The Lost Plum…

I had taken a nice solitude vacation at the end of my first year of grad school. Actually I spent the whole time in the resort room in Mexico writing my paper that was due the day I got back, and since I burnt crisper then a bucket of chicken on the first day, the room is where I stayed.

My favorite moments of this trip besides some nice sun therapy and the spa would have to be my late night phone calls with Mr. Popular while sitting on the balcony.

Mr. Popular and I had been chatting/texting/IMing for months, and had had a few in person adventures!

I got home to NYC red and ready to hand in my paper. I also was thinking somewhat dreamy thoughts of Mr. Popular. This was one of the only time I can remember of where I actually really contemplated us as a “couple” and in a real “relationship”.

Problem being I didn’t think he felt the same way at all. I was pretty convinced we had moved into the ever wonderful “friendship” zone. He treated me like a ‘girlfriend’ but just never touched me like one….or at least how I assumed all guys touch their girlfriends.

I was getting ready to go to bed early, as I get tired from plane rides, and I get a phone call.

Mr. Popular is in my hood and right up the street. He wants to come over and see me. Holy shit balls!

We talked laughed and joked around for hours into the night. Just lying on my bed talking. Only times he got off the bed was to take a smoke break. His smoke breaks consited of him at my window, stradling my ratiator so he was half out the window and half inside the bedroom.

As the hours flew by I became more and more convinced we dove deeper into the “friend zone” and pretty soon the sun was close to coming up.

SIDEBAR: I was pretty cool with friend zone, but starting to question his sexuality at this point. What guy lies in bed for hours with a girl and doesn’t try anything?

We were laying talking laughing and then all of a sudden he leans in and kissed me.

There it was! Wow!

“Did you just kiss me?”

He kissed me again!

And then he stopped stared in my eyes and jumped up!

“I have to go!”

He bolted, ran, left quicker then Kiefer Sutherland throws back a shot of whiskey.

And I went to bed with the sun coming up feeling rejected: Sad, lonely, and rejected.

Until I awoke to find I had company in bed with me.

There were feathers and bird poo all over as pigeons had flown in and taken up residence in my room through his open “smoke break” window.

Maybe first kiss birds really do appear. And maybe sometimes in the form of gross dirty New York City pigeons!

A few months back there was a small gathering at my old apartment, just before the move. I wasn’t really apart of it (that’s a whole other story) so I’m in my room and I hear:

“We need a man here to open this jar”

“Or at least a real big butch lesbian”

(Could be funny, but I thought both statements were just sad, but I’m only going to respond to the first comment)

“… a man here to open this jar” Really? Now I know you’re on your third bottle of wine at 2pm on a Sunday afternoon, but that is never an excuse.

Now, this is where everyone rolls their eyes and cringes for the feminist rant that is about to come. Except, it’s not coming.

That’s right. I could careless about a stupid stance on not needing a man for anything, pro woman, fem-nazi shit. I hate that bullshit. I have a vagina and it makes me no better then you, in fact I could careless, sometimes I wish it wasn’t even there. Keep the bra burning fem-nazi pro woman loving bitches away from me.

The real issue here is the fact that men (and in this case I fear the men in these ladies lives) are being degraded and lowered to muscle, to having nothing to contribute but a primal expectation.

Now not saying a man’s primal instincts aren’t a good thing!

Now I will admit most guys are very good at opening jars, but I’m pretty good at it too!

It’s not a skill I list on my resume, shit I hope no one lists it on theirs.

I don’t know what the point of this post is. I guess I just want to say I like boys in my life (regardless of their ‘status’ or what have you) I like them not what they can DO for me. I mean doing for and just doing are different right?

If a man can’t open a jar, or reach something up high he is still a man. And that is a wonderful thing!

FACT: My all time favorite thing I saw on a resume that once crossed my desk: “I Sparkle!!”

SIDEBAR: I DO need a man to come show me how to program work my heat thermostat wall thinger. But that is using him for the brain!

I got an email late last night from one of my readers, or maybe a passer by, who knows. And I thought I needed to address this email in the open, to everyone. Not for any specific reason, just cause I feel like it. My answer is something I tell people often when I discuss this blog and my dating/sex/relationship status and practices. However, I realized that I don’t know most of you so I should let you know as well.

FACT: Just because you email me doesn’t mean I will respond to it out in the open. Although, it maybe time for one of these posts again.

Her email included the following:

“You don’t date and write about it like other sex and dating blog people. Are you dating someone and just not talking about it? Are you just not interested in dating? What is up with you in terms of your dating life? You just write so different then the other women dating bloggers I read in the city…”

Well….. first and foremost I want to say:

Thank you!

I read most of the other “dating” blogs here in the city, and even outside of the city. I even socialize with a few other writers. I like most everyone out there but I am happy that you find me different, so thank you. I never went in to blogging (this blog or any other) wanting to emulate anyone, or be like someone else.

SIDEBAR: I’ll be honest there are a very small handful of bloggers I don’t like. I don’t like what they write, how they write, how they interact with others, what their blog design looks like, and some I don’t like as people (and like almost everyone!). And frankly I’m sure lots don’t like me (And I could care less)!

I am glad you find me different even if it’s hinted as not a good thing.

I never really categories myself as a “dating/relationship/sex” blogger, although I guess that is where I fit.

I like to tell people “I write about me. I just happen to meets lots of boys….so I guess I write about boys”

I am far from an expert at dating or relationships. And would never claim to be. I have no advanced degrees in psychology or anything in the like. (although, I do have a very large education resume) Many may claim age and experience give them their “cred” but I simple disagree. So I don’t give advice and should probably add a “don’t try this at home” section to my legal statement at the bottom of this page.

Here is the main thing and my main point: I don’t date to write.

Frankly some people out there do. I find it ridiculous. What’s the fun in that?! It takes something fun and interesting: dating and love and sex and all that jazz, and makes it work. Not my goal, not my way, not my vibe.

I’m not going to bore you about every little detail of every date I go on, right down to where we went and what we ate. Who cares?!

I am not going to bore you with tales of endlessly spending night inside weeding through online profiles in hopes to make a connection just so I can write about it. And even if I did tell you of my fishing expeditions it would end up more like this post.

I’m not going to write about every cute and interesting boy I meet. Hell I’d be writing forever!

I mean maybe me never talking about my at the moment/in the moment dating and sex life makes me look desperate or pathetic in some way. Or just seem like a big loser, but I tend to think of it the other way.

I tell you stories I want to, I like to laugh at my self, and hopefully I make you all laugh too. And maybe sometimes I’ll throw alittle serious heartache story in the mix.

I am just me. Lost. And if you choose to not Find me that’s cool.

Also, I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again. I do not write about boys I am currently involved with or boys who feelings I care about, even if we are not dating. Some stuff is not for discussions, and not anyone else business….not because I’m ashamed of anything but because I care about others feelings. (and then sometimes I just ignore peoples feelings….my bad) Also, sometimes (although not very often) my life can be pretty plain and normal….so there is that!

But then again I could be looking at this whole love, sex, relationship, dating, and blogging thing all-wrong.

But then again….I never have an issue finding boys.

And sometimes, just sometimes I even find my heart a flutter.

Yup. Brace yourself, here it comes: the virginity post!

Now unless my father asks this post is about me losing my virginity. If he asks this is a guest post by some dirty sinner! (Shame on you dirty sinner!)

People who know me are always surprised when the topic of “first times” comes up, and age is thrown on the table.

I was a late bloomer, not as late as other people I know, but to the masses I probably am.

I lost my virginity to “firstguy” when I was 19. There was nothing particular exciting, special or interesting about that evening, except I was 19. It was my birthday.

FACT: This is NOT the reason I dislike celebrating my birthday.

We were in my parent’s basement watching a movie. Braveheart, I only remember the movie cause ‘firstguy’ had a love for watching the same movies over and over again. Braveheart was one of these. I’ve seen that movie far more times then I would like to admit. (Far too many in like a two-year period)

Somewhere between Mel Gibson speaking with a Scottish accent and someone dying we had sex.

That is all I remember. No real detail about what was said or what was done, we just did more than the usual. And at that time more then the usual meant sex.

You always hear about sex hurting, and being painful and all that jazz. I don’t clearly remember that but if my memory serves me correctly I’d like to say that my first time as a girl didn’t hurt, or at least it didn’t cause me pain. But it was uncomfortable.

Kind of like when you tie your shoe too tight. You know that it doesn’t feel right, it’s alittle uncomfortable and it hurts to walk the first few steps, you know you just sense that something you did might not be right. But after that it loosens up and it’s like nothing wrong ever happened.

SIDEBAR: That analogy sounded cleaner in my head.

So there it was I was 19. One year older. I could vote, drink, and I wasn’t a virgin.

‘Firstguy’ was terrible at alot of things. Gifts were one of them, unless you count flowers. That boy bought me more flowers than Kiefer Sutherland buys rounds of shoots.

It was my birthday (and my first time) and all my boyfriend got me was cake, a Mr.Bean teddy-bear, Mel Gibson and a broken hymen.

I’ve been surrounded by boxes and piles of junk lately, more so piles then boxes. I am doing a major clean and purge of my life “things” (I’m moving)

SIDEBAR: I love my stuff, and my junk but it’s just “junk” and it has had a great life with me, and will make someone else very happy, and stylish “to-boot”

As I’ve been in awe of my collection of things I have noticed something very different than in any other move I have ever made.  I don’t have any relationship outcasts. No boy leftovers, no guy junk, or man tokens.

Last time I went “home home” my closet was still filled with boy leftovers: teddybears, pictures, and all sorts of crap. And it seems like every time I have moved I have had lots of guy-junk to purge from my life, and this time: nothing.

Ok, that is a lie. I have three things.

I have a pile of CD’s from “bandboy”s band. Some are even unopened and by some I pretty much mean all of them.  I count this as one thing, although it’s more like 8 things. I don’t know why I have them, why I even keep them, and why on earth I’ve moved them to different apartments (even a different country).  Although, when he mailed me the latest CD I had a nice little pile to add it to.

And I have two shirts.

Now I know what you are thinking, that I must be one of those girls who takes things from guys. You know the ones who take sweatshirts and t-shirts: the girl who collects t-shirts from guys to sleep in.

FACT:  I’d rather not sleep in a t-shirt.

But thing is I don’t really do that. Why would I want someone’s dirty clothes when I have my own perfectly clean (and even dirty) clothes? But I sat the other night staring at two: a hoddie and a sweater.  Such ‘girl’ things to take from guys I know, right.

But the fact is, I didn’t really take them. I kept them.  I didn’t let them go when everything else went.  Last time I really sat down and cleaned out my life’s ‘junk’ I did it for two. It was mine, and it was his, and I cleaned out and flushed so much away.

Just like my giveaway pile now, I got ride of so much that was drenched in memories.

Now it sounds strange but I can recall memories with everything I have, unless I really have no clue where it came from. I know where “we” have been together: my stuff and me.

I remember the time I got my heel stuck in a sidewalk grate and walked almost a block without a shoe(the pretty black with purple top Prada ones). Or the green and pink Jacob solder bag I trekked allover France. Everything has a memory, a place, and a story.

And then I have these two shirts. I have no idea why I kept these shirts. It is a plain grey cotton sweater that even though I have grown in size I still swim in it, and a black (but really looks navy) hoodie with nothing on it, warnout cuffs and missing drawstring.

I have no memories attached to these items. I have no idea where they were purchased, or even when they were worn. Yet, these were the two things I decided would help me remember someone: the person who owned them.

Sometimes it isn’t “things” that we remember.  We remember an experience, a feeling, and even a sensation.

I remember France, and that trip, and the friends I was with, how much I laughed, and all the things we did. The bag didn’t give me that. I remember the great night out I had with an amazing friend when I happen to lose my shoe.

It’s never been about the shoes, the bags, the coats, and even the glasses.

And then…

I remember a boy that I loved, not the clothes that he owned.