Remember two days ago when I made this whole brazen claim about how I was going to write a sex blog? I fucking can’t do it, and I am just sick about it.
I’ve always viewed sex like that old Pringles commercial: Once you pop, you just can’t stop. I was a late bloomer in that I didn’t lose the virginity until (the very first weekend of) college. I’d made my way round the bases and all, but hadn’t ever scored. I don’t blame myself, but rather the fact that I went to a small high school in a small town and thought of myself as superior to my classmates. Once I set off on my Birthright: Manhattan program a.k.a. freshman year at Hunter College, I found no greater joy than laying and getting laid. Paris followed, London, a really shameless last semester of undergrad, USA travels including a week with a homeless guy in Austin, two and a half years of
prostituting myself waitressing, etc. etc. etc. Based on my flair for the international, I was planning to write a memoir called Around the World in 80 Men. When I met the BF, I was 41.25% there. (That title is copyrighted in case I ever decide to make a short story anthology with the works of other women and gay men so don’t even think about it!)
Though I occasionally look at myself in the metaphorical mirror of my long-term, long-distance love affair and think “What the fuck are you doing?” I am ultimately obsessed with my boyfriend and our relationship, and would never change it. I have taken stupid buses to see him in a stupid city with a stupid smile on my face. I have drunkenly requested that he propose marriage. I have entrusted the life of my iguana with him. I love him.
One of the things about having sex with strangers is that it’s rarely about the sex but rather the meta-sex: Sex as entertainment, as a way to one-up your girlfriends (yes, guys, we tally, too!), to assert control, to sober up. I’m not saying I’ve had bad sex with people; on the contrary, it was always Good Plus. But I rarely did it to share an intimate moment with a fellow human being but rather to have yet another screwball segment in The Story Of My Life.
I remember walking into a party in Paris, picking out the hottest guy, and saying: “That’s what I’M doing tonight.” If my memory serves me, we groped in the stairs, I lost an H&M jacket and a scarf from Barcelona and I ended up in the hospital with a broken finger from flirting on the wrong side of the door jamb. I remember nothing about the guy, but the aftermath of the flirtation is one of my more entertaining anecdotes that I will always remember (and not just because the bone on my right pinky is permanently fucked-up).
I remember walking off the dining room floor one summer night, having sex outside in the park, straightening my tie, and walking straight back into work. Do you think I enjoyed anything about those four minutes of penetration? Hell yes. I enjoyed serving uptight upper-class families knowing that I probably had latex and lube on my hands. I enjoyed the subversiveness of it. I enjoyed the self-ascribed superiority that I felt.
I remember London…
At the beginning of my relationship, I wrote about the sex. It wasn’t that it didn’t mean anything, but I didn’t know just how much it would end up meaning. We’d been having sex on a regular and fabulous basis, and even when there was a several day lull, the memories of the weekend would linger in my mind and between my legs, sparking sassy stories and inciting exciting tales (about tail, as it were). It was still about the going out, about the frivolity of youth: Kisses up against a metal black gate in a dead-end street on a cold December night, a party, clothes, sweat, New Year’s Eve, stolen afternoons in March when New York was in a blizzard and I was in bliss.
And then at some point it went from being The Sex to Our Sex. All of the sudden it was about an intimate connection with another human being, and a specific one at that. The desire to prove myself more virile/open-minded/open-legged, more capable of meeting people and having those experiences that so many people seem to need the Internet and the vibrator and the enlisting of an army to satisfy ceased to exist. It became about knowing this guy better, being with him, basking in each others’ presences.
Some people say they want an untainted canvas on which to paint their masterpiece, but we both realize that recycled and revamped can make something as good as new, if not improved and worth even more. I love him because he’s no novice in the department, and I think (deep down) there’s something inside him that appreciates the fact that I’m not an ignorant Mexican daddy’s girl who’s saving herself for marriage. There’s something hanging off of him that appreciates it as well.
The sex is good, people. The best, really. That’s the point. And that’s why I can’t write about it. Because at this point it’s not for the story, for the tally mark, for the love of the gave. It’s for the love of the player.
Luckily, though, I’ve got a dearth of information to mull over. You won’t be disappointed.