days. She smelled of sour cream as if she was actually bathing in it. She was every Texas stereotype I could dream up rolled into one larger than life human being. She was a gun toting, Jesus loving, racist who didn’t recycle. She was truly the embodiment of my every nightmare.

Then there are the boys. Oh, New York boys! They come in every size, shape, color, and background but they all lie the same way. There was one I liked. He was Dominican with dark, smooth skin, and had a smile that could make me weak in the knees. Amy Schumer once made the comment that every time Latinos speak it sounds like they’re cumming. Now, I understand what she means. He could make the Pledge of Alliance sound like the dirtiest thing you’d ever heard. He was filled with passion and oozed sexuality. I thought I was in heaven until I realized that I wasn’t the only object of his affection. He loved his best friend. And not in a BFF, get a tattoo, and give a speech at each other’s wedding kind of way. My internal alarm went off until when he invited his friend on our date. He friend sat back in his chair and he asked me what it was like for us to kiss and whether I work out, and what my favorite position was. They were close – very close. The two of them might as well have been holding hands under the table. Needless to say, I left before the proposition could even be made.

Worse even so than my two spanish papis, my foul roommate and the broken down roach motel we shared, was the job. Sweet Jesus did I fuck up the day I accepted that job. Now, hear me out. I had just moved to NYC and I had been burning my way through all of my savings (my credit card). My other prospects had fallen through and I was desperate for anything when I decided to suck up my pride and enter the cruel world of customer service. I just really didn’t realize how cruel it would actually be. My boss, a plain looking English woman from the dodgy end of London looked innocent enough. She was kind and warm in our interview. She regaled me with tales of her company’s success and the devotion of her loving staff, and honestly, I should have seen through the bullshit. At this point, after being in New York for a few long months I should have known that nothing is what it seems and everything is shit. But, I am 25 and naive with no sense and stars in my eyes so I took the bate. Her favorite term of endearment for us is “pathetic” and I and the other brainwashed twenty-somethings spend our days being screamed at by wealthy designers for being physically unable to overnight their fabric from Thailand. All the money in the world and they still can’t figure out geography. But, I am sure the globes in their studies are for looking, not for learning. So I spend 9 hours a day sitting at my desk awaiting my 30 minute lunch so I can step into the Chelsea streets and be free to chain smoke and eat my sad banana lunch.

My life is changing, so naturally my blog has to do the same. I have decided that I can no longer use the bulk of my posts to discuss my unsuccessful dating life. Because well, I may never have a date again. So instead I’ll focus on my current love-hate relationship with the city that never sleeps.

Going Out with a Bang

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I sat at the bar in between two of my friends who were arguing over where to go next. He, of course opted for the gay bar and she was far less willing to spend another night surrounded by men who were more interested in what she was wearing on her feet than what she had in between her legs. I chose not to get involved; instead I stared at the flat screen T.V. in front of me. A soccer game was playing and as I watched the little brown men with perfect little builds dart across the field I couldn’t help but think of my ex. It had been over a month since we had last spoken and I wasn’t exactly pleased with how things ended. Basically, I found a psychotic amount of photos of him getting chummy with his ex girlfriend and when I asked him about them he simply stopped responding. Professional soccer player, maybe. Professional argument avoider, definitely! In the midst of my commiserating Drake’s ever popular, “Started From the Bottom” came shooting through the surrounding speakers. A song he frequently tweeted by a man (Canadian cripple) he idolized and adored. I gulped down my Makers and slammed the glass on the bar. “Who wants shots?!” And after that everything got kind of foggy.

We ended up at the gay bar because well, my gay friends always win the arguments. They are fantastic at convincing you that “it’s a great idea!” and “Just take another shot..it’s fine!”  If only conservative republicans would agree to sit down and have a drink with gays and lesbians then I really think we could get the ball rolling on this whole marriage equality issue.

Needless to say, they make the drinks strong. I watched the bartender flip the bottle upside down until the nozzle faced the floor as she poured whiskey into my glass. The splash of ginger ale she threw in seemed more like a garnish than anything. After two of these I made a sloppy attempt to dance on the bar, but fell. And received an inspirational pep talk from two random girls in the bathroom who assured me that calling him was a bad idea and if he really wanted to talk he would call me. “I don’t even know you, but I know you’re a catch! If he can’t see that than he’s crazy and you do not want to be with a crazy man!” I called him anyway.

I was clumsily shoving my phone back into my purse and attempting to light my cigarette from the wrong end when I caught the attention of the only straight guy at the bar. This is where my memory begins to fade. Apparently I didn’t notice his unibrow or the fact that he was wearing a suit. I definitely don’t recall locking arms with him and announcing that “I FOUND A STRAIGHT ONE AND I’M TAKING HIM WITH ME!” I also don’t really remember insisting he speak spanish to me the entire time we were having sex or getting mad at him afterwards and accusing him of not really being from the Dominican Republic because “Even my Spanish is better than that.”

In the morning I crept out of bed and tried my best not to wake him. I climbed into the shower and exhaled. Sick with hangover, I tried to best to wash whatever was left of my “Latin lover” off of my body. To my horror he was wide awake when I came back into my room. He began speaking to me cheerily and bringing up conversations we had, had the night before. I stared at him for a minute and my mind went blank. Oh my God, what is his name?! I sat still on the edge of my bed and struggled to remember anything about him but there was nothing there. It was no use, he could read it on my face. “You don’t remember much about me do you? That sucks. I remember everything about you.” I have become that douchey guy I always hated. This is my low point.

After he left I opened my laptop and there was some kind of spanish love poem in mid-play. I shuttered and closed it quickly. It had been warm the day before. So warm that my boss had let me leave work early and I was sure that it was going to be a good night. But no night is ever good when you’re trying to forget a person who you can’t stop remembering. I drank because I wanted a distraction. I wanted to kill the part of my brain that couldn’t let him go. Even if that meant losing something really important like my sense of smell or my entire liver. I had also done something else terrible, I used another person in an effort to take my mind off of someone else. Someone who I truly wanted to be with.  And sure I can tell my friends that if my ex hadn’t have left me feeling so broken then I wouldn’t have had to anger bang poor Havier, but we all know it wasn’t his fault. I feel like the typical response to a break up is to sleep with someone new, someone random who means nothing. Now that I can speak from experience I can say that that’s potentially the worst thing you can do. Using somebody doesn’t help you feel any less used than it does help you to, “get back out there”. Simply put, break ups suck and the only real way to heal from them is to take it easy and focus on yourself. Although drunken one night stands can sometimes become hilarious stories, the best way to cure heart ache is time, self-discovery, and an entire pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

Merry Christmas, Ya Filthy Animal

Photo on 2012-12-24 at 11.53 #3

And on the 12th day of Christmas my true love…shat on my heart. Proving that all men are created equal; equally shitty. That’s right kids, gather ’round for a truly memorable holiday tale filled with sex, lies, and full blown douche-ary. This is the story of Christmas – Girl’s in the Boy’s Room style.

“Why are you trying to have a relationship with me if you don’t have time for it?” It was the third time in a month I had asked him that. Still, like the times before he responded only with a long pause and an exhausted exhalation. This was his way of saying, “I’m trying my best” but of course his best proved ultimately to be half-assed. In just 9 weeks my “gentlemen in Burberry” had become a tool in tacky diamond studs. Our conversations had gone from talk about life and love to endless ranting about his soccer career and his dreams of being part of the 1%. No, I’m not kidding. He is actually aspiring be part of the group that holds all of the money and power and well – doesn’t fucking share. Right, because that’s what you should’ve taken away from the Occupy Movement. I’m sure you’re all dying to know how this “star athlete” was planing to spend his money. Feeding starving children? Helping to pay off the national debt? ERR wrong. He wants to live in a castle, build a mote around it, fly around in a rocket ship, and pay his friend to drive him around in a Ferrari. THESE ARE HIS REALISTIC GOALS. First off, anyone who flies around in a rocket ship simply because he can, eh em Richard Branson, is completely environmentally irresponsible. We need less of you flying to mars, and more of you investing in green energy. Thanks! Finally, I want to add how gracious it is of him to consider his friend’s livelihood. Focus on your own career goals? Psh, no I’ll just pay you to drive me around and be my ride bitch. He’s so considerate.

This is all I heard for weeks after he received a rejection from an indoor team in Baltimore. He returned to Tampa with his head low and his faith shaken. We agreed to make it work no matter the distance because having a relationship over the phone was better than not having one at all. Things began to change rapidly. He called less often and when he did he no longer seemed interested in my life. The focus of our conversations almost always consisted of him detailing his plan of attack against the soccer world. Plotting and visualizing where he would be and which team he would play for, with me standing on the sidelines, agreeing with everything he said and assuring him that everything would work itself out. Then, when he had run out of things to say he would casually ask, “How was your day?” and even as I began to describe board meetings, and event marketing I would sense how uninterested he was and stop talking. It’s exhausting trying to be someone’s cheerleader when you receive absolutely nothing in return.

Waiting for him to change back into the person I had fallen for was hopeless. Most times I would hang up the phone feeling empty. I had waited all day to talk to a person who it felt could care less about talking to me. He rambled on about his ex girlfriend from time to time, something that should have been a HUGE red flag. He tweeted angrily about her, used our precious talk time to curse her name, and posted poorly executed rap songs about her on his already faulty sound cloud page. Cool! More and more I began to see why she broke up with him. He was self-obsessed asshole.

Still I soldiered on, dreaming of Christmas when he would be back in Columbus and we could finally be together. One thing you should know about me is that I take the holiday season very seriously. I truly believe it should be the merriest time of the year. Baby Jesus  and over gifting aside, Christmas is an opportunity for old friends to return home, families to be reunited, as well as an excuse to over eat and drink! This Christmas would be the best one yet. I would finally get to spend it with someone I truly cared about. I spent most of the autumn months convincing myself that everything would be perfect. Of course everything really went south after I purchased $60.00 worth of gorgeous Victoria’s Secret lingerie to wear for him on Christmas. As soon as I cut the tags off the clouds rolled in and shit hit the fan. The second his plane touched down at CMH he started ignoring my calls. When my messages went unanswered and my calls were directed to voicemail I’d start to think about every time he told me he missed me, every time he told me he was excited to see me, and my heart would fall into my stomach. We spent almost three months talking about seeing each other and when it was finally a possibility he was no where to be found.

We saw each other once. He came over late. I was surprised by his stature, I had remembered him taller than he was.  He talked about himself as he gulped down my wine. We had sex which was empty and meaningless though I tried my hardest to pretend otherwise. I woke up early the next morning and looked over at him as he laid there sleeping. I thought seriously about kicking him in the head but instead I slept with him once more before taking him home. After three months he showed up empty handed. Arriving without flowers, condoms (way to be safe bro. You’re 24, get it together), or any hope of repairing our dwindling love affair.

When I agreed to make it work, I meant it. I don’t run out on promises that I make to people and when I say I’m going to do something you better know damn well that I’m going to do it. This is because I’m an adult. I’ve transitioned out of my selfish college years and have become a real person of substance. Unfortunately this isn’t where he is in life. arrogant and unable to see how his actions, or lack thereof, effect the people around him is a clear indication that he hasn’t quite gotten it together yet. So, when he blew me off AGAIN I decided that the only sane thing to do was to tell him to kick rocks.

This Christmas I won’t be standing under the mistletoe or kissing anyone on New Years Eve. I’ll be alone, again. But I’ll be happy knowing that I didn’t hang on too long and that I finally stood up for myself and walked away from someone who wasn’t able to give me what I needed. I’m not happy with the way that it ended, but I’m completely elated that it’s over.

For those of you who may be wondering: No, I did not actually burn his soccer shorts. Although I did run over them a couple of times.

Who Benefits, From Being Friend’s With Benefits?

Oh Hollywood, you did it again! You managed to take casual sex and turn it into a slew of romantic comedies. As if young girls weren’t already misguided enough on the matters of love and sex, you threw in Ashton Kutcher and Justin Timberlake to really shake things up! Oh, but this is much more realistic than those When Harry Met Sally romantic comedies, isn’t it? I mean everyone’s had a friend with benefits, haven’t they? I have, but unfortunately my own stories have never ended with running into each others arms and professing our undying love for one another. Instead, they usually end with lots of drunken crying, mostly from me.

So let’s discuss this strange phenomenon. This confusing place between love and friendship. For those of you who may not know, a friend with benefits is someone you have fun with. It’s someone who you share common interests with, care about enough to consider a friend, and are attracted enough to sleep with. Friends with Benefits is a concept that I still haven’t been able to fully wrap my head around. For me, this is usually the stand-in. The person you otherwise use until someone you truly feel a romantic connection with comes along. In which case, you must seize all the sexy-time nonsense and go back to being “just friends”. Let me tell you that this can make parties and casual hang outs really awkward for both the friend and the new romantic partner.

For me, sleeping with a friend usually starts with a slip up resulting from way, way too many lemon drops. It’s when I continue sleeping with him that I really know I’m in trouble. It took me a long time to realize something really important about myself. Which was, I cannot have casual sex. I either don’t enjoy it at all or I become completely attached. Either way, there can be serious consequences for someone like me. One problem was that for so long I really believed I could be like everyone else. Which makes me wonder, who else out there is faking it?

For almost two years I had a “friend” with benefits and it was SHIT. Not shit because he wasn’t a great friend, or because the sex we had wasn’t good. It was shit because I wanted to punch every girl in the face who talked to him, I wanted to punch him in the face for not falling completely in love with me like I felt she should have, and I wanted to punch myself in the face for having absolutely no willpower. The real problem was that we didn’t begin our relationship as friends, we began romantically but he didn’t want to become exclusive with me. So with broken pride I turned my back and walked away. Though, somehow we kept finding each other again. This would’ve been fine had we began a real friendship and allowed the sexual aspect of things to fall away, but of course we didn’t. So with that it continued. I fell harder and harder under the guise of, “He doesn’t matter…it’s not like that…we’re just friends.” But that’s not really how I was feeling at all. So why couldn’t I just be honest? I really felt like I could maintain this friendship as it was. I really tried to convince myself that I was unattached but the only person I was fooling was myself. It took being apart from him for some months for me to finally realize what I was doing to myself.

When did the separation of love and sex become normal and everyday? We hear songs on the radio, and see T.V. programs that glorify random hook-ups and advertise the normalcy of sex with out attachment. As if everyone is capable and should be having it. But unfortunately, life is not a movie. If it was, Heath Ledger would have never died and instead he would pick me up, spin me around and we would run off into the sunset together. Yes, this is actually I fantasy of mine, judge me. Movies may depict real life, but real life barely ever depicts the movies. You cannot pretend that you are a certain way, just because you feel like you have to be.

I though that as a feminist I could be sexually liberated and sleep with whomever I wanted to just like a man. I was wrong, neither being sexually liberated nor being a feminist encourages you to become deaf to what your heart is telling you. I learned a lot about myself through my experience. He taught me a lot about intimacy and I wouldn’t change any of it, but I wouldn’t relive it either. Learn from listening to yourself and not from listening to the media. They’re just there to blow smoke up your ass. So who benefits from friend’s with benefits? The one who doesn’t get attached could perhaps. However my advice to someone who doesn’t want a relationship but still wants to have sex, learn to masturbate because it’s a lot less complicated.