I have been putting off writing this post.
Because the party involved might read this post? Because the details are a little fuzzy due to copious amounts of alcohol? Because I don’t want to admit that I too am too weak to avoid the lure of grotesque physical contact? Because I wanted a little space between me and the “event” so I could sell it as a comedy instead of a tragedy?
Or I’ve been too busy not repeating the same mistake to sit down and write about it.
I want to start by saying that celibacy isn’t for everyone. Its fucking hard. To daily ignore your more primal urges is for people who have either found God or something equally as powerful to make the pain of their lonely every day existence bearable. Booze for instance. Or Heroine. Or Oreo Cookies. By the bag full.
My tale begins on my Birthday.
(I am not above playing the birthday card here to excuse myself of any and all bad behavior.)
I make the last-minute decision to invite everyone I know out on a Monday night to the Russian Samovar for an un-Godly amount of Vodka. I tear my apartment apart in hopes of finding my hottest – sexy -but not too sluty- cute -but not too prissy- dressed up-but in a casual way- flawless- yet – effortless- grown-up -but -don’t look a day over 25-outfit. I sort of succeed. And because most of my friends are struggling artist types, a big group shows up despite the Monday to join me in what will be my ultimate undoing.
I will say that I owe the big turn out to two things. The first being my sweet roommate. Well, sort of roommate. He’s an extremely charming and ruggedly handsome former classmate of mine who lives with his girlfriend on the upper east side, but isn’t ready to officially live with his girlfriend, so he keeps his stuff in half of my apartment and comes by twice a month to pick up mail and thank his lucky stars he doesn’t actually live with me due to the general unkempt condition he usually finds things. (Which happens to be part 4 of my celibacy plan: I can’t bring boys home to a filthy apartment. The sloppier it gets the safer my snatch)
Because we never see each other at home, we’ve fallen into seeing each other out socially. We affectionately call each other roomy and he proceeds to playfully tease me while he places his hand in the small of my back about all the spooning I’m in for if he ever comes home. (sigh, if only) Sadly, if we weren’t sort of living together we probably wouldn’t see each other at all. But his attendance promised the attendance of most of my former male classmates, whom I love. Dearly. Like family. So it was a lovely surprise. What started as me, my girlfriends, and my gay boyfriends chatting about Lady Gaga, baked goods, and blow jobs turned very quickly into a testosterone induced frenzy. Where the boys proceeded to see who could drink the most, yell the loudest, and score the biggest. I’m not sure how one wins at the game “Which one of us is the bigger Asshole?” but it can be fun to watch. For about thirty minutes. Tops.
All these young straight men showing off was a bit of a shock to my system, I’ll be quite honest. My latest strategy to avoid sex with boys is to avoid boys all together.
The second reason for the turn out was the location of an admittedly cooler friend’s Birthday Party being literally a block away from mine the same night. You know your party isn’t expected to be any good when half the party plans on leaving half way through. But I forgive them. There was no chance they were going to score with anyone at my party. Unless you count the Russian barmaid who was more than a little pissed to be working so hard on a Monday, all my friends are in long-term relationships, I’m celibate and any gay inclinations these guys might have they work out with each other when no one is watching. Plus, we were in school together for four fucking years, that was plenty of time to have all the sex with each other that we would like. Or was it?
Around 11 or 11:30 the guys take off for the more happening party but are kind enough to tell me where to find them. This is the moment I should have put my drunk ass in a cab and called it a great Birthday. Instead, I stayed and had more infused vodka with what was left of my guests. The funny thing about infused vodka is it tastes like a cocktail, it goes down like a cocktail, but it is really just straight vodka. Consider yourselves warned. I hope the picture is becoming clearer to you because around this time it has become less clear to me.
I’m not sure why I followed the boys to the next party. It was early? I didn’t want the party to end? The vodka had clouded my self perception and I believed I was infinitely cooler than my sober self? I’m pretty sure its wasn’t “to get laid”. I’m remarkably attached to the idea of celibacy. I am. I mean it. But maybe flirting and getting more male attention was on my agenda. Maybe. Nothing shameful about that. I’m single. I’m still on the younger side of things. Some might consider me attractive. Sexy even. And it was my Birthday after all.
I said good-bye to my gay escort at the door, whose agenda was “to get laid”, as he headed around the corner to look into Posh and see if it was worth staying. That was the last I saw of him, so he stayed if it was worth it or not.
Enter Bobby. Bobby is a dear friend of mine from college who was also at the first part of my party. We have known each other now for 9 years. Handsome guy who for what ever reason considers himself a bit of an underdog. As far as I know, he usually looses at “Which one of us is the bigger asshole?” and thus is one of my more favorite guy friends to talk to. We’ve been more friendly over the last six months with more frequent facebook messages and genuine inquiry into how the other is at bigger social events. Both recently single and relatively bitter. He happens to be one of my straight guy friends I feel comfortable being myself around (probably because we have never thought of sleeping together) The last Birthday party we attended he was drunker than me and might have been coming on to me, I think. Maybe? He bought me a beer at any rate. Stood in my personal space, isolated me from the others at the party. And sent me a “great seeing you” text in the morning. That night I was pretty sure I didn’t want to sleep with him despite flirting back some and ultimately went home alone.
I didn’t have eight shots of vodka that night. Back to my Birthday, two weeks later. Again, he offers to buy me a beer.
“Thank you. That’s sooo sweet of you,” said my more than tipsy self.
“It’s your Birthday,” he shrugs, nonchalantly, in classic Bobby fashion.
I’m a little worried I have the slurs at this point, but with great effort “I didn’t get a chance to thank you for the beer you bought me last time. Thank you.” and I think I found a reason (be it good or otherwise) to touch him on the wrist. Your guess is as good as mine as to where and with what force the touch landed.
“It was just a beer,” he amended trying to defuse what could quickly escalate into an awkward situation.
“Well… thank you. Truly”, I said with more significance than was deserving a beer. And held him in a moment of uninterrupted eye contact.
I need to ask the judges for a ruling on this, because as I recount it, I appear to be throwing myself at him. Crap. That’s what happened, isn’t it? I’m just realizing this now. Apparently celibacy + Vodka+ five months= total lack of tact and subtly. My body decided this celibacy blog was crap and threw itself at the first available man. As gracefully, I guess, as any horny drunk girl can.
We part ways and mingle for a bit but are keeping our eyes on each other. As if that moment of eye contact cemented the deal that would be negotiated hours later in my bed room. I wish I could accurately recount the line he used to get me to agree to go home with him. My hope is that it was really good. He said something clever and witty causing me to top him with something even more clever and witty. The banter flying back and forth like a Hepburn and Grant movie growing in desire and sexual tension. But we were both drunk. So the reality probably looked more like…
“Hey, wanna get outa here?”he yells in my ear over the third Journey song of the night.
“I can’t. I’m celibate.” I shout back.
“So? We can still have some fun,” he replies as he brushes my over curled hair out of my mouth and behind my ear and whispers, “Its your Birthday…”
“Okay… ” I cave. Reluctantly? “But I’m not having sex!” I stage whisper with great emphasis into his ear.
“I know what celibate means. Are orgasms okay?”
“Lets get a cab.”
This is the part where I apologize to Habib or Ishmael or whoever delivered us safely to my door. We get in the cab, I tell him my address, “Shit, you’ll have to excuse my mess!” I suddenly remember.
“I don’t care!” Bobby laughs off.
That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me, I think. I take it in, we give each other a once over and literally fall into the others mouth. No soft gentle, teasing getting to know you kisses. But full on, desperate, invasive, I want to consume you smooches. We were lip-locked and groping like two horny teenagers for all 150 blocks to my apartment, refraining from grinding only because it was a van cab and we were sitting in two separate bucket seats, leaning over the arm rests that both of us were too drunk to think of moving.
We get to my apartment and practically sprint/trip up the five flights of stairs. Bobby follows behind me and makes me more than a little pleased that I decided to wear a skirt. Damn, not having sex with this guy is going to be the most fun I’ve had in a long time. We blow past the chaos that is basically every article of clothing I have ever owned strewn over every inch of my apartment, a faint memory of how this whole night began. I swipe it from my bed like the sexy secretary in a porno who is about to get it on the desk, only if the desk is a bed and the secretary is drunk and falls a little from the force of the flinging.
I recover and toss myself on the bed forgoing the removal of my pretty serious boots. Bobby kicks his shoes off, I think and… well the rest gets a little graphic. And my sister reads this. Lets just say that Bobby up holds his promise and makes me reconsider mine. In a big way.
Lets face it. A manual orgasm to a celibate drunk girl is like a side salad to a starving Ethiopian child when the steak and potatoes is just sitting there in front of her begging her to eat it. So I thought, when is the next time I will have a cute, naked willing man in my bed? And, when will I be drunk enough to think it’s a good idea?
So I spring into action. “I know I have a condom around here somewhere.” I slur. I want you to remember a few key given circumstances in order to fully enjoy the hilarity of this situation. I’m still very drunk, only now am also very naked except for the boots. And my place is a disaster. You would have a better chance finding a straight man in a yoga class than finding anything in my apartment at this moment. I remember having two condoms left from my last boyfriend in the bottom of a purse my friends begged me to throw out, but I saved for sentimental reasons. The purse, not the condoms. “Now where did I put that fucking purse?” I start ripping through closets, digging out suitcases, up-turning Christmas tree stands, bent over, flinging violently any and everything that is not going to help me take advantage of this rare opportunity. I can only imagine what Bobby must have thought lying there taking in the whole desperate scene. Me , ass up, elbow deep in the clutter of my overflowing closet. Probably, “Jeeze, this girl really needs to get laid.” And just as I was about to give up and pass out… I found it hiding where I never would have put it. On the top shelf, behind the Christmas tree lights which were immediately thrown to the ground.
“Here it is!” I scream, and do a celebratory dance that is part river, part touchdown. And mind you, I’m still naked. And sure enough there were two condoms mixed in with the other unsavory remnants of my retired bag. I bring the bag over to my friend, who is surprisingly still up for it, and produce the first condom which has freed itself of its three-year old wrapper and flops oh so invitingly on the bed between us. And just lies there, sad and unusable.
“How old did you say these were?”
“Three? Maybe four years? Why do condoms go bad?” I manage to finish as I produce our last chance to give this a go. It’s in its wrapper. Barely. And looks like its been through the wash or more accurately been tossed around the bottom of someone’s purse for say three maybe four years. I give it to Bobby who examines it, shrugs and…
I want to stop here and say that I am not proud of either one of us in this moment. Scrambling. Desperate. Amendment, I am proud that we are both old enough to practice safe sex. But safe at what cost? There is nothing sexy about a dry, old condom that is the only surviving remains of another failed relationship. There is nothing romantic about two old pals forcing intimacy after a night of drinking when it didn’t develop naturally on its own after 9 years of friendship. Were we really that lonely? REALLY? It’s hard to make love work under ideal circumstances. Staring at that stale condom put me in touch with what my body really yearned for.
An after thought: I was thankful that we didn’t go through with it. Sex has a funny way of making me believe I need someone. Makes me turn myself inside out trying to be everything they want me to be. And leaves me destroyed when I fail and they don’t want me anymore. As I look at the Christmas tree stand in the middle of my living room, I am profoundly thankful that this time only my apartment got destroyed.
Categories: See Jane Give Up Dick