One of my favorite past times is spending afternoons/evenings/all night reading my favorite sex blogs. Which probably doesn’t come as a surprise, but more than raising awareness of the sex I’m not having or the fact that it’s simply ridiculously fun and hot, be it the exotic adventures of Debauchette or the hilarious antics of the Over-Educated Nympho (I spent most of today reading through her archives), reading sex blogs also fulfills some sense of relativity when it comes to “shoulds” of sex and romance.
Because, at this point, I have no idea if I’m considered experienced or inexperienced (although, anecdotal conversations and certain quiz results tell me that I weigh more heavily toward the former) when it comes to any of this—and yes, the late start probably does have something to do with it. But so does the fact that as far as Relationships go, I’ve only ever had one proper boyfriend—High School Boyfriend, First Kiss, First Love (but not really love) and all that. While friends happily chime about This Ex and That Ex, I become lost in my hazed history of Unrequited Crushes, Should Have Been more than just Hook Ups, If Only and not quite anything boy toys, half hearted regrets.
Despite all my nympho and ever so proud of being a Slut tendencies, at the heart of it, I am still a hopeless romantic. Just, one who demands violent fucking, one who is ever so skeptical about romance under any other pretense than the real thing. Yes, I’ve had my share of sweet, adorable, not-at-all-an-asshole indie boys who wanted nothing more than hand holding and eye gazing while all I wanted was a night of hot sex, but that is not the sort of romance I’m after, either. Not false formalities and sweet nothings that really are that—worthless, nothing. Theatrics for the sake of fitting a scripted romance.
But…something more than the boys I can’t wait to get out of my room after a night, more than another item checked off that mystical To Do list, the sort of passion that inspires sinking my candy red nails into his back and searing my teeth down on an unsuspecting pillow, screaming “fuck me harder” and forgetting my own name in the animalistic pleasures that overtake me instead. And waking up next to him, not dreading the morning ritual before one of us can escape, and instead lusting after another round of (perhaps slightly more subdued) sex before starting a day.
***
A month earlier my motto had been “there is no way I’m looking for a boyfriend.” Lately, all I can think about are terms and definitions—more than a fuck buddy (or is that it?), a potential friend with benefits (but shouldn’t the friendship come first?), never a boyfriend (but why not?).
I’m talking about Bad Idea, of course. Who has gotten me in a total mess, because he is cute enough, smart enough, hip enough, and with a sex drive and dirty mind that might exceed mine. A boy I’d be just as happy spending a day with as staying up all night and fulfilling every one of our depraved fantasies. A boy who, from the start, had triggered insecurity, and maintained a No Dating No Exclusivity policy, and then sends surprisingly endearing texts like “I just turned off porn thinking to myself, oh it doesn’t matter I’m just going to think about her anyway.”
Maybe it’s because I’m a bit sick of unfulfilling hook ups, nights or mornings I wish I spent getting enough sleep rather than playing with a self conscious boy who thinks he knows what he’s doing or wants more than I care for (see: Angry Eagle Man, who sends me IMs about how he was just remembering the way my face looked after we hooked up and how beautiful it was. No thank you). Maybe I’m ready for a change, a bit of stability after so much nonstop adventure. Maybe I want to have someone I can without a doubt call when I need a refresher course in how to be a good little slut, someone who I know to be an excellent teacher.
Regardless of the reason. I had decided that I should stay completely clear of him to avoid future emotional disasters, but New Year’s made that resolution, ironically, completely dissolve. So, I’m back to uncertainty, of telling myself to just have fun and that’d be that. Since I no longer seem to know what I want. I only know that I want more than just weekend quickies before we split off to hangout with our respective friends, more than dirty conversations and blog material.
All the more ironic because I am really the last person to care about labels and definitions. I suppose I shouldn’t worry too much. It has, after all, been quite a while since I last saw him, and maybe all this long distance talking has only confused me further (not to mention, all this time I’ve been spending alone/not in the company of any eligible boys). But once we are in the same time zone again, I’m hoping it might be a bit easier to find out if Bad Idea really has to be such a bad idea.
After all, I really don’t want to create my own self fulfilling prophecy. Much easier to change a name than a doomed future. Right?
