...And She Lived Uncomfortably Ever After

Once upon a time there was a pissed off little princess who carried the weight of the world in her lower back and shoulders.

While she didn't have an evil stepmother, she DID have a momma who bore a striking resemblance to Linda Belcher from "Bob's Burgers", and one Christmas, this wonderfully shrill woman bestowed upon the princess a gift card for an hour of relaxation being rubbed down by a stranger at a nearby spa.

The princess gleefully accepted this present, with visions of sugar plums, essential oils, and unfamiliar hands dancing in her head.

Six long months later, the girl finally found some time to cash in her gift card, and set up an appointment at the massage parlor.  She eagerly counted down the days until she could disrobe and let a trained professional work the crap out of her knots.

Finally, the day arrived.  The princess could barely make it through her day at work, knowing that in just a few short hours, she would be relaxed and feeling fly.

When the time came, she checked in with the gals at the front desk, and was led to a waiting area where she sat in a white robe, surrounded by candles, pitchers of water, and a flat screen TV turned to Action News, where it serenely broadcast a story of a double murder in North Philly.

Shortly after, a woman entered and led the princess to her room, giving her a few minutes of privacy to disrobe and slip under the covers of a heated massage table.

Then shit got real.

"You here for hour massage, yes?"  The masseuse asked in a thick Russian accent, as she reentered the room and began rubbing oil on her hands.

"Yep." I replied, sticking my face in the hole in the table that never seemed big enough to accommodate my own giant Russian head.

"You want extras?"

I lifted my head and turned to look at the woman.

"Extras?"

"Yes," she said, "the extra services."

I thought that maybe she meant a manicure or an eyebrow waxing- something along those lines.

"Oh, no," I answered. "Just the massage."

Olga (that was her name), nodded and told me to flip over, as she apparently liked to start with the front of the body.  I complied and she got to work.

It wasn't until she was sticking her hand up in my business that I realized what she had meant by "extra services", and that apparently "no" meant "yes".

There were only two places in the area that I had heard stories of them giving happy endings.  The one was in Jenkintown (just a couple blocks from where I was, actually), and the other place was in Southampton.  It never occurred to me that the gift card MY OWN MOTHER gave me would basically be a free pass to tickling my ivories.

I managed to shift my position in such a way that made it clear to Olga that shop was closed.  Instead she moved to my northern hemisphere and pulled the sheet down so far that I was about to have a Lindsay Lohan nip-slip.  I reached down and tugged up the sheet, again signaling 'Do not pass Go, do not collect $200".

When she had me turn onto my stomach, she pretty much just went for it and grabbed my ass.  A full-on, two handed, double cheeked squeeze.  As I was laying there, weighing my options, for a split second I thought about going for it.  Why the hell not?  It would make a killer of a story, right?  And it would be bound to piss off my boyfriend- not because he would be defensive or protective, but because he'd be jealous I got a happy ending and he didn't.  The thought of his face if I told him filled me with competitive joy and satisfaction.

As Olga removed her hands from my butt and actually started massaging my legs and back in a normal fashion, I continued to consider the variables in case she started in on the real deal.

If it were a dude doing this, there was absolutely no way I would let him go through with it.  But it was a girl, and the bi-curiosity that had followed me since high school kinda dug the idea.  If she were Latin, it would have been a done deal.  But she was Russian, like me, and I stopped sleeping with my own kind back in college.  Nothing good can come out of letting someone- especially someone who is just as bitter and judgmental as I am- stick their Kremlin in my Red Square.

So that was that.  I dismissed the idea of letting Olga round the bases, and instead let her finish up the massage as usual.

After the hour was up and I put my clothes back on, I walked back to the front desk to leave.  Apparently Olga had done a quick change, because there she was, talking to the receptionist, completely decked out in a one-piece, skin tight, denim jumpsuit.

And why yes, she was wearing matching denim stiletto boots.

So there it is.  The story of how I almost accidentally got a happy ending.  The good news is, when I went home and told my boyfriend, he still got jealous.  So, you know, overall not a bad day.

Wait, You're In Your Twenties and Have Love Handles and Don't Mind Taking Your Shirt Off? Please- Tell Me How I Should Vote In The Next Election!

Ok, so this rant is a little late and may not seem super relevant right now.  However, it's something that I've thought for awhile, and my frustrations resurfaced when I recently read an interview with Lena Dunham about how she's upset that there was recently a porn made parodying "Girls" (Really?  She didn't see that one coming?).

Here's the thing: I get that Lena's not some sickly stick thin actress and she's not "hot" by the industry standards, and therefore everyone is proud of her for taking her clothes off on TV for 20 minutes every Sunday night.  That's all well and good, and I think it's a well-written show (at least the first season was, the second season was kinda crap), but we seriously need to stop inflating this girl's head by telling her how much of a brave, feminine trailblazer she is.

Guess what, Lena?  I'm an average girl too.  I don't have a perfect face or a perfect body.  But do you know what they would call me if I got naked in front of everybody all the time?  A prostitute.  And they would arrest me.  And then you would have to come bail me out of jail with your pile of brave money.  And I'll be damned if I have to sit waiting in a jail cell while Lena finishes getting her latest hipster tattoo of a corgi reading a Shel Silverstein book before she can come get me in her restored bright orange Gremlin with a COEXIST bumper sticker on the back.

That's all.  Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go shower with all of my clothes on.

Oooooh, Sorry, I'm Allergic To Virgins. No, Really, I Just Found Out Last Week...The, Uh, Allergy...Doctor...Told Me....

Do you know why Taylor Swift can't keep a boyfriend?  Because homegirl doesn't put out.

I'm sorry, but I guarantee you that's part of the problem.  She either dates these horny little 18 year olds or these men in their 30's who think that they can handle a sexless relationship because they're "mature", but after a couple of months they realize that if they don't get it in soon their balls are going to fall off.

Enter breakup, enter terrible break up song.

You know that girl's had more wang in her mouth than most of us combined though, right?
And before you start getting all bent out of shape about me being so vulgar about Taylor Swift, let's get something straight:  She's in her 20's.  She's a big girl now, she can take it.  Plus, bitch can't sing worth a lick yet she's a bajillionaire.  She wipes her tears with hundred dollar bills, she'll be ok.

This leads me to the topic at hand, though.

Does being a virgin cause problems in a relationship with a non-virgin?

Or, to put it in Carrie Bradshaw terms:

I couldn't help but wonder...why the rest of us gals are stuck being the bottom, is it really the virgins that come out on top?

Do I respect a person's right to withhold sex for whatever reason, whether it be religion, personal beliefs, or they just haven't found the right person yet?

Absolutely.

Do I think sex is an integral part of a relationship and coming of age and having a good old fucking time?

Absolutely.  Plus one.

I do think it's unfortunate though that some relationships don't last, or even get started for that matter, because one of the people doesn't want to have sex.  And let's face it, usually it's the girl that's holding out, so for sake of the annoyance of gender neutrality, let's just pretend in this article that the girl is always the one not down for the rodeo.

I myself have had experiences where once the guy realized I didn't want to have sex, they completely dismissed me, acted like something "suddenly came up", or just pretended that I didn't exist anymore.
Which, quite frankly, is fine because, well, fuck those guys.  Like, figuratively.  You know.
Regardless, these were times when it's not even like I was still a virgin, I just didn't feel like taking my pants off.  Call me crazy, but I don't have the urge to bone every guy I meet.  Having terrible sex and faking an orgasm with someone I've only met a couple of times does not make me feel special.

Although, most of the times it's just because I didn't shave my legs that morning.

Anyway, people need to realize that any day, at any given moment, they could ::gasp:: fall in love with a virgin.  And this is not a bad thing.  In fact, it's an amazing thing.  Think about it:

When you finally get to deflower her, even if you have to suck it up and wait till your wedding night, you get to mold her sexual technique.  She's had no experience, she doesn't know what she's doing, and she's looking to you for answers.  You can make your preferences her preferences.

You are the fuckin Prime Minister of her vagina.

Just, you know, keep in mind that she is a person and not a blow up doll, and she will end up liking things that you don't, and all that blah blah whatever.

Oh, and if a guy ever does blow you off just because you're not experienced, it just means that he's so bad in bed that he can't handle the thought of having to be in charge.  Poor boy :)

You Don't Know Me, But I Know You. Like, Intimately.

I keep having celebrity sex dreams.

Normally, this wouldn't be a issue.  Everyone has sex dreams, whether it's about a famous person or your ex or your best friend or that kid you hated in high school.  The thing about my dreams that is becoming a bit problematic is that they are so vivid, so in depth (bada bing?), and happen so often, that I wake up thinking the whole thing actually took place.  And then the next time I see that celebrity on TV or online, I have a crazy internal stalker moment where I'm like, 'I actually know you.  We had sex'.

But of course, we didn't.  It was a dream and I'm insane.

The first sex dream I ever had (like, ever had, about anybody), was with Jackie Chan.


WHY.


Who the fuck has a sex dream about Jackie Chan, except maybe Jackie Chan's wife back when they first started dating and she actually thought she would be ok with being stuck with one dude for the rest of her life?

Regardless, it happened.  And it took place on the floor of a van in between the front and back seats.  And in the dream, it was awesome.

If you want to delete my number from your phone, I understand.

A few years went by before I had my next Hollywood encounter.  This time, it was with Padma Lakshmi, that girl from Top Chef.  She had always been one of those people that I hated for no particular reason. So imagine my surprise when I fell asleep one night only to find Padma on top of me, on a table with a white sheet over us, in the middle of a swanky rooftop party.

I'll keep the dirty details to myself, but I will say this:

I hope everyone, at one point in their life, get themselves a piece of Padma.

Then there are the dreams of Louis CK, which I have chronicled in past blog entries.  Those I don't mind, as you all know he is my greatest conquest.

Recently though, the past couple of weeks have been filled with night time romps with Bradley Cooper.  On one hand, yes please!  On the other hand, uuughh, how stereotypical is that?

Last night he dragged me into a closet.  It was pitch black and I couldn't see a thing, but I kept running my hands through his hair.  Then other stuff happened, you know.  The usual.

So this morning I woke up and, I swear to god, my stomach started doing flips because I was so nervous about the fact that I was going to meet up with Bradley again tonight.

Like, for a split second, I actually thought that I was hanging out with him later.  In real life.

Then I found my way back into reality and got kind of disappointed.  Disappointed because I wasn't actually going to hang out with a celebrity millionaire who has no fucking clue who I am.

If you guys could at least lie and tell me this has happened to you before, that would make me feel a lot better.

Maybe this whole Bradley Cooper thing stems from the fact that he's from Jenkintown and I'm 99% sure Emmett saved him from getting a parking ticket that one time.  So if he was ever back in town one day and I actually ran into him at the West Avenue Grill or something, I would have a plethora of weird and potentially creepy stories to tell him.  About us.  Like, me and Bradley.  Together.

This makes me miss the good old days of having dreams where there was some terrible monster coming but I couldn't move my legs to run away.  Those were simpler times...

Penises! Vaginas! Whoooo!

Ok, this entry involves some audience participation, if that's cool with you guys.  Basically, I have a lot of questions that I need some answers to.  Well, I don't need answers, I would just very much like some.  I'm not going to cry myself to sleep if I don't get them.  I have other reasons to cry myself to sleep.  Like how every day I realize more and more that Louie C.K. is the man of my dreams.

To start things off, let me recount a conversation I had awhile back with a good male friend of mine.  Me and this guy have been great buddies for close to ten years, so there's really no topic that's off limits for us; and since I am who I am, we often talk about sex.

He and I both like to be in control when we're doing it with our respective significant others, although for different reasons.  I can only speak for myself, so I don't mind telling you that a good chunk of the reason why I like to lead is because I like sex to be painfully, mind-numbingly slow.  Not the whole time, mind you.  I'll go this way and that for the majority of it, but when it comes down to the big finale, the other person has to be borderline comatose for me to reach my happy place.

How appealing do I sound right now, huh fellas?

Anyway, in my quest to find out what the opposite gender really thinks about sex- which results in a constant interrogation of my poor, unsuspecting guy friends- I have found that when it comes to boys, it's pretty straight forward.  They want to be in control because, well, they're boys.  And even though they say that we should tell them what we want, some girls can take it to the point of bossiness.

Whoops.

But guess what?  Sex is a power struggle.  Always has been, always will be.  And without spewing any female empowerment bullshit, if girls stepped up to the plate a little more in the sack, maybe that whole statistic of 75% of women never being able to achieve orgasm from sex will change.  And even more importantly, 10-15% of women never reach the big O in their life.  In.  Their.  Life.

Now do you understand why we can get bitchy?  There's 10-15% of women out there who think that physical interaction with men consists of nothing more than wiping jizz off their boobs.  Not okay.

So here's my first official question:  Guys- Is it a mood killer for a girl to take control in bed, and basically tell you and/or show you what to do in order for her to have a good time?

Then my friend and I started talking about the stuff leading up to sex.  I told him that I thought it was more important for a girl to be good at giving head than for her to be good in bed.  He look confused for a second, so I went on to explain that when you're having sex, you can both be equally responsible for how it's done.  If she's doing something you don't like, switch it up.  But if she's bad at going down on you, you're kinda defenseless.  Sure, you can move your hips a little or, if you're a jerk, you can push her head down (by the way, any guy that does this deserves to have his dick bitten off), but the peas and carrots of the situation is if homegirl can't bring her A-game, there's really no way to improve that.

"Holy shit," my friend then said, "You're right."

(By the way, a lot of people think the same thing goes for a bad kisser, but I'll let you in on a little trick that has never, ever, ever failed me.  If the person you're with can't make out for shit, say to them, "I think we kiss differently.  Here, just relax, and I'll show you how I like to kiss."  Then take their face in your hands and kiss them, without really letting them kiss you back.  Soon enough, they'll mold to your way.  Trust me.)

Ok, second question:  Guys and girls- Is it more important for your partner to be better at oral, or sex?

Aaand here comes the final question, but it has no backstory.  Honestly, I'm just purely interested in the outcome because I think a lot of people act more innocent and wholesome than they really are.

How many of you have ever cheated?

Of course all answers for all questions can be anonymous and quite frankly, I'm realistic in the fact that no one will probably even respond.  But if you do, cool.  You've just become a better person in my book.

On To The Next...

I don't even know how to begin processing the last 365 days.  Coming off of 2011, a period of time that I consider a lost year, I didn't even know myself.  I was so numb that year, locked in what I can only describe as an emotional coma.  To be honest, I have very little memory of that time.  It was probably one of the most difficult periods of my life.

Then, eight days into 2012, I met someone who brought me back to life.  I don't want to delve too much into that relationship, but all you need to know is that I would not change one second of it, good or bad. At the end of the day, it made me realize that after what I went through in the past, I was stronger than I thought.  And the other person was equally as strong, if not more so.

I moved into my apartment, claiming true independence for the first time in my life.  After 26 years, I had a home.

I accepted the loss of old friends, welcomed the presence of new ones, and appreciated those that have always stuck by me.  I also said goodbye to someone who was taken away too soon, but left a lasting imprint on everyone that was lucky enough to know her.

Then, after a chance sighting, I reconnected with the man who I had built a family with four years ago. A lot of people didn't understand or approve, but I had no doubts that this was what was supposed to happen.

On the same page, the bookstore where this man and I had met, on my 22nd birthday next to the cookbooks, closed its doors.  Today, in fact.  For many people there it was a loss of their jobs, their coworkers and friends, their home away from home.  For me, it was the loss of the place where I met the person who changed everything.

This year has brought a lot of pain and a lot of happiness.  It has brought uncertainty and regret and acceptance.  But to be honest, I'm ready for it to be over.  I feel like it was the stepping stone between the lost year and the rest of my life, my happiness.

So I'm not sad to see this year go.  I'm ready for 2013 and I know that I have to take control in order for it to become what I want.

50 Shades of What the Fuck Did I Just Read

[Author's Note:  This post may contain spoilers of the worst book ever written]

You guys.  I finally finished the most painful literary experience of my life.  Like, worse than Beowulf. WORSE THAN BEOWULF.  Ok, I know I'm way behind on the 50 Shades train, I get that.  But here's the thing:  I started reading this book like, 6 or 7 months ago.  I wasn't even going to read it.  I heard all the hype, I of course was curious if the sex scenes were really as extreme as everyone was saying, but in all honesty this book was not on my agenda.  Then my friend told me I should read it.  I wasn't sure.  But she lent me her copy and I proceeded to struggle through 514 pages of an English major's nightmare.  Let me just quickly add something about my reading technique- If I like a book, I can usually whiz through it pretty quickly.  If I love a book, it's done in a day or two.  Never has it taken me almost a full year to read a book.  I kept stopping for a couple of weeks here and there and then picking it back up and making myself read a few pages.  The longest period of time that I consistently read it was the week I was down the shore back in July, where I thought if there was any appropriate place to read a book that had quickly become known as socially acceptable porn, it was on a family oriented beach as little innocent children giggled and skipped past me as I read about some girl who is ok with getting whipped raw, but had to be convinced by her roommate to shave her armpits for a date.

Needless to say, before I even started reading the book, I told myself that I would write a blog about it once I finished, no matter what.  So, reluctantly, here I go.

First thing's first.  If this Ana chick ever actually existed, there is no way in hell that she would have any friends, let alone all these guys falling all over her.  Homegirl is whiny and stuffy and hairy (seriously dude, why did I have to read about your inner struggle on whether or not to shave your legs?) and needs to realize that she does not live in the 19th century British tragedy that she's constantly referencing; she lives in Seattle.  Which I guess is kind of the same thing.

And the only reason her hot roommate sticks around is because Ana makes her look even better than she already is.  Try and dispute that, present day female society.

Second, if E. L. James really wanted to write a book set in America, maybe she should have studied up a little more on our current trends and slang.  No one really cares about Kings of Leon anymore, and never, ever, ever has any current 22 year old said "Oh my".  Ever.  Never ever ever.  Not even once.  Especially during sex.  But then again, according to this book, a girl can have an earth shattering orgasm, her very first orgasm no less, just by having a billionaire poke around her nipples for a couple of minutes.  So what do I know.

Also, sentence structure.  It's an actual thing.  Look into it.

Ok, sex scenes.  The first one was fine.  Not as explicit as I was expecting, but not bad.  But then, it's just, they didn't get better.  It was like the author got lazy with them.  They became shorter and shorter each time, and always ended with an "Oh my" and an "Oh Ana".  Everyone collapses, he won't let her touch him, she's just been slapped around enough that she has to get lotion rubbed on her ass afterwards...cool bro, sounds like a really healthy relationship.

Even I would break up with him, and I literally have the worst judgement in guys ever.

Now, Jose on the other hand...si, por favor.

When I finally got to the end of the book, I was a little surprised that the entire story had only taken place over a span of a few weeks and still nothing had really happened.  But I supposed that's semi-appropriate for the first book of a trilogy.  Luckily, my mom's friend saw me reading the book over the summer (I was literally 5 pages in), and decided to tell me the ending of the series which normally would have made me angry, but we all knew I wasn't reading the other two books.

Ok, so as much as I hated this book, there was one paragraph that I actually found very real.  And I only had to wait until the 5th to last page to find it!  Seriously though, it's a passage describing those moments after you end a relationship, when you suddenly realize that the world is still turning and you have to somehow find a way to turn with it.

"My worst fears have been realized.  And strangely, it's liberating.
The pain is such that I refuse to acknowledge it.  I feel numb.  I have somehow escaped from my body and am now a casual observer to this unfolding tragedy.  I shower quickly and methodically, thinking only of each second in front of me.  Now squeeze body wash bottle.  Put body wash bottle back in rack.  Rub cloth on face, on shoulders...on and on, all simple, mechanical actions, requiring simple, mechanical thoughts."

We have all been in that same exact place.  And if you haven't, count yourself lucky.  It's that moment where you are completely outside of your own self, and you literally have to narrate in your head every action you take, just to keep the reality of your heart out.  'I'm turning the doorknob, I'm opening the door, I'm walking to the mailbox.  There are three envelopes in here, all white.  That is my name, that is my address...'  

It's that feeling where you can't move a muscle in your face.  You can't smile or frown or blink.  Tears are plummeting out of your eyes and you don't even notice until they fall off your chin and hit your hand or chest or the plate of food in front of you that you have no intention of eating.

Still, aside from that one particular bundle of sentences, I just couldn't get on board with the whole phenomenon of 50 Shades.  

Good news though!  I just spelled "phenomenon" right on the first try!