Zen & The Art Of Boyfriend Maintenance

Loveless Sex

What happened to meaningful sex?  All I can remember during high school are my sexless relationships, with men boys that I loved, and that I was always second-guessing each session of heavy-petting asking, “Is this the one?”  Eventually, I fell upon “the one,” and my once sexless relationship became all but encompassed with it.  I’ve had a few balanced companion slash sexual relationships where sex, of course played an important role, but meaningful hand-holding and flrty phone calls still existed.

But lately, I’ve glanced at those tick marks in my bedpost, and I can’t think of the last time I had meaningful, beautiful sex.  The kind where eyes were opened, kisses were savored, and tiny smirks were thought of as blissful, and not as masking a joke made at the expense of the other.  In those relationships, pillowtalk and mild jesting followed the sex, where companionship and relations were developed; perhaps breakfast was had, too.

In the last three years, I haven’t had one meanginful sexual encounter.  In fact, most of my conquests were missing even a slightest twinge of romantic interest.  I can think of one man I shared a bed with where my heart was aflutter with each touch, and eyelocked lingering kisses.  But I know for sure that those feelings were not returned, and concluded with me turning into a shattered mess on the floor of my closest pouting into an ever emptying wineglass.

Maybe it’s because they were conquests.  How did I morph from a deep, emotional, sentimental being into a sex-crazed gormandizer scouring the scene to devour my next meal?  I think it is metropolitan city life.  Perhaps the competition to always be the most desired in the room.  Likely those are the reasons, along with low-self esteem ingrained from years of misogynistic media parading scanitly clad women who are grasping at straws for some kind of validation.

I am tired of this being acceptable.  If I need to make new friends, so be it.  New social circles, new places to spend my time, you got it!  So to the masses, I announce my decree!

I am reclaiming my emotions.  Digging down to restore the depth, and admitting aloud my sentimentality.  I am no longer afraid of you cynics with your scoffing side-glances.  No more will I be enslaved to the ideas of jaded boredom with love stories and romantic comedies.  This is who I am.  I enjoy smiling, and dates and bouquets of flowers!  I like embracing coincedences, fate and courtships.

So, if you see me on the street, think twice about hollerin’ at me.  Because I’ve got more than lust in my heart, it’s filled with gooey, warm fuzzies and I’m looking to spread that around.

Penis, Air Hockey and Double Takes

Lately, my mother has been on a kick to go out and experience New York City.  Being the closest in proximity, this means that I am primo choice of companions.  This night, in particular, was one for the books.  Tonight, we were to attend the lecture of a Gay-Erotica Photographer. 
As provocative (pun intended) as his work was, the cocktail hour proceeding the lecture provided mini cupcakes, towards which my mother bee-lined and inhaled two without so much as a breath in between.  With cupcake number three in hand, my mother saunters – as only she can do – to my brother and I and remarks how amazing these cupcakes taste, and how she’s never really liked sweets before.  How strange!
“Don’t you think you’re compensating for something, ma?” I remark.  And she looks at me as the words process and then lets out an explosion of laughter mixed with realization, and devours the remaining cupcake. 
With about two hours to spare before meeting my sister and her boyfriend for half-price sushi and sake-tinis, a common social outing for us.  The three of us peruse New York City’s Lower East Side and wonder into a favorite dive bar of mine where the air hockey costs a dollar, and there is no charge for the hepatitis lurking in the bathrooms.
Anyway, after whipping both Mommykins and Bro-Bro at air hockey in a crushing 4 point spread, I went to the bar to buy a pitcher of beer.  On the way there, I could feel a veil of eyes checking me out en-route.  Why does this happen when I’m not in a position to fully appreciate and reciprocate? (read: on another date, with the family, etc, etc.)
I squeeze in at the bar where the real estate is most prime.  Cute guy to my left, cute guy to my right, cute boys up the back.  So Cute Guy #1, sitting to my left, was staring at me, my tattoo, my dress, eyes running all over my body.  I swear, it would have been better if he just took a Polaroid.  That kind of staring can make a girl like me melt my clothes right off.  I wanted to start up a convo, but flirting while you’re out with your family tends to make you lose whatever finesse you might possess.  Trying to muster up the right position with which to strike up a charming exchange, I ended up fidgeting away the visual access to my tattoo on my wrist, ruining any segway possible.
I get back to the table, and my mom tells me there was this guy totally staring at me, and that he had walked by earlier a few times trying to make eye contact.  She describes him and we concur it’s C.G.1.  I tell her to just stop him on his next walk-by and introduce us – like any good wing-man should.  Instead, my mom steps outside to have a cigarette and cute boy and her start talking.  He is trying to hit on her, referencing my brief encounter with the Camel Cigarettes Man and the sweet lighter I received.  (I guess he really was staring!)  Good ole Mommy Dearest – who is the mold from which I was spawned 24 years prior – mentions that that was her daughter, not her, with the lighter and the guy bashfully digresses and scurries away.
Turns out, he drunkenly mixed us up.  It’s never happened before, but it absolutely did not surprise me.  It provided a night’s full of hilarity and I feel bad for the guy.  Cheap Shots is not a bar that you would ever expect to run into a hot chick and her equally good-looking mother.