a/s/l

The internet entered my life in middle school via AOL dial-up. My house had one computer in my parents’ room and we were granted 10 online accounts after installing via disc. Initially, I had no care for it because I didn’t understand it. But, that changed when a friend asked if I was available to chat online. WHAT’S THAT?!

And those individual DMs quickly moved to age-inappropriate chat rooms, making the internet a major teacher of sexuality. Shockingly, this wasn’t a healthy education.

Time really does move fast. Talking on the phone was my main form of communication with friends. You would call the house phone, ask for them, and then discuss a range of topics for minutes or hours. Then I was scheduling AIM (AOL Instant Messenger) sessions via phone with those same friends. Eventually we got cell phones, and phone calls were made primary again, with texting being a novelty. And now, my husband is not in the minority when he says talking on the phone gives him anxiety. Then our phones got internet and everything is all grouped together, keeping us connected and separated all at once.

My friend had to walk me through setting up AOL chat, which was tricky because we couldn’t talk on the phone, so I wrote down foreign instructions and, along with my step-dad, we finally managed to send an instant message to her username from his account (which was his full name). For probably too long, my screenname was WilliamSmithII. You know, just your typical, girlie AOL username.

Once I learned about instant messaging, the internet became a major part of my young, daily life. Eventually, I filled up the remaining 10 accounts with various usernames (at the time, you couldn’t just change the screenname on a whim like you could in subsequent years), trying out different personas as my understanding of internet lingo expanded. Numbers could replace letters? Letters could be repeated for stylization? You could capitalize every other letter? My parents were not thrilled with this outcome as apparently every time you created a new account, you had to pay for it.

My internet time was limited because it did tie up the phone line and my parents also didn’t have any visibility into what I was doing, so they were concerned. At first, they had no reason to be, but as with anything that comes without education, curiosity takes over and the internet has literally no bounds.

“Have you gone into any chat rooms?” Queried a friend. “No, what’s that?” I asked.

Quickly, I learned. It was a virtual room where people just type things to each other, from all over. I watched the messages pouring in, taking in the random information about the topic at hand. I type out “poop”, wait a good minute, and then hit Enter and run away cackling. I can’t believe I just did that!

From chat rooms, you could direct message people individually, creating a more private atmosphere. This would happen, occasionally, mostly people reprimanding me from my juvenile behavior; but once I started entering more adult-themed chat rooms, the nature of those conversations changed quite a bit.

As young girls who are taught to not talk or ask about sex while being human and insanely curious about it, my group of friends swiftly found ourselves on a knowledge quest, sharing with each other everything we found out and how we discovered it.

In these rooms, I sent nothing. I voyeuristically absorbed line after line, talking about hard cocks, wet pussies, and other terms I’d never seen or heard of. Dildos, anal plugs, lube, blowjobs, fingering. After a couple minutes, I would get a direct message from someone in the room.

“Hey, cum here often?” A pickup line that unfortunately crossed the digital threshold. At the time, I knew nothing of this as a come-on, and definitely didn’t understand his purposeful misspelling. I just filed it away as another entry in my internet slang dictionary. I never responded when I was by myself. With the encouragement from friends and the privacy of their computer living outside of their parents’ room, however, we would write back excitedly.

“a/s/l” we respond.

Age / sex / location. It was a question to ask when chatting with strangers. A conversation that starts with this gets sexual, very fast. We knew that, so that’s why we answered that way.

Our information was never fully accurate. We were always 18 or 19, F, and in CA or NY. The next question would typically be about how big our boobs are. “DD”.

Even at 11 years old, we knew what men wanted us to be: A blonde, busty, thin, white girl who was barely legal and down to say and read dirty things. If these men were actually men and not boys (or other girls), then they definitely would have known that we were younger than we pretended to be. And they were probably okay with that.

Because the internet was tied to the phone line, a lot of our online time was late at night when parents weren’t expecting phone calls. This boded well for sleepovers where we could chat with our friends and strangers without interruption or consequences.

I never knew what we were talking about. My friends always seemed to know how to respond or what the messages meant, but in hindsight, I don’t think they were informed either. Our group really got a wild variety of shared knowledge, accurate and completely made up, and I took all of that with me to my many sexual encounters. But, reading “Wanna cyber?” or “Cybersex?” from these faceless typers was still the most thrilling experience of my life up to that point.

Eventually, the internet became independent from the phone line, so my time at the computer increased dramatically. My friends and I rarely spoke on the phone. Instead, we would IM to each other, and to people that we knew of or met online without any actual physical introductions. The relationships were genuine, even if the people were not always around in real life.

At one point, a friend of a friend and I became internet buddies. We spoke a lot, despite never actually meeting or seeing what the other looks like. Eventually, scanning pictures into the computer became a thing and we swapped photos. He also sent one of his brother and his then girlfriend, probably just because it was on the computer and he could. New technology was always exciting to use even if it didn’t make sense. The nameless girlfriend was pretty and exactly how my friends and I described ourselves to strangers. This photo became my ticket into prolonged conversations and online relationships.

I have no idea who this girl was. I look back and feel bad that I sent it to so many people, but I couldn’t even apologize if I wanted to. The internet was a lawless place back then (and still is). We really didn’t understand anything.

But, because of her, when I would talk to men, I wouldn’t have to stop the conversation when they wanted to see a pic. I had one at the ready and I sent it off without hesitation. The response was perfect: “UR so fucking hawt! That really U?” “ya it’s really me! Y wud i send a pic of sum1 else?”

I am very fortunate that nothing terribly bad happened to me because of my internet behavior. Yes, I engaged in inappropriate conversations and who knows what they were getting from it, but I never met anyone in person after meeting online or provided any real information about me that would create issues down the line. And this was our outlet for things that we couldn’t find elsewhere.

Recently I learned that the abstinence-only sexual education wave hit in the mid-90s due to the federal government providing compensation to schools that followed that teaching method. This is why we didn’t have condoms on bananas (see Condom consent) or realistic rape scenarios (see Call it by name) and that’s why I (and others in my millennial age group) had no real understanding of sex or my own body or comfortability with the topic even as I explored it.

But the internet filled a part of the void. I did not understand the internet being a tool for research until maybe college. For me, it was just a communication form and that communication form taught me how men thought about sex. And not just men, but men behind the veil of anonymity. And since that was my only resource, I took it as fact. Women were objects, they needed to look a certain way, they needed to be knowledgable but also not slutty, they needed to be there for men’s enjoyment in any way that they desire. And that’s how I understood sex. And so, that’s how I had sex.

Despite my many efforts to love myself and understand the person I am, these roots still hold strong. I am not attractive unless I’m thin. I’m not attractive unless I’m showing cleavage (but I can’t complain if I am harassed for it). I take too long to orgasm, so just focus on my partner. He doesn’t want to hear your complaints about the sexual experience, so just tell him it was amazing. Stay silent, but make enough noises that parrot porn stars so he knows that he’s rocking your world. It’s awkward to realize these things and to try to change them. I feel so uncomfortable and in my head when I have sex. It’s rare that I can just be. And this is one of the most natural human experiences we can enjoy, and yet, I can’t chill the fuck out.

Bachelorette bastard

WEDDING SEASON SERIES

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WEDDING SEASON SERIES |

The era of multiple weddings a year is overwhelmed by feeling optimistic and simultaneously beat down by love as a single lady. The constant reminder of what you don’t have weighs heavy and can be depressing as the perpetual odd number, but it can also bring you hope that your happy ending is right around the corner. At the many events that surround a wedding, you’re always on the hunt to connect with someone that you wouldn’t have met otherwise. It’s exhausting and typically disappointing.

Leading up to a friend’s wedding, we had a bachelorette party weekend in Las Vegas. If I recall correctly, I was one of two single ladies there, and most of the attendees’ partners were celebrating the same weekend with the groom in the same hotel. So a lot of our events ended up being coupled up and I was the sober tribute, pushed onto any single guy in the room. I didn’t mind terribly since I wanted to get laid and (again) maybe meet my future husband, but it was also Vegas and the quality of men there is trash.

In addition to her bachelorette party, another event was taking place at that time in Vegas for my brother’s company. I went out there early with my parents to celebrate his business and then saw the group on and off as our groups merged throughout the weekend. On that first night in town, through his crew, I met [I honestly forgot his name], who was working with my brother to bring musical elements to his events. He was really hot, funny, and really into me. I was down.

He really made his mark on me at the club when a strange man kept attempting to dance with me by the bar, despite my many attempts to move, and he came in, grabbed me, and pulled me into his embrace, making the man finally leave me alone. Of course it took another man to claim me as his to get him to stop, which is frustrating as shit, but I was grateful that he noticed the situation and took action to help me. We partnered up for the remainder of the night as we went to other clubs, got food, and gambled in the casinos. I was giddy with the connection we were making.

I believe in an attempt to help me or just fuck up his game, one of the other guys in the group asked aloud, “[forgotten name], when is your wedding again?”

I froze and looked at him. His eyes narrowed at the whistle-blower, clearly communicating a silent “fuck you.”

“It’s next year.” He said shortly. Then he looked at me and smiled weakly.

I calculated the turn of events in my head. The age-old question screamed loudly: Why are all the good ones taken?! (side note: a “good one” does not flirt and lead on another woman all night while engaged to someone else) Immediately, I accepted that this would not lead to anything more than the flirtation that we have already engaged in and this is a dead-end, unfortunately.

He attempted to keep up the mood for the remainder of the night, but there was no way to bring back that excitement or enjoyment. I said a quick goodbye upon arriving back at the hotel and successfully avoided his arms as he tried to hug me. I was disappointed in the outcome but also very proud of myself for not being the other woman (I’ve been the other woman multiple times in my life and it’s never a good time).

The next day marked the start of the bachelorette party and I was grateful to be with my friends, who listened sympathetically to the series of unfortunate events that occurred before their arrival, and for the distractions of celebrating something completely different and separate from him. We got all dressed up in our Vegas finest, enjoyed a group dinner, then hit the clubs.

Eventually we landed at a club where my brother and his coworkers and friends were already at. I held my breath as I did a quick scan and saw that he wasn’t there, at least not that I could see. We joined their table and I got confirmation that he was absent. At once, I was relieved and disappointed. But the night was a blast, dancing and celebrating our girl in a safe space and getting everyone back to the hotel rooms without incident.

After half-carrying-half-dragging a drunken bride back to the room, I collapsed into my bed and saw I had an Instagram notification on my phone from an unknown user. I opened it up and saw the request: “I’m sorry I missed you tonight.”

I clicked on the profile and saw that it was [forgotten name]. My heart leapt and I couldn’t contain my smile. He’s still thinking of me, he tracked down my Instagram, he messaged me … he must be into me.

My reply was cool and short, not to shut him down immediately, but also avoiding slipping back into witty banter.

“Yeah, my friend’s bachelorette party started, so we ended up at that club.”

Note: I no longer have these messages for reasons revealed later, so these are general memories of the conversations that we had.

“Did you have a good time?” He asked.

“Yes, it was really fun.”

And then he didn’t respond. Even though that’s what I was aiming for, I was also crestfallen. He put forth all this effort to get in touch with me even after the shitty ending from the night before and now he won’t even fight a little for me? I waited a few moments more to see if he would say anything, but nothing happened, so I rolled over and went to sleep.

I finally received a reply from him the next afternoon while we were at a day club. It was hot and crowded, and the pool was warmer than the air outside and milky with sunscreen, so we didn’t stay too long. I was in a much different mood today, feeling annoyed by the Vegas environment rather than the exuberance I experienced the night before, so I was more welcoming of the conversation and of the escape.

We messaged all afternoon, flirting subtly and then getting into more graphic conversations. I detailed the exchange with another bachelorette attendee and she gave me the permission I was seeking to say “fuck the fiancé”.

“What’s your plan tonight? Maybe we can meet up after the show?” (we were going to see Magic Mike)

“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll keep you posted. I would like that.”

That was the last message I got from him for the remainder of the night, despite sending a couple more (I know, pathetic). I have found this quirk if you will about myself. If I decide to do something that I know is not the right or best thing to do, I really work hard to make it happen. It’s like I have to follow through with it despite EVERYTHING telling me it’s a bad idea or trying to stop me from doing it. So, I message him after the show saying that I’d like to see him and then again asking if he’s back in his room and then querying whether he still wants to see me and then finally just sending “goodnight.”

The bachelorette party was an overall success for its purpose, but I was definitely bummed that I didn’t get to take it further with [forgotten name]. Eventually, I accepted that it was for the best and I deleted our conversation and moved on from the whole potential of it.

Then, a couple months later, I got an Instagram message from him a little past midnight.

“Hey. Long time. What are you doing?”

“Oh, wow. Hi! I’m trying to sleep but failing. What about you?”

“Just got in a huge fight. I’m not engaged anymore.”

My heart started beating so fast. The night we spent together came flooding back. The conversations, the connection, the chemistry. The potential suddenly became very real again.

“Oh, I’m really sorry to hear that. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s been bad for a while, so it isn’t that surprising.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t really know what else to say.”

“That’s okay. I want to see you.”

“Okay,” the excitement brews in the pit of my stomach. “What do you want to do?”

“Can you come over now?”

At the time I was living in Orange County and he was in Los Angeles.

“No, I’m already in bed and I have work tomorrow. But I’m free this weekend.”

“I want to see you tonight. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Vegas.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t drive all the way up to LA tonight. I wouldn’t get there until like 2:00AM.”

“That’s fine, I’ll stay up.” he urged.

“I feel like if I come, then it’s just to have sex but I would actually like to get to know each other a bit more. Maybe have an actual date, ya know?” I tried to hold my ground without being dismissive. I was grasping onto the idea that this could actually lead somewhere and I didn’t want it to just be another one night stand.

“I need to see you tonight!”

“Look, I’m not gonna come up there tonight, but I am interested in seeing you again. So, if you wanna take me out sometime, then I’m definitely game. But now I have to go to sleep. Goodnight ❤️”

I then turned off my phone to not get pulled back into the conversation and went to sleep, feeling excited about what could come.

The next morning, I saw he responded with, “Okay, goodnight.” and I closed the app. My brother’s girlfriend knew him through the business relationship, so I messaged her telling her everything that happened. At the time, I thought, maybe I should screenshot this, but I didn’t (unfortunately).

I told her all of this in excitement and also to see if she knew anything about them breaking up. She didn’t, and then looked at his fiancé’s Instagram and said that there wasn’t anything there, but that’s not surprising since it just happened the night before.

As we continued discussing the conversation, I returned to the chat to get details and noticed that it was no longer there. It just disappeared, completely. Confused, I quit the app and reopened it thinking it was some kind of fluke, but it still wasn’t there. I searched his username and nothing came up. Did he block me?!

I asked my brother’s girlfriend to see if she could find his account. Maybe he just deleted his profile. She couldn’t find it either. I didn’t think deleting a profile would remove the conversation, but I wasn’t totally sure. Then she told me that she went to his fiancé’s page again and saw him tagged in an old photo and when she clicked on it, it said, “user not found.”

After googling how an Instagram conversation could disappear, I learned that this happens when someone blocks you. So, he blocked me and her, apparently (really covering his bases!).

I was confused and hurt once again by this roller coaster. Later, I got a message from her saying that the fiancé posted a story with him at their wedding cake tasting, so it didn’t seem like they actually broke up.

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH MEN?! And yes, I am generalizing. This man is engaged, tried to fuck me without telling me that, then connected with me enough to make me want it too. THEN he messages me out of the blue, telling me he’s no longer engaged, demands me to drive up to see him IMMEDIATELY so that we can fuck, and then blocks me while still in his relationship.

I have no idea what happened that night. Maybe they did get into a fight and he saw an opportunity to have sex with me, then they got back together and he hid all evidence. Or they never actually broke up, but he had a free night BEFORE WEDDING CAKE TASTING, got drunk, and thought he’d shoot his shot. It’s fucking disgusting.

Because he blocked all people associated with me, I don’t know whether he got married, is still married, or even alive. But I know he’s a bastard and I know that there are a lot of men out there like that. So, fuck all of you who do shit like this.

One thing I feel good about in this story is my resolve to NOT go see him that night. This wasn’t too long before my husband and I got together and I really was over the whole fuckboy situation. If you want to see me or have sex with me or whatever, you have to fucking make an effort. And that means taking me out on an actual date rather than asking me to drive 2 hours to you in the middle of the night. The old me might have done that, but the one that he messaged was definitely over that shit, and I love that about me.

The early-20s urge to force it

WEDDING SEASON SERIES

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WEDDING SEASON SERIES |

In my experience, women usually fall into three age groups for marriage:

1. 18 - 21

2. 26 - 30

3. Mid-30s +

These are sweeping generalizations based on my own history and the people around me, but it’s what I know, so it’s what I’m writing.

The first group consists of women (girls) marrying their high school sweetheart. This can be motivated by religion, unexpected pregnancy, or just naivety. It seems all so glamorous and as a young woman who’s now an “adult”, it feels like the right move, like you’re ready for this. Many of these marriages end in divorce because we’re not grown yet as people and typically these couples grow apart rather than together. This can happen at any age, but it’s very common in this period because at 18 we are still, literally children.

The second age group is made up of women who have lived a bit and have gotten to know themselves more and are still optimistic about love and relationships. They have found a partner who meshes with who they’ve grown into and whose values align more with their own. OR another option is a long time relationship that hit the ultimatum of “break up or get married”. Many of those second ones tend to lead to divorce as well, while the former path tends to be more successful (even if they do end in divorce, it’s amicable). Not saying that long-term relationships that wait to get married until they’ve experienced more life are doomed for divorce, but if the partners go into it with the attitude of “I guess I have to do this now”, then that’s not really a good start to a legally binding commitment.

The final period has women who are shocked that it’s even happening. This is not because they are unworthy of love or anything, but we are all taught that 30 is the cutoff point for marriage and so they learned how to love themselves and to live their best lives, and a partner became incredibly optional; and then they happen to find someone who fits well into their life after assuming they were destined to be alone. This kind of partnership could come in the earlier age group if the woman has already accomplished loving herself and just doing whatever she wants (but that’s hard to do). The end of this relationship is most likely by death rather than divorce, and not only because the matches are typically more aligned, but also for the simple fact that dealing with divorce is a lot of wasted energy, and both parties are aware of this fact.

Another possibility in the last group are people just desperate to get married and settle for companionship where they can get it. I am aware that this happens, but for argument’s sake, I assert that once women take the expectation of marriage out of their radar and focus on themselves, they typically find that partnership (especially with men) is a nice-to-have if it’s right rather than a need-to-have no matter what. These generalizations are also made with the assumption of no children. Being a single mother makes everything different because you’re no longer just focused on yourself, so the time tables and requirements are vastly diverse.

The second age group period can be really hard as an unmarried woman. You’ve had experiences that lead to some independence and it feels like you’re an adult, but you’re definitely not. You’re meeting strangers in the bars and actually going on dates like you see in the movies and you’re full of optimism that any night could be the night that changes your life forever. But you haven’t experienced that night. And your peers are getting married and “starting their lives” (because women are taught that getting married is the main reason to live) so you really begin to feel like you’re fucking something up. The amount of weddings I attended in my late twenties is shocking; and it really stings when you’re continually the only single lady there. It’s like being the 9th wheel for an entire decade.

I was a relationship person for most of my early dating life. It started with my first, real boyfriend at 16; then I got into another relationship not too long afterward that spanned the remainder of my high school time; then about a month after that ended, I got into a three-year long relationship that lasted throughout college; then I entered my last long-term relationship before my marriage within six months of the previous one ending, which lasted just over two years and included my first live-in experience.

Following my last breakup, I was relationship-less for six years. I dated and had problematic sexual encounters, but I never was committed to anyone or, more devastatingly, they were never committed to me. My friends; however, were in relationships, finding their soulmates, making major life decisions, and I felt stalled. I felt insignificant.

There’s a nagging voice in our heads that tells us we must partner up to become whole; and it was put there by the societal voices outside of our heads that drilled it in. I still recall a lot of the conversations around that time: “you’ll find someone when the timing is right”, “they’ll show up when you’re ready for them”, “all of these experiences are just prepping you for the right partner”. They insinuate that you’re in control of meeting your partner and that if it hasn’t happened yet, it’s because you’re not ready or you’re not right. Like you’re doing something wrong.

Because I was single and men only wanted me for sex and I was ignoring the incredible abuse that I’d sustained up until then, I truly believed that I had no value. I was a failure because I couldn’t get a man to stay and thus my life was useless.

With this pressure and the feeling like you’ve been single for too long (being single in your twenties is NOT A BAD THING! It’s actually great. You get to grow and learn and try out things. But you’re made to feel like you’re a fucking plague or something), you start to think about missed opportunities or trying for something you wouldn’t normally because it might be the thing that fits. You feel the urge to force it.

At one of the many weddings in which I was a bridesmaid, I tried hard to force it. On top of all the existing influences, being a bridesmaid adds even more — that classic trope that you’re definitely gonna get laid or the process of catching the bouquet to be the next to get married (what the fuck?). And I wasn’t yet sober so a lot of factors contributed to the decision making process that occurred that night.

This was my first, post-Pinterest wedding experience. I created a chalkboard menu for the food and drinks as the person with the best handwriting, my brother’s girlfriend made signature, craft cocktails for the reception, and we all received thoughtful and personalized bridesmaid gifts. And the wedding now included a full day of getting ready in our floral robes and drinking unlimited mimosas from our painted wine glasses.

In the thrill of the ceremony and not wanting to fuck anything up, the drinks didn’t hit until I sat down at the reception table. And then they fucking hit. And then I added to that an incredibly strong cocktail and copious glasses of red wine. I think I ate and I am positive that I consumed no water.

I am embarrassed at memories of this wedding. It was in front of a lot of family who mostly abstain from alcohol, my breasts fell out of my sweetheart neckline bridesmaids dress numerous times, and I recall smoking cigarettes on the dance floor. Thankfully, I was not the only person drinking at this wedding, but I was definitely the most memorable.

Due to noise ordinances, the reception ended at 10:00 PM, but the mother of the groom invited everyone to her house to continue partying. Of course I went there. Did I drive? I honestly don’t remember, but my car was at the house for sure.

Before I got completely wasted and made an ass of myself, I reconnected with an old friend that I hadn’t seen in a long time. We were really close in high school, entitling each other “best friend” and we hung out a little after graduation, but between college moves and life changes, it had been a while since we spoke. Seeing him again reminded me of a time we spent in his new apartment, post-high school, where his furniture was stacked atop each other and a brand new mattress lie in the corner of the room, surrounded by boxes and the parts to his new bed frame that hadn’t yet been built.

Initiate flashback sequence

We cross the threshold of his new apartment, a cookie-cutter unit in a large apartment complex in a small town, with the shopping bags from our previous excursion. He leads me to his bedroom, and together we apply the brand new bedsheets to the mattress on the floor so that he can sleep there tonight. The cool blue-grey color looks grimy against the too-bright, freshly painted white wall behind it, but it feels right for someone our age. Once the bed is made, I fall back into it and feel the soft, cool bedding beneath me. “Nothing like new sheets” I say, making snow angels with my arms and legs.

He laughs and sits on the floor, opens a moving box, and then starts unpacking items from it. I turn onto my side to face him as he organizes his items in piles next to him. Our eyes meet and we both smile.

I always thought he maybe had a crush on me in school, but he was too shy to say anything. And I have started to maybe develop feelings for him as we hang out outside of school grounds, but I am dating someone else. We stare silently for a while, begging each other to make a move, but it doesn’t happen. The tension lingers all night, but eventually I leave without talking or doing anything about it.

Complete flashback sequence

Would it have been a good idea to hook up that night, with him starting in a new city, me living in a different one, and already being in a relationship? No, of course not. But I did play the “what if” game in my head. What if we did? Would we still be together? Would we be married? Would we be here as dates rather than long-lost friends? Would I have bypassed some of the terrible situationships I’ve been in since that night? Would I be who I am today? Would I be better? Is this something I can retroact years later? Was this the right move to make but I was too stupid to do it then? Can I do it now and make up for lost time?

Our conversation at the wedding reception was brief, but we both ended up at the after party and found each other quickly. We flirtingly played pool (this is a trend in my life, apparently), my obscene cleavage becoming the star of the show with every shot I took. I was far too drunk to actually be skilled in this, but my belligerent confidence took over and made me feel like I was actually killing it. So much so, that I made my move:

“Sorry I beat you, but I have a consolation prize if you want it,” I say, batting my half-open eyes.

I have no clear memory of his reaction, but I imagine it wasn’t super fervent. I ignored it regardless and dragged him out the front door. I led him down the street to where my Mini Cooper was parked and got inside. Appropriately cautious, he asked, “Where are we going?” before closing the door to the passenger seat.

“Nowhere,” I said, as if that was obvious. I leaned over and kissed him with the grace you would expect from someone in my state. “Oh,” he exclaimed, surprised at my actions.

In hindsight, it is pretty wild how we got here. At the time, I obviously felt like we were continually on the same page and wanted the same thing. But I couldn’t see through the drunken haze how I was pushing my “what if” agenda onto a totally innocent bystander.

We kissed for a bit and then I tried to unzip my dress. My fingers couldn’t maneuver the small hook at the top though, so it stayed on and the bust just got a bit baggier. I shrugged it off and moved to the backseat. Now, remember, this is in a MINI COOPER! I am not a short person, so me moving from the driver’s seat to the backseat wouldn’t be smooth while sober. I can honestly only imagine what he saw in that moment.

I motioned for him to join me in the back, but he hesitated. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this tonight …” he started.

“Oh come on! It’s not like you haven’t wanted this since high school!” I hadn’t yet got the memo that bullying a man isn’t exactly how to make a tempting offer. I stayed in the back, waiting for him to join me, my face etched with impatient annoyance.

“Let’s go back inside,” he said kindly. “We can play more pool and just hang out.”

Just as clumsily as I got into the backseat, I moved back to the front half of the car and fell out of the driver’s door (this car was a two-door). He exited the vehicle and raced over to my side to help me up. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” I screamed, getting myself back up to my feet. “Let’s go ‘hang out’.” I spit out to him, emphasizing ‘hang out’ with disdain.

We reentered the house and I saw some family members there by the front door. “I found her,” my step-dad called to my mom, noticing my partially unzipped dress and looking at me with a mix of confusion, shame, and discomfort. We, of course, never discussed it because that would be too uncomfortable for everyone.

I didn’t stay much longer after that and my brother drove me home, safely. I don’t even remember if I said goodbye to my friend.

Once I was back home and sobered up, I got into fix-it mode. I texted him, apologizing for my behavior and stating how nice it was to see him and I’d like to see him again if he would be interested. He responded with a ‘no problem’ and a ‘sure, let’s do it’ that he knew he did not mean. I tried texting him a couple more times after that, really trying to remedy my relationship failures with “the one that got away”, but I just became aggressively desperate. Finally, he sent a message explaining that we were in different places right now and he didn’t think he could give me what I wanted from him. It was brutal, but necessary. And I finally left him and the idea of us together alone.

Would we have worked out? Probably not, especially at that time in my life. As much as I hate hearing “it’ll happen when you’re ready” type statements, there is a bit of truth to that sentiment, though not in the way that it was articulated in my early twenties. It’s not because there’s something wrong with me so no one wants me, but to find an actual partner, you have to know yourself and what you want so that you mesh appropriately. Everything before that is based on outside expectations or assumptions, and that will rarely lead to happiness. It’ll need to be perfect, but with a continual shifting goal line, so it’ll always fail and you’ll always be disappointed.

That was how my last relationship was before my marriage, and it would’ve been this one (or any of the ones that occurred in my early to mid-twenties) because I didn’t know myself, I didn’t love myself, and I wasn’t confident in who I was as a person. I was just grasping for something to prove that I wasn’t a failure as a woman and I wasn’t the odd man out with my friends who were all getting married and settling down. It takes way too long for most of us to realize that we all have distinct paths and one is not better than the others, they’re just different and we’re different when we take them.

I got married at age 33 (third bucket). Because I spent the second half of my twenties attending weddings solo and being unattached for 6 years, I really did feel like I was destined for singledom (which is honestly crazy since I’ve barely even lived, but women are conditioned to believe that 30 is literally the end of their life). I accepted that I would be a single lady and I got okay with that. I never wanted kids, so that wasn’t an issue for me, and through my sobriety and self-improvement processes, I came to really love myself and find happiness in being alone. So having a partner was no longer about becoming a whole person — I was a whole person already. The need to find someone turned into a want to connect, and if the connection wasn’t exactly what I desired, then I didn’t need to settle anymore. I was perfectly happy, content, and successful by myself, so why would I make my life less happy simply because it leads to a relationship?

This was a very long and hard process for me to figure out this truth, but it really did set me free. A woman’s worth is not based on who finds her appealing or who would marry her. We are persons, just like men are, and we are worthy out of the womb. We love ourselves by default and then are taught that we must change ourselves to be loved. We must track our lovability by the opinions and actions of others rather than accepting ourselves and appreciating the uniqueness we bring to the world.

I do not need my husband to make me happy; I am perfectly happy by myself. But he increases that happiness and he brings so much joy to my life that my existence is better with him than without him. That is why I married him. But in my twenties, I felt like I was a failure for not getting a man willing to wait for me at the end of the aisle, so I tried to force things into working. But they won’t work if you don’t actually want them to. And deep down, within my subconscious, I knew that this rekindling was not what I wanted. I just didn’t want to be alone anymore.

When sexy turns desperate turns culpable

WEDDING SEASON SERIES

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WEDDING SEASON SERIES |

Men always say that women can get laid anytime they want. This really isn’t true. While, yes, if we played a numbers game, we would probably always, eventually find someone who’s willing, but that doesn’t always guarantee that they are able to perform. And unfortunately, because men do not always prioritize women’s pleasure, if their dicks don’t work, then usually the hookup is no longer on the table.

Another misconception from movies and pop culture is that bridesmaids always get some. I have been a bridesmaid seven (7) times, and for four of those, I was single (and one of the only single ladies there). I had sex 1/4 of those times (see the first time my husband saw me naked). And that is not for lack of trying.

I think weddings are no longer a place to meet people because they’re so fucking expensive and that impacts the guest list. It’s typically limited to family and close friends; and because male friendships are rife with “no-homo” culture, it’s uncommon that a bunch of single dudes make the final cut for attendance. So, as a single woman, you’re left to choose from family members of various ages, starting an affair with a man who came with his date, or hoping that at least one of the groomsmen is coming stag.

A couple months before I got with my now-husband, I was a bridesmaid for a longtime friend whose fiancé had a groomsmen who fit that bill and was someone I’d slept with before. Our dynamic was pretty chill: we would hook up occasionally when we would see each other in the larger group, but not always, and we never actually went on a date. But he was nice enough, the sex was enjoyable, and I had a good time talking to him before and after.

At this point in my life, I had been single for a long time (as in no relationships, but I was “dating” and hooking up with men occasionally), and I was in a bit of a dry spell leading up to this event. So I was definitely looking to get some.

It was an out-of-town wedding that included hotel stays for the weekend. We saw each other at the rehearsal dinner the night before, we talked a bit, and I learned that he was single (nice). Typically, our hookups occurred after a night of drinking and / or drug use, but now that I was sober, the events unfolded a bit differently. I wasn’t hanging out all night with the boys because I was tired and the bride went to sleep early to prep for the following day. I was gonna have to actually make some moves if I wanted this to happen rather than having it fall into my lap like it normally did.

I do this thing to ensure I remain cool in situationships where I delete the guy’s number and any text or call history from my phone so that I can’t initiate any conversations. If they hit me up, then sure, I’ll respond; but I can’t trust myself to actually not contact them.

And of course, women can’t contact men because it’s seen as desperate, crazy, needy, annoying, etc. So we have to wait to be wanted and play coy so that we appear more desirable. It’s fucking stupid. Yeah, I need attention occasionally … big deal!

So on this night before the wedding when I wanted to have sex with him, I had to figure out how to make this happen without the normal course of events and without having his phone number. We were also no longer friends on Instagram or other social media sites (same thought process), but I wasn’t blocked or anything. So I resorted to a message request. I sent it at around 9:30:

Hey, you wanna fuck tonight?

Sexy, assertive, chill. Straight to the point, little expectation. I can see his face lighting up literally and figuratively when he sees it displayed across his phone, surrounded by his friends who are unaware of this new, dirty secret.

The message remained ignored for too long. I continually checked it to see if I was left on read (I wasn’t). But maybe he just looked at the request and denied it. When you do that, the sender does not know that it’s been read. Or maybe he just hasn’t seen it. Maybe I came on too strong. Follow up at 10:15:

Just thought it could be fun since we’re both here, have had sex before, and are single.

More crickets. It was now almost 11:00. I should be asleep — I have to get up at 6:00 and I am fully sober and exhausted from driving out of town earlier that day. It’s almost midnight:

Okay, well I’m gonna go to sleep. Maybe tomorrow night. See ya.

I shamelessly get out of my dress that has mocked me for the last two hours and put on cotton briefs and an oversized tee. I feel so dumb. What’s gonna happen tomorrow? I roll my eyes and get into the bed.

At around 12:30, I hear a ping:

Hey, sorry. I didn’t have my phone all night. We were in the pool. You still down? I could come now.

I’m already in bed, I’ve washed my face, and replaced my chic look with grunge pajamas.

Sorry, I’m already in bed. Let’s hang at the wedding and see where the night goes tomorrow.

Would’ve been the better response. Definitely less desperate. Instead, I wrote:

Oh, no worries. Yeah, come on over. My room is #### :]

As if that isn’t cringe enough, I jump out of bed, change into sexier panties, and put on some concealer and mascara.

He takes an obscenely long time to arrive at my room. I annoyingly sit at the edge of my bed, waiting for him to knock. I’m debating if I should have taken this time to do more about my appearance, but I didn’t know this would even be an option. When he finally gets there, my horniness has subsided significantly and I’m teetering on irritated.

I can immediately tell that he has not stressed about this encounter an iota of the amount I have. He says a quick hello then goes in for the kiss. I attempt to clear my mind of the last few hours and get into the moment. My desire slowly starts peaking again.

We move to the bed and I can feel his enormous erection pressing against my leg and I’m now flow blown horny. Who cares what occurred before? This is what I wanted and it’s happening.

After some intense making out, he takes off his pants and starts dry humping me getting me primed for the penetration. I’m so fucking ready for it.

Again, this is taking longer than it should. I ask if he’s okay. He sighs and looks down at his less-hard penis. “Sorry, I’ve been drinking a lot tonight and I wasn’t really expecting this.”

I wait while he tries to reharden. “Can I do anything for you?” I ask, moving myself closer to him.

“No,” he says exasperatedly, still trying to create an erection. “Just … give me sec!”

I wait, awkwardly on the bed, half-dressed and silent. Eventually, he stops stroking and I see his mostly-flaccid penis. My disappointment is palpable.

“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting this tonight! You should’ve messaged me earlier, before I drank so much!”

Oh, this is my fault now.

I stay quiet. At this point in my life, I am more confident in my interactions with men (still lacking full self-assurance of course), so I do know that this is not something that he’s going to blame on me. The silence makes him uncomfortable. He mumbles something about needing to go to bed, puts his pants back on, and tells me goodnight.

The next day, the vibe was too far off to even attempt another go, so I left that weekend unfucked.

We are taught that being forward is sexy, but too much is desperate. Be into sex, but don’t forget that you’re still only there for the man’s pleasure. Yes, his dick did not cooperate, but there was never an offer to provide me with stimulation so that at least I could get off. Far too often, I have had sex without finishing because when the guy comes, and that marks the end of the tryst. Women can have multiple orgasms in a single encounter, but we’re often left with none.

I initiated this, and he was game, but then it became my fault that it didn’t happen because I sprung it on him. My messages, though more than I probably needed to send, were the balanced way of initiating this to not come off too forward (find him at the pool and start making out with him in front of everyone) and also not too subtle that he doesn’t understand what he’s signing up for (“you wanna hang out?”); but it still wasn’t the right move.

As a woman, it’s impossible to know the outcome of any sexual rendezvous, so that age-old statement of women can get laid anytime they want really needs to be reexamined. And this doesn’t even include the obstacle of slut shaming! But, that’s for another time.

The first time my husband saw me naked

WEDDING SEASON SERIES

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WEDDING SEASON SERIES |

I’ve always embedded myself within movies, playing out life’s possibilities in my head as the leading lady in the latest rom-com. Sometimes I even manufactured events just because I was curious if the guy would respond like the character did on screen (spoiler alert: they never did). But when the bartender I’d flirted with for the last 7 years is finally single and working my best friend’s wedding, assuming life does actually work out like a movie suddenly has some substance.

I’m 28. My best friend is getting married to her 10-year-long partner and I am her maid of honor. I look and feel great in my $400 Anthropologie floral, strapless, form-fitting dress. She told me he would be working as the bartender for the event, so I anticipated some of our typical antics; and because I was 3 years sober and living out of town, I hadn’t seen him in a long while and was looking forward to the tease.

I met him when I was newly legal to drink on my first bar-outing in my home town, celebrating a friend’s 21st. I wore black, lace, high-waisted shorts, a stylish, black racerback top, black boots, and classically 2010s gold accessories. I felt hot; and when he said, “this round’s on me”, that feeling turned into a fact. We didn’t interact much more than that that night, but an undeniable crush had formed.

Over the years, I would visit the bar, drink for free (thanks to him), and learn more about his life from afar. He had a long-time girlfriend, and though he didn’t exactly act like he was in a relationship, he never let anything happen between us because of his commitment to her.

Upon leaving the bridal party prep room, I see him exiting his vehicle. We make eye contact and immediately I go up to hug him.

“Wow, you look amazing!” he says, embracing me tightly.

“Thank you,” I say. “You look quite nice yourself.” He’s wearing a pseudo-suit, à la Gangs of New York, much more dressed up than his typical work-day wear. I say a goodbye as my MOH duties call and he watches me walk away from him before he resumes unpacking his trunk.

The wedding is beautiful. My best friend glows in her stunning bridal demeanor and her fiancé holds back tears as he exclaims his love for her. Everything is amazing.

After the ceremony, we make our entrances into the reception, and I see him again, smiling at me from behind the bar. I blush and find my seat next to the sweetheart table.

My friend’s new sister-in-law, who has known him since high school, provides a new, crucial detail to the night: he broke up with his girlfriend a couple months ago. I hide my interest and excitement at this information. So you’re telling me there’s a chance …

I feel extra shy throughout the night with him now that I know he’s single. As is my style, pining from afar is safer and I can avoid any hurt because I know nothing will happen. But tonight, that is not the case. We converse as he makes me mocktails and serves the other guests. I feel him watching me all night as I supervise the money dance, stylishly catch the bouquet, and treat the newlyweds to a classic karaoke performance.

With about an hour left of the reception, he closes up the bar and pulls me to the dance floor. I’m incredibly uncoordinated while he attempts to lead me around, but I enjoy the interaction. Most boy-girl dances I’ve experienced in my life were prom style swaying or rubbing my ass against someone’s dick, so this ballroom-esque movement is a nice divergence.

The remainder of the reception is spent dancing and talking. It’s probably the most we’ve actually interacted since the bar and the girlfriend were no longer between us. My intrusive thoughts of movie endings hit hard and I try to ignore them to not put too much pressure on this. In my experience, it’s never worked out that way, so I have to stay in the moment so that I am not later disappointed by him not meeting my Hollywood expectations.

Eventually, everyone leaves or makes their way to their rooms. We, on the other hand, find ourselves on a couch in the main room, conversing well into the morning hours. I’m still in my dress and increasingly uncomfortable strapless bra. I do have clothes and things in my room, but my parents are already asleep in there and I don’t want to interrupt this pretty perfect night, so instead I suggest we drive back into our town to my parents’ house where I can change and then say goodnight.

Getting into lounge shorts and a braless tee improves the already amazing night a hundred times over. It doesn’t take much convincing from him to get me to his house. We enter his living room around 4:00 AM to find a silent dwelling and we creep across the old wood floors to get to his room in the back. I later learned that his roommate was asleep on the couch, but we were so focused on our mission that we didn’t even notice him there.

Not long after donning these clothing items, he removes them. I stand there, naked, in front of him while he sits at the edge of the bed. Seven years of foreplay, seven years of wondering, and now we’re finally here. He runs his hands down my stomach and then moves them behind, touching my butt and thighs. “God, you’re fucking beautiful.” he breathes.

That’s what I need to hear. Our history has led us here and it’s absolutely perfect.

After we have sex, I ask for directions to the bathroom. I prefer to stay out of clothes as long as possible, so the idea of putting them back on only to remove them again once I get back into bed isn’t ideal. He explains that no one will be out there and I’ll be fine to remain in the nude.

I sneak through the still-silent house, navigating the kitchen and then finding the bathroom door. I pee and clean up any residual fluids, quickly wipe off makeup from under my eyes, and rinse my mouth out with water in an attempt to freshen up my breath. I smile to myself, thinking how crazy it is that I’m here, and open the door to head back to the room.

Upon opening the door, the couch-sleeping roommate groggily opens his eyes and sees my fully naked body walk ahead of him.

“Nice butt,” my husband says to himself before going back to sleep.

Obviously, my relationship didn’t work out with the bartender, but it did lead me to meeting my future husband. And because I did want the movie ending, I held onto that relationship far longer than I should have, but that allowed me to get to know the roommate better, which made me fall in love with him. You could say it was serendipity. You could say, I had him at butt.

Author’s note, in hindsight:

The woman who was with the bartender for those 7 years did not deserve the disregard or the disrespect that I showed her relationship while shamelessly flirting with her partner. We are now friends and have discussed this situation, but I do want to put it here as well. I was a young, hurt, confused, and selfish person during this time and I always rationalized it because it never got physical until after they broke up. However, emotional cheating and treating her as an obstacle rather than an actual person is just as bad and just as hurtful. For my behavior during those years, I am sorry. There is no excuse and I only hope that others would do better in those situations.

Also, thank GOD we met our husbands and no longer have to deal with this fuckboy behavior.

Perks of a one night stand: cut the karaoke line

Set the stage: Koreatown, LA, 2013ish, Brass Monkey karaoke bar, sometime after 10:00 PM

Main character: Me, early twenties, raging alcoholic, dressed in a high-waisted black skirt with a navy blue lace crop top stretched across my enormous chest, dancing sloppily in electric blue high heels, waiting to destroy at the microphone

Minor characters: Wonderful friends of mine, always down to party; DJ in charge of the karaoke order, average appearance, god-like power in this bar alone, nothing notable, really

I got my request in fairly early, so I was only on my second drink when the DJ called my name.

Drink down on the table, celebratory hands in the air, friends cheering me on

I walk to the front of the room and grab the mic. Tonight, I opted for a crowd favorite of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” instead of “Don’t Stop Me Now.” When I’m really desperate for attention, I prefer the much longer song that demands audience participation.

The familiar title displays across the multiple screens, garnering a few “woos” from the bar-goers. I give a little wink to them and watch the intro bars count down.

“Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality. Open your eyes, look up to the skies and seeeeeeeeeee …”

Crowd is hyped, my body sways to the beat, I feel invincible

I see the DJ smiling and jamming out to my performance from the corner of my eye. It feels like an achievement: I’m even impressing the man with all the influence! My song ends to an eruption of applause and cheers. I take a mockingly humble bow and leave the “stage” to return to my friends.

The DJ calls up the next singer and when their song begins, he makes his way over to me. “You were really good!”

“Thank you,” I say, taking a small sip of my whiskey, never breaking eye contact with him.

He shyly laughs and asks if I would like to perform another number. “I like to throw in performances that I know the crowd will love. And they love you. The list is full, but I can slot you in.” Power.

I tell him yes and sign up for Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now”, feeling like Miss America. He smiles and leaves our group to return to his throne.

Song after song is called, and still I have not performed my encore. I’m getting a little bored and running out of cash to keep hanging and drinking here. I ask him when I’ll be up, and he says, “Soon.” That compels me to stay. Power.

The bartender announces last call. The crowd has definitely thinned since my original showing, but they’re rowdier with increased alcohol consumption. I tell my friends that we should just go when I finally hear my name over the speakers.

Suddenly my desire to leave disappears and I skip up to the microphone. “Finally!” I joke to the DJ. I look to the screens and see the familiar countdown. “Toniiiight, I’m gonna have myseeeeellff a real good time, I feel aliii-hi-hi-hive!” Though the audience is smaller, the cheers are louder and I revel once more in the attention. Another success.

The DJ calls up the last singer after me and then comes back to my table once more. “You want a drink?” He can order me a drink after last call? Power. He returns with two double shots of Jägermeister. The scent of anise hits my nostrils and I attempt to take a drink and I immediately gag. But I’m an undiagnosed alcoholic and free booze is free booze, so I down in. I hate every second of the experience.

We talk a bit and then it hits closing time. He asks if he can join us back at my friend’s place. (The actual conversation that occurred here is very fuzzy following that last drink. It’s important to know that I am a blackout drinker, which is why sobriety is the right choice for me.)

Next thing I know is that we’re at my friend’s apartment and I am stumbling in my too-high heels while more drinks are being made. Did I partake in those? Yeah, probably.

Eventually, we flirt enough for him to invite me to his place. And then we’re there as if we teleported.

And then everything is black

The next morning, I wake up groggily, slowly opening my makeup crusted eyelids to see a shelf haphazardly filled with books, papers, CDs, DVDs, and just general trash. My thighs are dented with the ridges of my piled up skirt, bundled together at my waist. My eyes move around a bit more to take in the room: there’s a desk with an inch of dust on it and more piles of things, an overflowing laundry hamper, various unframed posters taped up on the wall, and men’s shoes grouped together by the door. I look down to see I’m on a mattress that is directly on the floor and covered by taupy-brown sheets. I understand that I am in a man’s room. And then I remember: the DJ.

I attempt to recall the events from the previous night and I can remember mostly everything leading up to getting to his place. I exhale a breath of gratitude that I don’t remember the actual sex. Sometimes, knowing you fucked a karaoke DJ is mortifying enough without knowing any of the actual details of how it all went down.

I feel him stir behind me. I freeze and stay silent. Then he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into him. “Good morning”, his terrible breath whispers into my ear. He kisses my cheek and rolls me to my back and mounts me. “Last night was fun!”

“Yeah,” I say. He starts to pull my skirt back up over my waist and his hands are immediately inside me. I roll my eyes to myself: well, I’m unfortunately gonna remember this.

He quickly has sex with me, while I wait for the whole thing to be over so that I can go home. Once he’s finished, he kisses me again and sighs with the air of someone who just satisfied his partner. It was completely unwarranted.

“Can you take me back to my car?” I ask. “Oh, for sure.” He says. “Do you wanna get breakfast of anything?”

“No, I need to get home.” He jumps out of bed with far more energy than I have. I unpeal myself from the sheets, trying not think about the dirt and sweat that they have shared with me now, and adjust my skirt and top. I debate whether to put my heels back on or just carry them. I have no idea what outside is like, so I opt for the safer option of wearing them. I am ready for my “walk of shame”.

As we exit his bedroom, I suspect that he lives with his mother / parents; but I have no actual proof, just a feeling. We get into his car and I feel the sun beat down on me in his car as he readies himself for the drive. Immediately, I am nauseated.

Even though we all live in LA, the time it takes to get to one neighborhood from another feels like crossing state lines. And no matter what time of day you’re driving, you’re bound to hit traffic somewhere. So while we drive back to Koreatown, I am stuck making small talk and fighting the urge to vomit as the late night shot of black licorice death randomly reminds my tastebuds of its memory.

As we sit in a two-lane backup, I can’t hold it in anymore. I open the door and immediately throw up onto the street. He exclaims, “Woah!” and awkwardly pats my back while I lean across the seat. “Hey, we’re moving!”

I lift my pounding head and close the door. He hands me an old napkin to wipe my face and I ignore any germaphobia as I gratefully dry my mouth. He jokes that my aim was impressive, “not anything in the car!” I close my eye, sink down into the passenger seat, and stay quiet for the rest of the drive.

I suppose we shared goodbyes, but I don’t remember. As soon as I’m at my car, I feel a huge relief. That event is over and I didn’t die and hopefully I don’t end up with a pregnancy or an STD.

After that, I didn’t make it up to LA as often as I used to, so my next visit to the Brass Monkey was a couple months later. We walk in, and my friend reminds me that my one-night-stand is working the DJ shift. I thank her for the information because I honestly forgot what he looks like. But, I revel in the fact that now I have the power: I had sex with him so therefore, I can skip the karaoke line.

I put on my flirty eyes and adjust my cleavage as I walk over to him. He smiles in recognition and opens his arms for a hug. “Oh wow, how are you? You look amazing!” He says.

“Thank you! It’s good to see you!” I lie.

“You wanna put your name in?”

“Yes, and maybe I won’t have to wait too long for my turn?” I query, batting my eyes.

“Oh, yeah …” he starts. “For sure, but um … I have a girlfriend now …”

I absorb this new information. Okay, and? I think, but I say nothing because I don’t really know what this has to do with anything.

Apparently his girlfriend is there tonight too, so he’ll throw me into the shuffle, but he can’t make this a regular thing and unfortunately, “we can’t go home together tonight.”

Ugh, as if! -Cher Horowitz

The night goes on, I sing my one song, and then leave later with my friends. I know now that my transaction is completed and the one perk that came from sleeping with the karaoke DJ has expired. I’m left with a subpar sexual experience, a spotty memory, and the knowledge that he thinks that I would’ve slept with him again.

My moment in power was brief and lackluster, if I’m being totally honest.

Author’s note, in hindsight:

While writing this story, I realized something: this experience has a little bit of rape grey area in it. I have no memory of the actual sexual encounter due to me being blacked out, so I have no idea what my behavior was during it (was I engaged, was I passed out, was I saying no?).

However, I do feel confident that I would have consented regardless of my drunkenness because I was at a point in my life where my sexual desirability was how I gauged my worth. So, though he did abuse his “position of power” and the semantics of the event weren’t exactly clean, I do not view this as a rape.

But ladies, gents, theys, don’t fuck a karaoke DJ that you don’t like or aren’t attracted to because you think you must or you think it’ll pay off in some way later. It most likely won’t.

Condom consent

I’ve watched so many movies where high schoolers experience sexual education classes with a banana and a condom. It was such a trope. But, after experiencing the course in 2003, I realized that either that was just a movie set piece to make the scenes more humorous, or sexual education teaching has vastly changed over time and / or based on the location.

My official sexual education courses taught abstinence, the birth of the child (not to be confused with pregnancy or how one becomes pregnant), and lightly touched on STDs (enough to terrify you of them). This was paired with a large group of horny, hormonal teenagers who honestly couldn’t help themselves from foregoing fasting because our bodies were in control and no one was actually trying to help us with that reality.

The first time I had sex, my partner did use a condom, but only because he put it on. I vaguely knew what a condom was (again from movies, etc.), but had never actually seen one in or out of action. After that, I didn’t employ them often because the guys I was with didn’t want to.

Because I didn’t really understand their purpose or how they worked, I was never confident when speaking about them. I also got on birth control (the pill) when I was 16 years old, so I felt like I was safe from pregnancy, at least. Again, didn’t understand how that worked or why, but figured I was doing my part. Birth control pills, of course, do nothing to protect you from sexually transmitted infections or diseases. But that’s not vital information for a teenager, right?

Thankfully, I survived my teen years without any unwanted pregnancies or surprise infections, despite being incredibly unsafe. And that history plus my meekness in the bedroom made condoms optional for my partners well into my twenties.

As I got more into my sexual experiences and having more one night stands than consistent partners, condoms became more important, but I still wasn’t assertive about it.

One night, before I got sober, I met a friend’s bandmate at their show. He was cute, with long hair, and a grungy punk aesthetic that I (unfortunately) was into. We flirted after the show and ended up deciding to hook up. I was pleased with this outcome. I was definitely gonna fuck someone that night and he was my first choice.

On the drive to his place (another long trek across LA), he asked if I had any condoms, and when I said no, he said that he would stop on the way. We pulled into a gas station, he went inside, purchased items, and then came back out and we finally made it to his place.

We started making out and he led me to his bed (or at least, what he considered a bed. Can we all agree that a mattress on the floor is NOT a bed?!), removing my clothing piece by piece. He took off my pants and then went down on me for about 10 seconds.

In my one-night-stand era, rarely did men perform oral sex on me, but at least half of them expected me to suck their dicks. Such a strange double standard especially since men don’t want to come from a blowjob, but rather use it as a precursor to intercourse, where they will ejaculate; while women are more likely to orgasm from clitoral stimulation than penetration and can continue to have sex even after finishing. But that would assume that women’s pleasure was actually an important component of heterosexual relations.

Following the slight lubricating of my labia, he took off his pants and started stroking his penis. “Where can I come?” He asked.

“Uh, what?” I was confused. “In the condom?” I state, obviously.

“I don’t have any,” he says, still jacking himself off.

“But, we stopped specifically for that …” I replay the conversation from the car in my head. Yes, he definitely said he would stop to get condoms, and then we stopped, and he bought something (I assume condoms).

“No, I stopped to get cigarettes.” I was flabbergasted. “What?” I ask. He shrugs.

I try to hide my confusion and annoyance. How is this the situation? What do I do now? I definitely want to have sex tonight and I want to have sex with him, we drove all the way to Venice fucking Beach, and we’re both naked. I sigh and tell him I don’t care but I don’t want him to come on me (not really thing I enjoy).

He says okay and away we go. He starts on top, in the missionary position, and I’m actually enjoying myself. I’m starting to release my anger and live in the moment. Hey, maybe I’ll even orgasm.

“Let’s do doggie style.” God, I hate that term. And I hate when it’s used in the moment. Doggie style? Ugh, so unattractive and fucking silly. Do I like the position? Yes. Can we call it something else? PLEASE!

We move into our new places and he starts thrusting again. He’s hitting things just right and I’m getting pretty close …

“Where do I come?”

WHAT?! We fucking talked about this?! “Seriously?” I ask.

“Can I come on your back?”

“No! I told you I don’t want that.” He sighs in irritation, thrusts a couple more times, then grabs a towel from the ground and pulls out into it. Shocker: I did not orgasm.

He went to the bathroom to clean up and I waited for my turn to use it. As we crossed paths on his way back to the bed, I asked, “Why did you ask about coming on me when we already discussed it before we had sex?”

“Oh, I just thought maybe you’d change your mind.”

And there it is. At the time, I was just annoyed and thought he was kinda stupid, but now I see that it was a tactic. Women are not usually assertive in sex and he knew that and took advantage.

First, he played a power move by purposefully not getting condoms when we both knew he needed to and that he was going to. He made it my decision to have sex without one, but he’s the one that put me into this situation where I really had to be confident and self-assured to deny him what he wanted. We were already here, about to start, and what, we’re just gonna get dressed and drive back 30 minutes without fucking?

Second, he tried to put me in another situation where I had to say yes to something that I didn’t want but he did. This time, though, it didn’t work out for him and he was annoyed by it. He banked on me not telling him no, now that we’re in the moment and maybe he doesn’t have another option. It was all manipulation.

Once I came out of the bathroom, I saw he was fully dressed. “We should go. It’s a long drive back and I want to get to sleep.” So now I was being kicked out.

I saw him a couple times after that night, but never hooked up with him again. He now shown in a different light: he wasn’t a grungy punk, he was just dirty; his long hair wasn’t stylish, it was greasy; he wasn’t the tall, thin frame that I wanted, he was an aging guitarist who forces his body into too-tight skinny jeans.

Sobriety didn’t suddenly make me smart and confident in my sexual relationships. I still had plenty of bad times without any alcohol to blame. And it wasn’t until I was almost 30 years old that I actually demanded safe sex from partners.

When I was about 26, I met a guy on Facebook who was a friend of a friend. It was random how we linked up, but it happened, and then we started messaging. Eventually, we met up for a “date.” This date consisted of browsing Barnes and Noble and returning something of his at WalMart. Husband material for sure.

We ended up back at his house, lying on his bed and talking. It brought me back to younger relationships, when sex wasn’t the main focus and you just got to know each other. I was enjoying the moment.

On one of his wall shelves, he had a large box of Trojan condoms. Odd choice of decor, but at least I knew we would have safe sex, if it led to that. Well, it did.

He started with his hands down my pants, then fully removing them. Next he removed his pants, exposing his erect penis, and pushed it right inside of my vagina. I was surprised.

Of course, there was no oral foreplay, but there was barely anything. And there definitely wasn’t a conversation about protection or mention of the massive box hovering over his desk. We were just going. Eventually, he finished by pulling out and coming into his hands. The whole time I was thinking about the box of condoms. Why are they there if you’re not going to use them?

This is the second time where there was a clear presence of condoms / the topic of condoms, and yet we still had unprotected sex. I said nothing because I didn’t have the gall to and I didn’t want to upset him. I was really enjoying our time together and hoped it could blossom into something more than just a one night stand.

I saw him a couple more times after that, each time ending with unprotected sex and me not saying a word. I hated how passive I was on the topic, but I never felt bold enough to talk about it or to advocate for myself (which is FUCKING CRAZY, but it’s real). That was until I went to the doctor about a week later with major discomfort.

“Looks like you have chlamydia,” the doctor said. “I’ll get you the antibiotics you need to take.” And she left the room.

My first STI. I’d dodged the bullet for most of my life, so it was bound to happen; but I was furious. WHY DID HE HAVE THAT HUGE BOX OF CONDOMS?!

Thankfully, the infection was out of my system quickly and it only took a couple of pills. I wrote drafts of text messages to send to him, continually editing them to be concise, blunt, and fucking acidic. And then I hit send.

He responded a couple days later, apologizing, saying he didn’t know he had it, and forgot he had condoms, blah blah blah. I called him a twat and blocked his number.

After that, I was never shy about talking about protection. But I hate that I had to get that from contracting and STI. This should have been taught to me and my peers in school, when we were young. And not in a scary way or a taboo way so that we never feel comfortable bringing it up, but in a straight-forward manner so we can make the right choices for ourselves and others.

Condoms can be purchased at the gas station, grocery store, pharmacies, pretty much anywhere; while women’s birth control (for the most part) requires doctor intervention. And if you’re brought up in a society that tells you to not have sex, you’re likely not gonna ask your parents to take you to the doctor to ensure you won’t get pregnant. So then you rely on what is available, and that is condoms.

And condoms are a man’s domain. And apparently they make it feel less good. And they’re annoying. And they’re expensive. And they’re embarrassing to buy. I’m being ironic, quoting men from my past whenever the topic has emerged. So then you either have no sex, or you have unprotected sex and you deal with the consequences that may occur.

It’s such fucking bullshit!

Sex by numbers

To bring this particular partner to orgasm, complete the following steps:

1. Make out for less than one minute

2. Be gently forced to your knees to suck dick for a little more than a minute

3. Be lifted back up to a standing position and turned around

4. Have your bottoms pulled down just enough

5. Be fucked from behind for approximately three minutes

If you would prefer to do this differently or incorporate anything that might lead to you being pleasured, then you can try the following:

• Shyly bring up the fact that you guys have sex the same way, every time*

• Request that he perform oral on you, since you do it for him**

• Attempt to switch positions while you’re bent over the bed***

*This may lead to him explaining that this is the only way that he can get off and he’ll convince you that his needs are more important than yours.

**This may lead to him stating that he “doesn’t do that”, with a note of disgust that makes you think about the sweaty aftertaste his dick leaves in your mouth.

***This may lead to him exclaiming, “What are you doing?!” and then trying to get you back into position, only for him to lose his erection and make you feel bad for causing that turn of events.

Now, he’s really cute and you think that this maybe has some potential, so you go along with it for a while, ignoring the fear that you’ll never orgasm again. Once you master these steps, you’ll get a new surprise:

“Hey, I can’t see you anymore because I realized that I am in love with my ex-girlfriend and I wrote her this really long letter explaining my feelings and how I totally fucked everything up and how I want her back, and I gave it to her this weekend, and now we’re back together. Actually, we’re engaged.”

Immediately, you’ll feel shocked, and that’s okay! All of that potential is thrown out the window and you don’t want to be the girl that complains, so say “Congratulations” and give him a hug. He may linger too long and then grab your ass and try to kiss you. If this happens, then you can do one of the following options:

• Go along with it and have unfulfilling sex, probably in one of your cars, while his new fiancé waits for him at home

• Say, “Are you fucking serious?”, leave his embrace, enter your car, and drive away

If you go with the first option, then he’ll get what he wants and you’ll probably be left feeling shitty. If you instead go with the second option, then you’ll immediately get over this sham of a relationship and you’ll feel pity for his future wife because she’ll only ever have sex one way with a man who’s ready to cheat on her at any second.

AA meetings are probably not the best place to meet men.

Call it by name

I was raped when I was 21.

It took me many years to call it that. I was drunk. He was drunk. I was passed out. What did I say before I passed out? Did I ask for it? I don’t remember. He was my friend. He was a nice guy.

I had sex with him again after that. And again. I wasn’t drunk. I had a boyfriend. I didn’t want him to think that I was upset about the first time. I didn’t want to lose one of my only friends in this town.

Even longer to call it rape was what happened when I was 16. We were in a relationship. We had sex all the time. But sometimes it wasn’t what I wanted to do. Sometimes it was forced. But I already said yes before. And he was my boyfriend. And I loved him. And it didn’t hurt and I didn’t say no.

It took me the longest to say I was raped at 15. He was 23. It was consensual. I wanted it. But why did I want it? Why did he want it? When I said yes, did I understand what I was saying yes to? He did.

Calling rape rape takes practice. It feels foreign, wrong. Like when you can’t come up with the right word so you use it as a placeholder until it comes to you. But it is the right word.

I learned about rape from movies. Used constantly as a device to move the plot along, raise stakes, sexualize an actress without taking away her character’s purity / desirability. It was violent, clearly wrong. No grey areas.

In my quarter semester of sexual education, a woman talked to us about the two times she had been raped. Both were by strangers, in a parking lot or alleyway. Both were violent. In both, she was clearly the victim. As I’ve grown and learned and experienced more, I’ve wondered whether she’s really only ever been raped twice.

Men don’t like to talk about rape. But how many of those men have raped? The first person to call what happened to me at 21 rape was a man. Is that what it took for me to call it rape? A man accepted it as such, so I could finally? Would that man classify my other experiences as rape?

We do not give our permission to be assaulted, but we are conditioned to seek permission to call it by name. Is there proof? It’s his word against hers. Was she an acceptable rape victim? Would this have happened at some point regardless because of her actions? Is my rape(s) accepted?

Being 15 and having a 23 year old bassist attracted to you is cool. I am desirable. By an older man. Thus, I am a desirable woman. No, I was a child desired by a pedophile.

Too harsh a term? Did you clench at the word? Our society is conditioned for pedophilia. Women: do not age. Do not grow hair on your genitals. Do not have sexual history or desires. Otherwise, men will not want you. Why do men want women whose bodies are childish? Why do we accept these terms? Why do we say it’s okay as long as they’re 18 or as long as the age gap isn’t too wide?

A 23 year old knows far more than a 15 year old. And he definitely knows that he can take advantage. And that’s what he did. I had sex with him. I had unprotected sex with him because he didn’t like condoms. I showed his brother my boobs because he told me if I didn’t, then I didn’t care about him. And then he punished me by not talking to me for days. And then I begged him to forgive me.

That was rape.

He told me to tell my mom that he was 19. Still illegal, but better; and she didn’t know we were having sex. He knew it was wrong. He knew she would not approve. He told me his name was Brett. It wasn’t. He protected himself with no consideration to me. He knew I would listen and do what he asked because I was 15 and he was 23 and that is the dynamic. So of course I had sex with him in any form he wanted. In public. In front of his friends. Because he was 23 and he liked me and a woman’s value is being desired by men. And I had a head start at 15.

We stopped talking abruptly. A girl from school later started dating his brother (the one who saw my boobs). She cornered me in the hall and asked if I knew him. And then started to talk about it all like I was in on the joke. I wasn’t. But I couldn’t tell her that. She said, “do you know his real name?” as I walked away. I did, but only after we stopped talking via MySpace sleuthing. She didn’t need to know any of this.

He worked at a mall kiosk when we were together. A few months later, I was at the mall with my friends and I saw him before he saw me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him see me and I saw him hide. He did not see me see him. He knew it was wrong. I bet someone thought he was a good guy.

I was an ugly child who grew into her own at 14-15, so boys’ attention was new to me and I was desperate for it. But I was also terrified of it. I only liked boys who I knew wouldn’t like me back so that I could pine from a distance and not get hurt. Already knew they would reject me so it didn’t hurt like an actual rejection would. And somehow that would keep my reputation clean because I wasn’t doing anything that could be talked about negatively. Just crushes. 

A boy from another school liked me. And I liked him back. No one at school knew him, so it seemed safe and I became mysterious because my boyfriends were never from our school. He was so nice. And that’s what I needed. He was cute, and a football player, and he was nice.

We got together and had sex for the first time two weeks later in a movie theatre, and then in a Starbucks bathroom. I didn’t want to, I was fighting with my mom about the length of my skirt on the phone, but he kept pushing for it. He already said he loved me so why shouldn’t we do it again? In public. In a bathroom.

That was rape.

He was friends with a boy who I knew as well. I thought he was cute and we had kissed months before I met my boyfriend. One day, a group of us were hanging out and we were having a great time when the kiss was brought up. My boyfriend left the group and walked away without a word. Confused, I followed him. He wouldn’t talk to me.

Another of his friends was getting in their car and my boyfriend got in too. I ran after, asking him to wait, but he wouldn’t. They turned and drove toward me. I thought he was coming to talk to me, but instead I had to jump out of the way to not get run over. I started crying, pleading.

The car stopped and he got out. He made me swear I would never treat him like that again. I honestly didn’t even know what I did, but I swore and cried and begged. He finally took me back.

After that day, he wasn’t nice anymore. And I never could make him happy. But I sure tried. And that usually meant doing sexual things that I wasn’t really into doing.

He was a very spoiled child with his parents. Though he was 17, he did not have his license because his parents would drop everything to drive him. One night, his dad drove me home from their house. We were sitting in the backseat of the truck, with the front seats like a bench, creating a visual wall halfway up between the front and back of the cab. He asked me to give him a blowjob.

I said no. His dad was right there. He insisted. If I loved him, then I would do it. So I did. I leaned over and sucked his dick until he came in my mouth and down my throat. When I lifted my head, no one said a word. He just smirked and put his arm around me.

That was rape.

Did his dad really not know? Was this a power play between them? Was it just too awkward to say anything? At the time, I assumed we just got away with it, but now, I’m positive he knew and didn’t intervene. My boyfriend was not a good guy.

Eventually, his verbal and emotional abuse turned physical, and that’s when people started paying attention to the dangers of our relationship. Emotional manipulation and continual rape are totally okay, but a slap must be stopped!

Not that I’m complaining that people took that seriously, but my life was still completely changed after this experience and the trauma ran deeper from the things that were shrugged off.

Relationships were tricky after that one. I had burned a lot of friendships as my ex demanded all of my time and attention, as most abusers do, so I was incredibly alone and didn’t really know how to interact with people anymore. I wasn’t me anymore. I just did what I thought anyone around me wanted because I didn’t want to bear the consequences of doing the wrong thing.

It would take over a decade to unlearn that behavior. At 27, I had a major breakdown where I realized that I have no individual qualities. Everything about me was based on who I was with or around or trying to impress. Did I actually like something, or was it because a guy I was into preferred it? Are these really my beliefs or am I just agreeable to not make waves? Is there any part of me that exists without dependency on someone else? The answer was no. So I had to build myself up from nothing to what I am now.

When I was raped, I wasn’t just sexually penetrated; I was emotionally and mentally destroyed. But I didn’t know it. And I couldn’t talk about it. But it’s my fault. And I deserve it. And it’s what I wanted. So this destruction just festered within me, eating up anything left that was actually me to avoid being hurt again.

At the end of my senior year in high school, I started a relationship that would last for over three years and span my college experience. We did not attend the same school or live in the same city, so we continually drove 2 hours to see each other every weekend.

College was lonely. I lived off campus with some amazing women, but it lacked the community that you typically get in the dorm life. And because I was either gone or spending every moment in town with my boyfriend, I wasn’t really making any connections outside of the classroom. Once I got halfway into my second year and started taking writing classes and not just GE courses, I began finding real friendships.

One of those friends was my third rapist. He was a San Diego native and in a fraternity so not only was he well versed in the location, he was very social on campus. He brought me to parties, clubs, and interesting events all over the school and county and I was so grateful for his company, especially while I was away from my boyfriend.

I knew he liked me. We talked about it. But I really was in love with my boyfriend. We talked about our future together, me a writer, him a politician; and it included marriage and kids and the whole shebang. And I really wanted it with him.

In my third and final year of college, that dynamic shifted a bit. I was working really hard in my writing classes to hone my skills and to graduate a year early, while my boyfriend was slacking in school and smoking way too much weed. Those plans we had suddenly seemed less appealing and less likely with this version of him. So I was spending more time with my friend and less weekends driving to see my boyfriend.

I turned 21 in February of my final year. My friend was already 22. In March, he took me to Pacific Beach (PB) for margaritas on taco Tuesday. As a new, legal drinker, I didn’t have a lot of experience with professionally mixed cocktails. I mostly took shots of whatever shitty bottle was around and followed them with some kind of juice. I didn’t realize how quickly you could drink a margarita because it tastes so good and how suddenly the three huge fishbowls would hit your mental state, all at once.

I vaguely recall trying to get into another bar, but the bouncer denied entrance because I was too drunk. But the next bar let us in no problem.

He got me some pink mixed drink from the bar that tasted like shit and we attempted to play pool. I could hardly stand, let alone focus on a cue ball and take aim, so the game ended pretty quickly. Then it was black.

It was dark, and kinda musty. The air felt thick. I knew I was moving but I didn’t want to open my eyes. I realized that someone was on top of me and a penis was going in and out of my vagina. Immediately I thought, “my boyfriend is here?”. I turned my head onto the car seat headrest to look straight and I opened my eyes.

A shirtless back came into view, sliding up and down my chest, where my shirt was lifted over my breasts. The wire from my unhooked bra was digging into my neck as a hand was holding up my clothes and pressing painfully into my collarbone. There was so much sweat.

I looked over to the other side where a layer of steam had clouded the window. I couldn’t make out anything outside other than darkness. Were we parked at the beach?

I heard him grunting. I weighed my options. I could yell and push him off me, but I don’t even know where we are. We’re in his car somewhere. If I walked out, I would be mostly naked, lost, and he could drive away leaving me stranded. Did I make a move? Does he not realize I passed out? His head is down between my arm and breast so maybe he wasn’t aware. He drank a lot too. How did he drive us here? Where are we?

I couldn’t handle making a decision. Nothing seemed like the right call and I was too drunk to think cleverly. I decided my best option was to turn my head back to the original side, close my eyes, and pass out again, letting him finish. Which he did.

That was rape.

I don’t remember if I woke up again, but I know he took us back to my apartment and he walked me inside. I opened my eyes in my room, on my bed, and felt him next to me. He stayed the night.

My head filled with panic. I cheated on my boyfriend. He’s still here, right now, sleeping in my bed. I got so fucked up and I don’t know what happened, but we had sex. I was upset. I was scared. I was confused. I was hurt.

He was my friend, so he must’ve done this because I asked him to. I must’ve made a move and told him it was okay. I’m a shitty fucking girlfriend.

He woke up and touched me. Immediately I wanted to recoil, but I didn’t want to offend him so I leaned back into the little spoon position. He kissed my neck and then started moving his hands down my body. I felt his fingers rub against my clit and I slammed my eyes shut. I think I stopped breathing.

He then moved his hands to his penis, rubbing it into an erection. He flipped me over onto my back, spread my legs, and he was inside of me again.

I was stunned. Were we dating now? What happened last night? I lied there while he thrusted into me, moaning, and sweating profusely once more. I don’t think I made a sound.

He came inside of me and rolled to the side. Finally, I spoke. “Did you not pull out?” “No, I didn’t know I needed to. I thought you were on birth control.” I was, but I was also terrified. Even my boyfriend pulled out when we had sex.

He offered to get me a plan B pill. How kind. He got up, dressed, and told me he’d come back later. I didn’t move. Once he left, I went to the bathroom and felt his ejaculation dribble out of me as I peed. I hated the feeling. I hated the smell. I hated myself.

I went back to my bed and cried. I cried for my boyfriend. I cried for my friendship. I didn’t move until he came back hours later.

He complained about the price of the pills and about having to clean up the vomit that apparently I projectiled onto his car door. I wondered if that was before or after the car sex.

He sat on my bed with me, staring expectantly. I wanted to be away from him but I also didn’t want to lose my friend. He was in many of my writing classes and was the person with whom I have so many fond memories out here. I was upset but didn’t want to upset him, so I leaned in and kissed him. He asked if I had brushed my teeth yet. I hadn’t.

He laughed and then turned me over and pulled down his pants, and then mine. I guess we were having sex again, but doggy style so he doesn’t have to deal with my vomit breath. After he finished, he quipped that the plan B can now work for another one. He stayed and hung out all night while I died inside and played the doting sexual partner.

We stayed friends as I wanted, but it was always a little off after that. Thankfully, we graduated in June of that year and I moved out of town. Not long after that, I broke up with my boyfriend. I never told him about what happened, but I couldn’t recover from the experience. I didn’t deserve the future we had originally planned. I was dirty and empty.

I moved back to my parents’ house and found a local bar where I could drink for free and escape my trauma. It was there I met my next boyfriend. He was a wonderful man, but not a good match for me or for the time of my life I was in. I associated his love for me to his sexual desire for me; and though we had sex every day, I never felt like it was enough if I ever offered and he declined.

I sank deeper into unrecognized alcoholism, blacking out regularly, dangerously. I didn’t fear anything because I felt nothing.

At the end of that relationship, he told me something his father told him that stung so bad at the time but turned out incredibly poignant.

You two are not a good match because she does not love herself so she will never love you.

Following the end of this relationship, I sank into a deeper alcoholism hole and became a sexual object for anyone who would have me. Some encounters I remember, others I don’t. Some ruined friendships and some remained nameless. I couldn’t get close to anyone and I knew my only value was sex.

This is what rape did to me. It removed my identity. It removed my worth. And I let it happen. Because all of those experiences are my fault. I was just walking through life, alive but not living. Desperate for love but incapable of accepting or giving it.

The first time I thought of my most recent experience as rape was with a mutual friend. In a cross-faded haze, I told him that I slept with our friend and the circumstances. I described it as I believed it at the time: we had sex in college. We went out and I drank WAY too much and then I passed out and woke up to him having sex with me. Ha ha.

He told me that was rape. I said he didn’t understand. He said I didn’t understand. I didn’t say anything else.

I sat on that for a few more years without processing it. It was there in the back of mind, but never to be explored. He was my friend. He isn’t a rapist. I drank more. I had more sex. I felt nothing.

I was lucky and my path led me to sobriety rather than an early death. In my recovery, I had that breakdown that allowed me to rebuild myself. And as I started to unravel everything that was once my identity, I realized how much of it tied back to that event. And then further into my recovery and processing, I realized how much of what led to that event tied back to my relationship at 16, which wouldn’t have happened had I not been with the 23 year old.

I am not saying that the 23 year old is responsible for everything. But now I understand that none of this was my fault, either. I did not deserve the things that happened to me because of something I did or mistakes I made. I was preyed upon by these men and because I did not have the knowledge or the awareness of what happened to me, my mind and body reacted for me in ways that only now I can start to analyze. I told myself that I was in control of my sexuality, but in reality I was amputated from it and subconsciously punishing myself for the immorality that happened to me.

These events changed me. They changed my chemistry; my heart. And each change branched off into a path that led me into the new events that branch and branch until I’m no longer securely connected to my roots. I’m just floating, absent from myself.

I am not who I was. And it is expected that I would change from a 15 year old to an adult. But I didn’t have to change this way. This change was forced upon me, without my consent. Without even consideration. I was 15 years old. A baby. And a man who knew better used me. And that trauma made me desperate for something as simple as a nice boy. And I fell for one who knew that that’s how you reel someone in who is blind to the signs and ignores everything that tells her this isn’t right because she’s been hurt and hasn’t healed. And that closed me off and made me less social to where a single friend in a lonely city is worth holding onto even though he is a bad man. And that was the final blow that tossed me off the edge and I lost myself. And I was okay with that for a very long time.

But I’m not okay with it. I have found parts of myself again, and it is in a new form and it is angry. I have found my voice and I have plenty to say. These experiences happened to me, like they happen to so many others, but we are afraid to call them by their name. I am no longer afraid.

When I was 15, I was raped by a 23 year old.

When I was 16, I was repeatedly raped by my boyfriend.

When I was 21, I was raped by my friend.

Do they think about me? Do they have the slightest inclination of their impact? I have spent two decades detangling this mess, wondering if this new self I built is actually me or simply a byproduct of these experiences. Have they even spared two minutes? Do they consider the hatred I have for my body from it being sexualized so early and critiqued by them? Do they even remember me?

I am not afraid to call it by name, but I am still searching for the end of its reach. And I may never find it.

That one time I was almost cool

I am a woman known to be very outspoken and blunt when it comes to my opinions, my skills, my preferences, etc., but (even today) I have never been a person that can openly communicate my sexual desires.

Is this something only I experience? I can guarantee not. Women are taught to be submissive, wait to have sex until you’re married, don’t talk about your period or your body parts; and so we don’t really know anything about the whole situation and are expected to take the lead from our male partners.

And without knowledge, we lack confidence. Now, this is not a hard and fast rule, as we see with most white men in America condemning DEI, because they feel that they are qualified to do literally anything without any necessary skills or information about it. BUT as a woman or maybe just someone who doesn’t have that same blind confidence, usually the more informed we are about something, the more confident we are about that subject or in that realm.

As someone who came into sex without any actual education (read my introduction of sorts for more context; or just look at the title of this site), my comfortability level in this area has always been low and I’ve simply learned on the job. But, there was one time where this was (almost) not the case.

It was the year(ish) 2013 and I was visiting my friends in LA from my new locale in Orange County. In my LA years, I was a frequent visitor of the karaoke bar, Brass Monkey, because I love to improperly sing to a crowd, drink, and be able to walk home afterward to my or my friends’ apartments in Koreatown. On this occasion, I was on my normal routine, drinking whiskey that I pretended to like to be “not like the other girls” (anyone who says that they don’t like a well-made cocktail is a fucking liar and lame as hell. They’re delicious and un-gendered. So just enjoy them!), just killed Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now,” and smoking a cigarette right outside the front door.

A very cute fella walked up to the bar with his friends and made eyes with me over my Kamel Red exhalation while walking inside. I smiled to myself, wondering if I would see him when I went back. Then, a few minutes later, when I was just about done with my smoke break, he came out with a smaller subset of his group and headed back to the car. He gave me small smile and walked past me without a word.

So I said, “Wait, you’re just gonna leave and not say anything to me?”

He turned around, surprise overwhelming his expression. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“You come around here looking like that, make eyes at me while I look like this, and then you are just gonna leave without even trying to get with me?”

He laughed in shock and stayed rooted in his spot between me and his friends, who have now reached their vehicle. “Okay …” he started. “Give me a sec.”

He met with his friends while I watched from the door, now taking my last drag and stamping out my cigarette. After a quick conversation, he waved goodbye and walk-ran back to me. I smiled and said, “Best decision you’ve made tonight.” We walked inside together and he spent time with me and my friends at the bar. It was there I learned his name: Hunter.

After some time, we decided to leave. He lived in LA, but not close to Koreatown, so he got us a cab to drive almost 30 minutes to his place. On the way there, he explained that he lived at his parents’ house but had his own place on the property, like a detached guest house. I was a little skeptical at first, but I was already in the car and felt really fucking badass that I saw him, wanted him, and got him; so I was there for the ride.

But, his parents’ house was ENORMOUS! He lived in the fancy-ass part of LA, where movie stars and executive producers reside and his “room” was larger and nicer than any apartment I’ve ever had. So, I couldn’t really blame him for not wanting to bail out on this situation.

We walked through a code-protected gate, down the stairs past the main house, and entered his quarters. There was a lot to take in, but as soon as I started to try, Hunter pressed his body into mine and kissed me. It was a passionate kiss and I immediately was turned on. In my head, I was again reveling in how this night went and was so happy that so far, this hasn’t been a bust. He was a great kisser, and that’s the first sign that it won’t be a terrible lay.

We got to his bed and clothes started coming off. After some hand play, we were both ready to take this to intercourse town. He grabbed a condom (phew) and entered me from the missionary position. It was great!

We then moved positions and I was now on top. I really was feeling amazing. The sex was great, I felt super powerful for making this happen, and now I was in control. “You like that?” I asked, breathlessly. “Yes!” he moaned.

And then I asked, “I’m not too fat for you?” …

I’ve always been fairly curvy. I have wide hips and huge breasts; but for most of my life, I had a small waist. Very Jessica Rabbit or Joan from Mad Men-esque. At this point, I was deeply into my alcoholism, so I wasn’t as trim as I have been before, but I was definitely still thin. Especially now in my life, when I have put on weight due to stress, aging, life-changes, whatever, it’s hilarious that I thought I was fat then.

But this is what happens when you’re so conditioned to be a certain way. Even in times when you think you’re changing the narrative, the same expectations arise and you have to handle them. I felt so in control. This was what I wanted and I made it happen. I was leading this sexual encounter. But, in the midst of it, I still questioned if I was good enough for the male gaze. Was he satisfied? Was I what he wanted? And that’s what came out during sex, following a stream of badass lady moves to get there.

He immediately responded with, “What? No!” and we continued on. But I was haunted by this for the remainder of our time together.

When we were done, he gave me a ride back to my friends’ house in Koreatown. It was a fairly silent half hour drive back, punctuated by flashbacks of the awkward moment continually pinging my brain. When we arrived, he asked if he could have my number. In my embarrassment and desire to forget this whole thing ever happened, I was bitchy and said, “Why? We’re never gonna see each other again.” and I left the car.

I got into my friends’ place, took my spot on their couch, and thankfully fell asleep immediately to avoid thinking about it.

The next morning, my friends got up to go to work and asked me how my night was. I lied and said it was good, and while I was getting up, I realized that I didn’t have my phone. I logged into my friend’s “Find my iPhone” app and saw it blinking up in the LA hills, definitely left in Hunter’s parked VW Jetta.

I sat with this information for so long, debating what I should do. I was very broke back then, so getting a new phone wasn’t really an option. And since I was a complete dick about exchanging numbers, there was definitely no way to contact him. But I had the location of my phone, which was in his car, which was at his house.

I made my decision and drove to his house and sat in my car for a long time, staring at the code-protected entry gate. If I could just get through the gate, I could walk down to Hunter’s room and just get my phone and run away as fast as possible. But I couldn’t get through the gate. And I didn’t think I could get my phone without involving his parents.

When I approached the fence, I saw a doorbell. I took a deep breath, muttered how stupid I was to myself, and then pressed it. A woman’s voice came on, “Hello?”

“Hi, I was here last night with Hunter, and I left my phone in his car and I was hoping I could get it.” I could feel my face reddening as I blurted out each word through the tiny intercom.

“Oh, okay,” she said with surprise. “Hang on a second.”

“Thank you!” I silently begged for an apology.

The gate opened and instead of Hunter, a beautiful brunette woman in a crisp, white robe came out. She was obviously in the midst of blowdrying her luxurious hair. She was stunning, and looked maybe 10 years older than me. My entire life flashed before my eyes, making me wonder what the fuck have I been doing because I knew I wasn’t going to be this woman any time soon.

She was incredibly kind and stated that she had a set of his keys at their house so she figured this was easier than waking up Hunter. She unlocked the car and I opened the passenger seat door, saw my phone wedged between the seat and floor, grabbed it, and walked back toward his mom. “Thank you very much,” I said, feebly.

“No problem! I honestly didn’t even know that intercom worked anymore! I’m glad it did.” She smiled and waved as she disappeared back behind the gate.

I reentered my car, with my heart beating so fast. Would she tell Hunter about this? What would he think? Would he wonder how I knew where the house was? Would he think I am a stalker? I was riddled with worries and questions, but I knew I had to drive away immediately in case he came out. I couldn’t handle anything else at that house.

Never again did I see or talk to Hunter, but that night / morning lives rent-free in my mind, even today. It was such a high and low moment of my twenties. I felt so confident and sexy, and I was fucking thrilled about that. And then I pulled a subconscious move that completely reversed all feelings and outcomes of the interaction. I was no longer this cool chick who saw a hot guy, fucked him, and felt good about it; I was now the insecure girl who pretended to be confident, but was thwarted by all of these learned conditions that told her that she was there to please him, not the other way around.

It’s hard to navigate sexuality when you have a weak foundation and you learn through experience. Not all experiences are bad, but I think for most women, they’re not always what we would envision for ourselves. But we don’t recognize that until later because we don’t even feel capable to envision anything for ourselves in this regard. I hope that women become more confident in their sexuality and they can create their own personalities within it rather than simply being there for what their partners want.

I have always been a chameleon for my sexual partners. With this instance, I tried to not be, but I obviously felt lost and confused so resorted to insane questions to ensure that I was doing the right thing. I want to be my own person with my own desires, and thankfully my husband very much encourages this, but it takes a lot of work to unlearn all of this shit we’ve been fed for years. We are not here to simply please our partners through any means necessary; we are here to create enjoyable experiences with and for each other to acquire intimacy alongside the physical pleasures.

The first time

I was 15 when I lost my virginity.

I honestly don’t even really know why I did it, other than curiosity and the desire to fit in. One of my best friends was having sex with her boyfriend and I was just fascinated by the whole thing. She was with an older, experienced boy, so their relationship seemed incredibly adult and the variety of their positions, locations, and actions blew my mind. What were some of these things?!

I had never really had a boyfriend. I was consumed by crushes, but also chose boys who wouldn’t like me back so that I could stay at arm’s length. Truthfully, I was terrified. In sixth grade, I liked a boy named Matt, and he actually liked me back! We were “dating” and the one time that we hugged between classes, my face turned bright red and I ran away. That’s where I’m coming from going into this less than three years later.

But I did receive male attention, which was new for me as a child who was never the cute one. In eighth grade, my tits came in hot, I dyed my hair its now signature red color, and I was part of this trio of hot girls. This made me a new target of boys’ affections.

Though, of course, it wasn’t really affection. It was sexual harassment that you had to laugh off and accept graciously in lieu of sonnets and poetry. The more abuse you endorsed, the more time they spent on you; and that was all any of us wanted, unfortunately. So, obviously, having sex was a logical next step.

My first sexual partner was a boy named Jordan. He was cute, quiet, and dabbled in the stoner and punk culture. Looking back, I’m not totally sure what drew me to him. I think I figured he wouldn’t be mean to me if he found out I liked him. And he wasn’t. At least not in the straight-forward way.

We planned our sex like an actual event. We had a date and time set and my mom dropped me off at his house. She knew what was up, but she has been good about letting me make mistakes on my own. I should’ve stayed in the car. He answered the door in sweatpants! But my self-esteem was pretty low and I’d already made the commitment, so I stayed.

That’s a thing I’ve noticed in my sexual history: I feel compelled to continue no matter what if I’ve already gone so far. It’s like that perpetual need to for women to be polite, don’t make waves, stick to your commitments. And because I had literally no background knowledge or experience, I did not have any confidence to speak up for myself. How do you know alternatives if you don’t know any of the options?

We went into his house and he had a couple of friends over. I didn’t know that that was part of the plan (again, we literally scheduled this shit). I waved hello as they were people I knew and followed Jordan down the hall to his bedroom.

The walls were filled with posters of Kotton Mouth Kings and similar groups and strings of lights that gave the room a green glow. The TV was on, playing (you guessed it) Kotton Mouth Kings, providing more light and the soundtrack to the loss of my virginity. He led me to his sloppily made bed.

We didn’t say much. We both knew why I was there. He kissed me for a minute and laid me down onto the bed. His hand moved up under my shirt to my braless nipple and he pinched it until it hardened. I enjoyed that feeling.

Slowly, our clothes came off. I was so nervous for him to see me naked as the first person to do so, but he gave no indication of his opinions on my body. At least he didn’t recoil, I guess. He grabbed a condom, unwrapped it, and stretched it down his penis. I was fascinated: I’d never seen a condom or how it was used. I noticed the ring at the tip of penis and vaguely recalled a conversation long ago where his friend mentioned he had a pierced dick. What a wild thing for a 16 year old to have.

He asked if I was ready and I nodded. I was so nervous that I couldn’t speak. He got on top of me and penetrated my vagina. I was no longer a virgin. This was sex.

And then he started pulling it out and then back in. I was confused. I thought sex was just inserting a penis into a vagina and sitting there for fifteen minutes. That’s what random conversations in movies had taught me at least.

I had never seen porn or even watched a sex scene in a movie. My parents were very quick to fast forward anything as soon as something started. And because my formal sexual education focused on NOT having sex, I actually knew nothing about it.

I knew sex involved putting the penis into the vagina; and it was a huge movie / TV show trope to talk about sex being 15 minutes, so … sex is putting the penis into the vagina for 15 minutes. THIS IS WHY WE NEED ACTUAL EDUCATION!

While I was confused by what was happening, I was also paying attention to the feelings around it. It didn’t necessarily feel good, but it didn’t hurt like everyone said it would. I lied there, experiencing everything, without moving a muscle. I had no idea what I should have been doing, but it seemed like it was fine. Jordan eventually finished (in less time than 15 minutes), and he pulled out. I saw the condom now included white liquid at the tip as he removed it.

He got off the bed and brought me back a towel. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with it, so I just took it and held it. “Do you want to go to the bathroom?” He asked.

“Yeah, I can do that.” I got up and put my clothes back on. He pointed to the door across the hall and I left the room. The bathroom lights were bright and harsh on my eyes. I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled. I did it! I had sex.

After peeing, I wiped and found that things were fairly slippery. I was quite lubricated from the experience. Fascinating. There was no blood, though. I had heard that there would be, so again, I was confused. Did I do something wrong? When I went back into the room, I made sure to tell him that there was a lot of blood.

We hung out for a bit after that. I awkwardly lied on his chest while we watched more KMK videos. And then it was time for me to go. We kissed goodbye and I explained to my mom, defensively, that we just hung out and watched movies. Not a full lie, but obviously not the truth.

This was a Saturday evening. We hadn’t really discussed anything about our relationship, but I assumed that since we had sex, I would now be like my friend and I would try different positions and actions with Jordan. But on Monday, I found out that he had asked out another girl. That was a pretty shitty and unexpected blow.

So I figured out how to handle it and I decided that I would disassociate myself from it and treat sex as something insignificant so that it couldn’t hurt me. It was something that I was to do without feeling and without requiring a relationship. I was the cool girl who didn’t need anything in return while I gave away what they wanted.

And this is because I didn’t have any other information. Was it normal to have sex with someone and then they end up with someone else? Maybe, maybe not. Was this a possible outcome that I could have prepped better for? Absolutely, but I didn’t know about it. I just assumed my situation would end up exactly like my friend’s, or exactly like I’ve seen in the movies. And this was not something I saw in the movies.

I learned a lot of hard lessons about sex and relationships in my younger years, which allowed me to grow and improve faster than maybe others; but it did cut me off from understanding and enjoying intimacy for a long time. Sex without emotions, or at least pretending that you don’t have any, just led me to feeling empty, useless, and hurt.

I was so naive going into sex that I allowed things to happen to me that I could have easily prevented. But I wanted to know about sex and no one was telling me in a healthy, responsible way, so I figured it out for myself. I feel like this is the case for a lot of women. They’re led into sex by boys / men who are aware of and know how to take advantage of our gullibility and we have no baseline of what is actually okay.

After this event, school was weird. I had to pretend to be okay with Jordan dating someone else, with so many people knowing that I’ve now had sex, and with this new persona that I had to build as someone who has meaningless sex and has to hide that she actually knows nothing about it.

This major shift change led to some seriously shitty situations, including my first rape.

Introduction of sorts

I am struggling in this year of 2025. I feel helpless and I feel overwhelmed. As a sober alcoholic, it’s key to learn to focus on what you can control and ignore the rest because you can’t do anything about that. So, what I can control is my outlets. And this is an outlet that I’m choosing because I can write and I need creative expression.

I am a millennial, cisgendered, pansexual, white, American woman (leaning a bit on the non-binary side), married to a cisgendered, white, American man. I grew up in Southern California in a fairly Christian household, in a low to middle class financial situation. My mom and dad divorced when I was a year old, and she remarried when I was five, so those years where my mother was single with three children were pretty impoverished (though fun), and once the house turned into a double income partnership, we were always comfortable, but never rich or well-off. We managed.

I state all of this to set a baseline for my generalizations. I am writing as a creative outlet, but I am not a researcher, data scientist, or a speaker of all of those who identify as women. But, I can confidently assert that my experiences, though filled with potentially unique details, will ring relatable to those who share similar attributes to myself. And this is because most of us here in the US fall under the intense weight of patriarchy and capitalism.

I have lived (in my opinion) an interesting life. Not because I am a world traveler or have accomplished anything earth-shattering; but because I have learned about myself and society through my sexual endeavors. I have spent years processing my history in order to recover from trauma, to release relationship baggage, to stay sober, to help others understand their emotions, to make complex decisions, and to generally find happiness.

In this processing, I have taken away the power these experiences have held over me and I have even started to take my power back from them. This comes in various flavors, including finding humor in heavy topics, providing embarrassing details about what I’ve done, and to say some things that maybe others cannot yet.

As a woman in Christian America, I have been conditioned to be submissive, polite, virginal, and grateful for anything I have without asking for more. Because of who I am and how I grew up, I have struggled for a long time with sex and what it means as a woman in this country. I battle with feelings of guilt, shame, disgust, freedom, joy, confidence, disappointment, anger, frustration, power, worth with every sexual partner or even the memory of a sexual experience. But it’s not so simple to just feel different. Everything that you have learned you must unlearn; and that is a difficult thing to do when it’s unlearning things that have been forced onto you before you were even capable of questioning them.

And maybe you’re feeling the same way (maybe you don’t know it even). So, I want to talk about it to help myself continually unlearn these characteristics and perhaps encourage others to do the same. I am not here to judge people’s life choices, but I am opposed to society and culture dictating what we are supposed to do simply because we are gendered specifically. Just like with most of women’s rights, it’s not about changing it so everyone does it the opposite way, but so we all have a choice to go whichever way we want.

The simplest and most effective conversation to start (in my opinion) is about sex. It’s still unacceptable for women to be sexual beings and for us to feel like we have any power in that regard.

Because of my upbringing, I went into sex without any help. My teachers were movies, TV shows, friends my age, random comments here and there from my siblings. I never felt comfortable asking questions and I also was too embarrassed to admit that I didn’t know something, so I just went into it, assuming whoever I was with knew enough to get things going.

And so I became the byproduct of my sexual partnerships, taking from them skills, expectations, insecurities, hurt, confusion. I thrived in abusive relationships and ran away from intimacies because I had no foundation of what is “right” or “normal” or “healthy”; and those initial experiences of mine took advantage of my naivety and my understanding of a woman’s role.

But I am grateful to know this about myself and about sexual dynamics in general because it has helped me create the person that I actually want to be. So I want to share that with you.

I don’t really know who’s reading this and what any of you will take away from it, but I certainly hope that I can do the following:

• Make you chuckle at least once

• Relate to you and some experience you’ve had

• Teach you something you didn’t know about women’s sexuality

• Empower you to talk about your sexuality and experiences

Get ready for whatever this is. Some writings will be reflective stories, some haphazard poems, some light and funny anecdotes, and some really fucking heavy offloading. So, read what you want and leave the rest.