Good Vibrations.

I went to a live sex show in Amsterdam with some very reluctant friends.
“Think of it as a tutorial!” I persuaded. “Think of all the wonderful things you will learn!”
When a black man dressed as Batman walked out on stage with a wang instead of a cape, ready to have his way with a pixie-like Dutch girl, my prudish friends covered their eyes.
“Something is very wrong here,” one said.
“I would call it progressive. Batman is usually white.”

Before Barack Obama became First Black President Barack Obama, my L.A Friend and I became obsessed with campaigned-based merchandise. I was fascinated to see if Bobble-Head-Barack or Chia-Pet-Obama had more sway than Fox News in the polls.
A race of sorts developed to see Who could find the best political ploy or toy.
“Can I interest you in an Obama vibrator?” L.A Friend enquired. “It comes in red, white or blue…”
…And managed to be both wrong and progressive at the same time.

There is little conversation about female masturbation. I blame, you know, society. Men, with all their millennia of sexual liberation, have developed their act to be a noun, verb, adjective and insult. Women, meanwhile, blush and then reapply make-up when asked whether they do or don’t. Few, it seems, scream, “Yes We Can!”

My GC Friends and I decided that research needed to be done (Read: vibrator shopping). My L.A Friend was jealous.
“I know it’s personal but I really wish I could be there to tell you what to avoid.”
“Avoid?”
I always thought that the attraction of a vibrator was that, unlike a boy, there was nothing to steer clear of.
“This is a big step for you, dear friend. The ultimate get-to-know-oneself-biblically experience. I’m proud.”
When anyone encourages me to go after a boy, I get in-the-good-way excited. But, suddenly, an inanimate object was intimidating me.

I hate going to the hairdresser because I can’t sit still for two hours.
“Do you want something to occupy yourself?” The colourist asked.
My mind boggled and I blushed.
“Here is a magazine.”
She walked away to let me and my colour sit and I started reading.
“Find The Best Vibrator For You!” I flipped to page eight-four and was suddenly anxious. I have seen less selection at a Hugo Boss model casting call.

When one is trying to decipher what they are looking for in a significant other, a power of elimination starts at puberty and ends when He (or She) is magically born out of a Pod. Early in the process, blonde verses brunette, green verses blue eyes and big arms or a big wang are decided on very quickly. And then one starts to get older and realize that no matter what someone looks like, it isn’t going to make them interesting or lovable in the long run.
“You have the most beautiful eyes,” a future boyfriend once told me.
“Thank you,” I blushed. “If you are impressed by them, wait until you see what is happening behind them.”
After three months, it turns out, he wasn’t won over. And I realized that choosing someone based only on pecs and a smile is unrewarding and careless.
Personal characteristics are notoriously difficult to get to know and like. What was important at eighteen, like having a driver’s license, becomes irrelevant after six years of dating when even the smallest flaws can drive you crazy. It is a constantly evolving process with no tutorial but a lot of lessons.

After the colourist finished prettying my hair, and I had read up on every race, creed and colour of vibrator available, I prepared to meet my GC Friends for research (Read: vibrator shopping).
Suddenly being knowledgeable didn’t make the process seem easier. It made it noticeably harder. Now I was looking for something specific, rather than being willing to try anything.
But I ignored the anxiety.
Because I never want to be reluctant.

A Fish Called Archimedes

Any time my dog hears the word “walk” he gets excited, followed by immediate frustration and intense depression because no one in the house is motivated enough to make his dream come true.
We started making new words for That Thing You Do To Get From A To B so that he never misunderstood our intentions but He soon caught on to them to.
“I am just going to saunter down to buy some milk.”
“Did you just toddle past my bedroom?”
“I am not going to have an argument with you. I am going to strut away with dignity!”
We then started spelling W.A.L.K but, it turns out, the poodle is lingual.

Sometimes (but not often) I want to show my dog that I care beyond cuddling him to the point of suffocation or pointing and saying, “Look at how damn cute you are!”
“Why don’t you feed him?” AM suggests at any given opportunity. It turns out, Puppy Me is much more attentive than the human[ized] equivalent.
“Come on Toby, let’s go for an amble.” I don’t say “walk”, in case I change my mind in an instant and push him onto Prozac.

The time (yes, singular) that the motivation exceeded beyond walking to the front door, Toby trotted for four hundred meters before stubbornly stopping.
“Come on!” I encouraged. He gave me a look that will be vocalized as, “Fuck no, you insane girl,” once he eventually takes the trick one step further and actually develops the ability to speak.
“This is why we never take you for a hike!”
I picked him up and carried him for the next three kilometers while he smugly snuggled into my shoulder and high-fived all of the dogs at sea level.
I would have been mad if I wasn’t so impressed by his manipulation as to want to start emulating his pick up technique myself.

One of my favorite boy friends has a pet fish.
“I am going away, can you look after Archimedes for three weeks?”
I waited for the punch line but there wasn’t one. He was serious.
“I call kids “its”, remember?” I warned. I have burnt soup. I should not supervise anything, let alone life.
“‘Its’ a fish. You will be fine.”
Boy friend arrived in my bedroom with a fish tank, food and cleaning products.
“He gets grumpy if you don’t feed him,” he explained. “And he gets grumpy if you feed him too much.”
“So basically the fish is just an asshole?”
I could sense paternal fear as boy friend backed out of my room, waving to Archimedes The Bipolar Fish for possibly the last time.

“What does one do with a fish for three weeks?” I asked my friends who have kids of their own. They seem to know how to occupy something grumpy, small and stupid.
“Might I suggest nothing?”
(Aside: Is it just me or do people become boring when they become parents?)
“Let’s take him on adventures!” My younger friend who was allowed to make suggestions exlaimed, thus confirming why I enjoy the company of people who weren’t alive in the 80s.

I was driving home from the gym when I stopped at a crossing to let a couple W.A.L.K. On their respective shoulders were a pet parrot and a pet cockatoo. They were taking their birds for a stride. I picked myself up off the accelerator I had fallen onto laughing and messaged my friend.
“I have the Best idea!”

Ideas usually start out rather innocently. World War One could have been quite subdued on paper. But then stupid people with stupid ideas get involved and all of a sudden a leash is wrapped around a fish tank on a boardwalk in broad daylight.

There are many fun things one can do with a fish other than eat it.
“Who wants sushi for lunch?”
“Archimedes does!”
“Who wants to go to the beach?”
“I will get the sunscreen for Archimedes!”
“Who wants to go for a W.A.L.K?”
Archimedes didn’t have a clue what was happening, but Toby almost had a fit.

Taking responsibility for something is much more fun than it sounds in theory. Which could have been the poorly executed idea behind World War One. Looking after something, whether it be yourself, another person or a fish, can be motivating to the point of euphoria. It should be done more often.
“Where should we take him next?” I wondered during an animal-free gym session.
“Archimedes First Sex Shop?”
“A fish in a sex shop…[?]”
The fish may not be grumpy. He could just be frustrated.

The Girl Half Liked.

There have been many occasions where people have requested to purchase crack or *insert mood elevating drug here* from me.
“[He Knows Who He Is] said you have stuff…”
“Um. No.” I shrug. I never know what more to say. There is no How To Deny You Are A Walking Pharmacy book available to me [yet].
The potential client then slinks away empty handed and I am left wanting to apologise for being far less interesting and dangerous in person.

OnceuponaCanadianiwassleepingwith, his roommate liked me just about as much as He did (Read: Not very much). In between the scowls, mocking and blatant insults, I got glimpses of Roommates body and desperately wanted to say, “If you are going to have a vocal problem with me being alive, can you at least do it shirtless?”
I never asked, or invested any thought, into his disdain, but I always assumed that he was judging my character based on the few mornings he saw me slink out of his lounge room. Which is [relatively] fair. I look like Jon Bon Jovi circa 1985 at dawn.
“You had sex with my friend!” Roommate said loudly one night in front of a large group of people, not long after I had decided to stop having sex with his friend.
I shrugged. I didn’t know what more to say. There is no Hurrah! Yeah I Did! book available to me [yet].

Roommate joined a laundry list of people who don’t [or didn’t] like me based on either a first impression or a preconceived idea. I have spent many hours (read: days) writing my Magic List, being conscientiously respectful enough to remember every name, but I have never wasted a second putting pen to paper regarding the people who dislike me. I would probably make a much larger carbon footprint than my size eight pump suggests but also it has occurred to me how similar those lists could read.

If one was to go through life seeking approval from other people, I imagine it would be very frustrating and unrewarding. Like trying to find healthy food at McDonalds or intellectual conversation with a twenty-year-old Californian Surfer. I have always figured that I am the only person who will be in my life for the duration of it, so I am really the only person who needs to be happy with It (read: me and my behaviour) overall.
I never try to win over Roommate or people like Him. What is the point? People will have a problem no matter what You do and I reason that if Lindsay Lohan can have fans, there really must be a platonic relationship Out There for all of us that will involve acceptance and encouragement.

I have a lot of respect for the people who hate me for Who I Am. They actually bothered to research and get to know the real characteristics and then, rightfully, conclude that they don’t [have to] like them. It is genuine hatred based on real qualities. It is the people who point and make a loud and uneducated decision that bother me.
But whether they really hate me or just think that they do, it makes no difference to Who I Am. I like me. And, I swear, that was the hardest person to win over.

“Can we be friends?” Roommate asked me at drunk o’clock. He wasn’t shirtless, but I listened to Him anyway. See, I never had an issue with him. The only information I had about him was that He had a problem with my sex life and possessed abs.
“Of course.”
“I used to think you were an idiot,” he admitted. (Aside: Mental note to self: Start reading Kafka while doing the walk of shame). “But I don’t anymore.”
I was going to enquire, “Why?” but the I remembered that it doesn’t matter. Because hate me or love me, I am still going to get up in the morning, find the way back to my house and go about living my life.

There isn’t enough time in life to not judge books by their cover. But there is ample time to not make ignorant assumptions.
“It fills that time,” one of my opinionated boy friends informed. “You can’t love everyone.”
“No, you’re right,” [but I am giving it the old college try]. “Just…why hate someone when you don’t even know them?”
“Because we have to put some kind of emotion to it.”
Personally, I like to think that book covers are half OK, the glass is half full [of scotch] or the person is half likable and so if I really need to place an emotion on something, it may as well be a positive one.
“I am going to get to know people. And then hate them.”

After Roommate became my new boy friend, a giant ab-less boy approached me.
“I hear you are a man eater,” he smirked.
“Um. No. I don’t even like eating lamb.”
“I would let you eat me.”
I shrugged. I didn’t know what more to say. There is no Assumption Is Not The Best Pick-up Technique book available to me [yet].
The potential Magic List member slunk away dejected and I was left wanting to apologise for not being a massive whore in person.

Making Music.

I was once aggressively pursued by a lesbian. Which was only nice because I like to have options.
“I am sorry, but I am the most heterosexual person you will ever meet,” I politely declined.
“Have you ever tried It?”
“No.”
“So how do you know?”
“The same reason I know I am not interested in seeing Paulie Shore movies. I just know.”
I don’t even like girls as friends [most of the time] so I can’t really articulate the frustration I would experience if my lover was missing the one appendage I actually like in a person.

There are only two girls in the world I would turn gay for: One is a Victoria Secret model and the other is Tinkerbelle. While I wait to meet either of them, I focus on the three billion members of the population whom I am actually attracted to.

When I was ten years old, I desperately wanted a xylophone so I could emerge as a musical prodigy and annoy the crap out of my parents. I begged for months and tried to settle for a saucepan and a wooden spoon, but the desire for a xylophone never left my mind.
“If I buy you one, will you stop asking?” AM begged in return.
“Of course.” Even at the age of ten I knew that there was no point in asking for something once I had it.
I was locked in my room with my new musical instrument and my parents reminisced back to an innocent past where the only loud, screeching and unbearable sound they heard was my voice.

Two weeks later, the xylophone was discarded into a pile of It-Didn’t-Really-Work-Out-Dreams. It collected dust on top of ballet slippers, a fishing rod and a poster of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. I found that once I had it, I didn’t really want it anymore. My mind began to be consumed by other things it couldn’t have but had decided it wanted.

We beg when we are having sex and we beg when we are not.
“We have already done It three times today. I am tired. Can I just sleep while you go about your business?” Someone in a long-term relationship will eventually say.
“I am a real person, with feelings and a brain. But right now I can’t even walk. Why don’t you want to get to know me?” A girl in a new relationship might ask.
“I bought a loaf of bread from a sixty year old baker and even he looked do-able,” I start to cry to my boy friend because I haven’t had sex since the Bush administration.

I was introduced to the Wonderful World of Getting Laid via a two-year-long relationship. As far as I am concerned, sex is meant to be enjoyed three times a day, while I am sleeping and if it gets to That point, the wheel chair has been invented. Taking sex out of my reality and throwing it into the pile of broken dreams means that what was once a real person with feelings and a brain quickly becomes someone who finds redheads attractive.

My morning hot chocolate buying ritual became a virtual joke on me.
“There were even girls who were attractive,” I cried to my boy friend after I returned from my walk. “Is it just me or has the entire global population suddenly become better looking?”
“It is just you,” he mumbled while ogling a picture of a Victoria Secret model.
“I am at the point where I am watching peoples hips movements when they walk to evaluate their ability in bed. And then there are those bitches who walk around with kids, which is basically just a rude advertisement for the fact that they have had sex.”
Boy friend put his arm around me. “Did you ever think that maybe abstinence isn’t for you?”

When The Only Boy I Have Ever Loved left the county, I was consumed with thoughts about him. One day, while driving in my car [and trying to drown out my own mind via instrumental Irish music] I realized that I was once a person with ideas and opinions but had let myself fall into the trap of obsessing over something I didn’t have. I had not learnt the lesson as a ten-year-old. There was very little difference between the xylophone and Him. Except I could play Him much better.

I decided to channel my negative thinking into a positive action.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” AM asked.
“I am going vibrator shopping.”
She shook her head and started to list all of the other instruments that have only ever been hurdles in the way of reaching my actual dreams.
“Why don’t you find yourself a nice boy instead?” She really does try to get involved in my bizarre life.
“What is the difference? A vibrator, like my brain and a boy, can be turned off.”

What’s Talk Got To Do With It (Read: Sex)?

The best pickup line I have ever heard was, “Hello. My name is [Mr L.A].”
The man could have proceeded to detail how he harms small animals for fun and it would not have stopped my underwear from metaphorically being ripped off and thrown across the room. I knew the moment I saw him that I wanted him.

Everyone else…takes a little bit of effort.

Any television series that has ever aired on HBO would have us believe that girls and boys seek sex in vastly different ways. Girls shave, wax, pluck, exfoliate, moisturize, buff, tone, cleanse, conceal, spray, roll, fluff, blush, highlight, underline, underwire, hide, tame, lick, prep, excite, smell, plump, jump, lunge, run, encourage talk, crunch, shine, drink, judge and find the perfect pair of shoes. A boy says, “Man, I think I’m going to bang a chick tonight.”

Sometimes (but very rarely) I can forgive a girl’s bad performance in bed: She is fucking exhausted.

Not having sex for six weeks made my preparation somewhat different.
After eight hours in the shower, I stopped what I was doing (read: enjoying a glass of scotch) and said, “Fuck. It.” With one leg half shaved, I took a stance. “If He wants It (read: sex), then all he has to do is ask.”

Intellectual stimulation can frequently be wasted on people we only want to stimulate physically. There is an often-believed misconception that only wanting sex diminishes ones self worth, when in reality the opposite is true. There is a respect to be had for motivation and ambition. But there is also a confusion about what is acceptable to say when you only want to rip of His clothes and throw him across the room. Do you have to find out too much? Do you want to find out too little? What is enough? What do you talk about when all that is going through your head is, “I want to sit on top of you.” And is it OK to really not care that his dog died when he was eight? Because unless that is going to get him naked, I really just don’t care.

Languages are notoriously difficult to learn.
“I learnt German for seven years!” I gloated to my travelling companions after we had spent a week in Italy pointing at alcohol and then our genitals. “We will be fine in Germany!”
In reality, I sat in German class for seven years.
“Möchten Sie fangen mit dem bus?” a member of the Arian race said to me. I pointed to my genitals in a wild guess/I am an opportunist.
The ability to learn a language is an admirably unique one – I firmly believe “Clueless” quotes are the last official dialect to be adapted by a mass population – but have always prided myself on being [relatively] bilingual.
“I can speak Sex Talk,” I have sporadically boasted.
“Like moaning?”
“No. Like How-To-Get-Him-Naked-Talk.”

Biologically, man are known as hunters and women, gathers. Which basically means that men like to find people to have sex with and girls like to acquire them. There is a hostorical expectation that a boy will take the lead and do all of the work involved in getting from point A to point Banging. He will approach, buy the drinks, pretend to listen to stories about her ex-boyfriend, trick her into believing that he is not staring at her boobs, nod when he needs to, frown when he has to, ask the right questions, pretend to care, look into her eyes, touch her back, buy more drinks and hopefully She will put out at the end of it. A girl says, “I want to fuck you.”

Sometimes (but very rarely) I am relieved that I am not a boy. Because, frankly, I just can’t pretend to care.

The introduction of HBO event television has encouraged role reversal and somewhat blurred the lines. When I see a hot boy, I am like a Nepalese Sherpa staring at Everest: It’s just There. What else am I going to do other than try to climb It? I enjoy the challenge of the hunt and trying to keep the conversation Just About Sex.
“I have a dream of having sex in the library,” I told Absolutely Stunning Hot Boy I Have Now Officially Talked To.
“Can I get your phone number?” He had a quiver in his voice that insinuated actual fear.
Later while I sat in the shower, I stopped what I was doing (read: enjoying a glass of scotch) and started counting how many hours there are in six weeks and one day.
Both genders may now be talking about It, but it doesn’t mean we know what to do with It (read: sex).

Girls worry about going after It (read: sex) because of the archaic social pretence of such an act. Boys get intimidated if a girl blatantly goes after It (read: sex) and doesn’t want to (really) speak to him. It isn’t a moral issue. It is about being ambitious, motivated and owning what you do. So much drama, judgement, insecurity, pity, envy, dishonesty, abdication, distrust and alcohol has been created around getting It (read: sex).

The reality is that we only do it if we want it [for whatever reason].

There doesn’t need to be the extravagant effort, because if He is interested…He is interested. And there doesn’t need to be the intense fear because…If she doesn’t want to talk, it means she wanted you from the first moment she saw You.

Just Add Alcohol

I have two party tricks when I am drunk (Ahem. Technically I have three). I disappear for hours on end and I say, “Yes”, to any suggestion I am faced with. So, technically, really, the first two equal the third.
It’s just mathematics.

When I was fifteen, RG decided to teach me how to drink alcohol.
“You should know how to drink scotch properly, so that you don’t do anything stupid,” he said while pouring Glen Moray into a glass of ice.
Unfortunately, he didn’t calculate that adding scotch to me was never going to subtract stupidity. There is only one multiplication table I know.
Nightly, he would pour me a glass and educate me on the various ways of drinking. I really excelled in A Lot 101.

My home school meant that I didn’t have to engage in underage drinking with friends.
“Why do I want to go and buy goon illegally when I can drink single malt at home?” I responded when turning down invitations to a totally dope party.
When I turned eighteen, however, I graduated from both high school and home school and took my knowledge to the streets and bars.
At this point, I think I have a PhD. Permanently. Hideously. Drunk.

During my very drunk nights (once called “Week Nights”), my party tricks created either problems or adventures.
“I had belongings at one point,” I realized on night in LA when I finally Came To and stopped talking to the bathroom wall. I wanted to buy another drink but my purse had suspiciously evaporated the more liquefied I became.
“We should catch a plane to Auckland!” Another night-time adventure culminated.
“Yes!”
Thankfully, I Came To before I found my passport and got acquainted with a sheep.
I stopped drinking for one month because I realized that I disliked spending ten hours a day trying to make myself more intelligent only to destroy the hard work for eight hours per night. I re-enrolled in home school and studied to art of self-control.

After six weeks of ferociously dedicating myself to academia, I am once again planning to put down the books and pick up at the bar.
“I feel too smart right now,” I told boy friend. “I just need to be stupid for a while.”
“Cheers!” He clinked my glass of water.
“I am going to be drunk for a full work week. I take no responsibility for my actions,” I informed.
He took my purse away from me for safe keeping. “Make sure your phone is charged and your passport is hidden.”

There is so much of life that is so serious and should be treated as such. But then there are aspects of life that are completely frivolous and fun and that superficiality should be celebrated and indulged. I no longer think too much about the stupidity of drinking, as I have realized that there is no point in investing intelligence into something that promotes none. So long as nothing too stupid occurs, I can get very excited about forgetting that I am, actually, a three-dimensional person once the scotch has dried up.

Everyone has their down time, their ridiculous release that is necessary to starve off the exhaustion of spending ten hours per day bettering themselves.
“Why can’t you enjoy lawn bowls or something like that?” AM shook her head, poured herself another wine, and failed to see the irony.
“I just need to relax and let my brain sleep for a while,” I reasoned. “I am the best person I am going to be at this moment in time. I think I need to go and destroy that a little bit so that I have something new to think about.”
“Five days is a long time to be drink,” she sighed.
“Not really,” I reasoned.
It’s just mathematics.

My friend called me at midday with a suggestion.
“Do you want to buy a cask of goon and sit on the beach and drink it?”
“Yes!”
It is somewhat refreshing to know that you can make stupid decision when sober. It could be my new party trick.

Quality Not Quantity

I have frequent [hypothetical] conversations with Jay Leno while having a shower.
“Congratulations on winning the Best Actress Oscar,” he says in front of a live studio audience.
“Oh shucks,” *Audience applause*
“How did you do it?”
“Well, Jay,” I wash off my shampoo. “An orgasm really isn’t that hard to fake…”

I once snuggled in bed with a boyfriend who claimed that he could tell when a girl was Faking It.
“No you can’t,” I insisted.
“I assure you, I can,” He boasted.
“Impossible.”
“I can.”
“You couldn’t five minutes ago.”
*Silent heart attack*

The female orgasm is more mysterious than Houdini or Nazi gold. In fact, I predict that guys could find Lindsay Lohan’s career before they could find the G-spot. It is this bizarre, elusive and, I must say, utterly fabulous thing that is often ignored because no-one relevant seems to know what the Hell is going on.
Have you ever watched a boy search for butter in the fridge?
“I can’t find it!”
“I can see it from here!” The oestrogen in the room will announce.
“Where?”
*She puts down How To Loose Friends And Alienate People and walks to the refrigerator*
“Here!” Once the milk, left overs and Cheese In A Can have been moved out of the way, the position of the butter is more than obvious.
“Oh.”
“You had a boy look,” She shakes her head and puts on a hard hat in preparation for Later.

There is a great misconception about a girl having the ability to come.
“I would like to compare the statistics of girls who claim they can’t come during sex with those who lay on the bed like a starfish,” I told a totally different boyfriend one day after he had led a brilliant search party. “I am positive that the figures would correlate.”
As far as I am concerned, with all things in consideration, it is the girl’s responsibility to make sure that He can Do It. Because I never want to say, “I came to more bars than boys”. And I really like bars.

Unfortunately, a missing orgasm can’t be blamed to one person. Or one gender. It would be so much easier if it were. Sadly, Easy is also not the answer.

A girl will fake an orgasm for multiple […] reasons.
“If I could just get some putty and some paint, I could do wonders to the cracks in this ceiling,” I have thought to myself while He does His thing after I have spent the day curing cancer [or similar]. “Tomorrow I need to go to the post office. Oh shit! Did I feed the dog?”
“I don’t want this to stop until you come,” He will say in utterly oblivious ecstasy [. Understandably].
“Oh Jesus,” I have thought. “Who has that kind of time?”
What happens next is pre-prepared, practiced and above all else, award-winning.
The entire situation has nothing to do with his ability, his stamina or his prowess. [Well, not always]. It has to do with that fact that the girl is just laying there. And saving the world [or similar] is consuming more of her mind.

Who has ever found their lost car keys by lying on their back staring at a cracked ceiling? [For example]. I rest my case. And knees.

No girl goes into sex saying, “Do what you need to, I don’t care. I have no intention of orgasming!” If she does…marry her.
During some days, nights or lunch breaks, a girl is busy, bothered or bloated. Brad Pitt holding a light sabre could not change the situation.
Many girls will admit that sex can still be brilliant without an orgasm. Just like they will admit that Size doesn’t really matter. Because, in relation to both, it is what you do with it that counts.

“I don’t even care if She comes or not,” a onceuponamissinglink told me after showering me with affection. “It doesn’t wreck my experience. So long as I don’t know about it.”
“So you wouldn’t mind hearing that possibly every single girl you have ever slept with has faked it?”
“That hasn’t happened,” he rest assured.
“Of course it hasn’t,” I confirmed.
*That was acting. Thank you.*

Share And Share Alike.

People find very different things funny.
“Hahahahahahaha!” I snorted while in the car with Mr L.A. one day.
“What?” He looked around for something other than my ugly feet to find even remotely amusing.
“That lady walking just fell over.”
His eyes fell on my punch line.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Hahahahahah!” Boggers, literally, fell out of my nose.
“She was retarded.”
“Oh.”
Still, it was funny.

When life revolves around just a handful of people, it can become easy to forget that there are actually six billion people in the world, all of who are different [except for the Olsen Twins]. Some people love the colour mauve. Quite a few people will eat garlic on a first date. Other people will have sex with everything involving a pulse and several will not.
There is an abundance of different tastes, expectations and morals.

I have a remarkable ability to remain friends with people I have slept with.
It is fortunate, really, because if I dared to go in the other direction my Christmas card list would appear noticeably bare.
“Doesn’t it get awkward?” Someone I am not too close with asked.
“No. Just expensive.”

Being liberal means being liberal in every sense of the word: I applaud casual sex but treat the person with respect. I don’t want a romantic relationship but I embrace friendships. I laugh at the hilarity of one-night stands but never at Him. Within the paradigm, I am unwavering. Because, by definition, liberalism is about equality and I support equality whole-heartedly [unless we are talking about cupcakes. Then they are all for me.]
Currently two of my closest boy friends are boys I have slept with.
“We have quite the incestuous little group here,” we all noticed after we embraced the other essential component of liberalism: honesty.
“Maybe we need to start recruiting?” I pondered. Because, boredom, apparently, is the quickest way to ruin a perfectly good cult of iniquity.
When I was little, my mum never bought me stickers or Pogs to share with my friends. I can only suppose that my habits as an adult are a direct reflection of this and I, thus, have a Freudian instinct to share as much as possible.

“That is hilariously immoral,” the friend I don’t know in the Biblical sense exclaimed.
“I know. But she just didn’t see the point in stickers.”
“I mean how can you have sex without even the intention of it leading somewhere?”
“Oh.” I thought for a moment. “Not everything has to lead beyond breakfast. Except lunch.”
“That is retarded.”
Still, it is fun.

As a girl, having such a liberal approach to sex is different to many others. Many people only like to talk about It, while others only like to Do It and never mention it. I am the X percent of six billion who like to do both. I don’t judge people who [miss out and] don’t have sex for the sheer fun of it. It is against my moral code to do so. So when someone judges me for having [random] sex, I have to wonder how that fits into their set of perfect guidelines[?].

Sometimes I wish I could jump ship and be part of the other three billion members of the population. It sure would make personal hygiene less time consuming.

I sat watching “Yes Man” with another name on my mailing list.
“This movie isn’t very funny,” I announced forty-five seconds into Jim Carrey acting retarded.
He agreed. “Do you know what we could do instead?”
I thought for a moment. “Bake cupcakes?”
“No, mam.” He winked.
“Hmm….This is awkward…”

I returned home [alone] and crawled into bed, realizing that, maybe, I still don’t share everything.

Finding Emo

The most perfect time in any relationship is before you have even spoken to the person.
For three weeks I have been obsessing over Absolutely Stunning Hot Boy I Have Never Talked To. And for three weeks I have been imagining, romanticizing and creating His personality.
As far as I am concerned at this point, he is a Hugo Boss model who cures cancer in his spare time.

I hope I am not disappointed.

People [often] judge books by their cover. Some people see a blonde girl and immediately think Idiot. I see a pretty boy and immediately assume that he is good in bed. [Bad examples…It’s just science]. This action comes down to first impressions counting and no-one having the time to really get to know everyone we meet. So we pigeon hole people, to make our assessments and regurgitation much easier to explain.
“How was the date?”
“Meh.”
“Why?”
“He chewed with his mouth open.”
“So?”
“You know what that means…”
“No.”
“Small penis.”
Or similar.

Sub genres of people fascinate me. If only because I like to imagine the global population stacked like CD’s in a HMV store.
These days, the categories are multiplying. There are bohemians, hipsters, yuppies, preppies, drunks, stroners, Goths, princesses, my ex-boyfriends and Mickey Rourke. Just to name a few.
“Why do people dress like Nemos?” AM wondered over her breakfast wine.
HMV went right out the window the moment my brain managed to picture a boy arriving for a date dressed as a giant orange fish.
“I think you will find they care called Emos,” I corrected her. But she made a point: Black eyeliner or gills, it is all the same:

Hilarious.

I was recently referred to as a Hipster. Which is a bizarre thing to hear when one is aware that they are much more in tune with Oprah’s book club and the entire works of Aristotle than alternative radio stations or flannel shirts.
“Don’t let the Rayban sunglasses fool you,” I corrected. “They are fake. Just like the concept.”

It is often said that observers get a clearer perception of an individual from the outside. Which may have been the case when we were all wearing loincloth and letting our personalities individualize on their own accord. But, these days, we have become lazy, and when someone comes into my life sporting a mullet hairstyle and a customized Toyota Corolla, I start to hope that first impressions are no longer correct.

To put yourself so openly into one category takes away so much fun in life. Randomness, while still being a pattern, allows for wonder and surprise. I can’t imagine what it must be like to walk into a room, look out from under eyeliner and pierced nipples and know that everyone has assumed Your character before being able to disappoint with politically incorrect jokes and an amateur juggling act.

I live my life by not judging people [as I am in no position to do so] but find it increasingly difficult when people are insisting on being judged by grouping themselves together despite obvious differences in their real personalities. I don’t want to go to extremes and start thinking that all the pretty people are bad in bed [because, to be honest, I wouldn’t know what to do with all of my free time]…

I just want people to embrace confidence and stop hiding behind barriers.

“Why don’t you go and actually talk to [Absolutely Stunning Hot Boy I Have Never Talked To]?’ Boy friend asked me while I hid behind his backpack.
He made a point.
“What if he thinks I am an idiot?” I feared (Read: predicated?) as I curled my blonde hair around my finger.
“Prove him wrong.”
I got ready to make my move.
I just hope he is not disappointed.

Simple Obstacles, Complicated People.

There are many differences between girls and boys. Girls talk about feelings, boys do not. Boys fart loudly in public, girls [for some reason] do not. Girls put obstacles in the way of the simple things, boys say “Wanna bang?” and get on with it.

Most of the time, the best things I can say about my own gender begins by listing the Victoria Secret Angels and finishes with a block of chocolate and a hot water bottle.
I have always been a cheerleader for boys. And not just because I like seeing them naked (well, that to), but because I do believe that out of two sexes, they got it right first. Unless I have been grossly misinformed and it was a fair maiden who discovered fire.

My admiration for men-things is closely married to my curiosity for them. Nothing they do really makes any sense (other than when they are naked) to me. They don’t understand that two different types of stripes should not be worn in both a pant and a shirt, for example. They don’t understand that “The Golden Girls” was ahead of its time. And they don’t understand that chocolate was taught to doctors in Medication 101.
“Why don’t you have more female friends?” a relative enquired onceuponachristmas when I had returned home from playing beach cricket to pick up heels, lip-gloss a phone number.
“Social interaction is important to me,” I explained. “There is so much to learn. I want to know what it is like to be completely in control of emotions and completely out of control with gas.”

If I want to learn more about girls, I can stand naked in front of my mirror.

I began studying a philosophy masters degree because [I didn’t want to get a proper job and] my mind is consumed with the question “Why?” I have spent the last eight months applying my new [and evolving] knowledge to conversation when interacting socially and have since lost even more friends than when I simply wrote off an entire gender.
Deciding that it may be smart to graduate with knowledge that is applicable for scotch-time chit-chat, I made a date with my male guidance councillor.
“I want to take ‘Love, Sex and Relationships’,” I informed him while holding all the literature I would need to pass the class (Read: My Blackberry inbox).
“You are too experienced to take that class,” He informed me.
“I think you will find that I am not,” I fought. “Out of any class in any university in any world, this is the class I need to take.”
Apparently, the three things correlate. I plan to find out how.

And why[?].

When one is denied a formal education, to the field they must go [apparently].
“I haven’t had sex since God was a boy,” I wailed to my boy friend.
“I have no sympathy for you,” He mocked. “You are a girl. Just say that a little bit louder and the problem could be fixed in about four seconds.”
Boys seem to think that a girls announcement that she wants (Read: or, you know, needs) sex is all it takes to have everyone from George Clooney to a midget holding an umbrella making a cordially line behind a velvet rope. And that may be what boys want. But it isn’t what girls what.
“No,” I put my obstacle in the way of a simple solution. “Where is the fun in that?”

A boys approach to sex is, generally, very simple: Breathing. Preferably agreeable. Big boobs. Girls, however, for the most part, have a laundry list of necessities, no matter how eager they are to jump into bed with anyone from George Clooney to a midget. This is because boys see with their eyes but, for some unexplainable reason, girls see with their ears. Part of The-Estrogen-One’s list can be superficial: Nice body. Big arms. Third leg. But the deeper one goes, both metaphorically and literally, the closer one comes to finding both the real desire a girl has and, you know, hopefully, the G-spot.
“Just do what I do when I haven’t had sex in a day or two,” boy friend suggested. I really didn’t feel like playing World Of Warcraft. “Whack off.”

Boys can masturbate all day and every day if they have the remote control to change the channel and snacks close by. Girls, however, realize that they are only fucking themselves and eat a block of chocolate instead.
“I, at least, need someone else in the room if I want to get into That frame of mind,” I informed boy friend. “It is about having someone doing something, [anything], and adding mystery to it. It is about emotionally coming as well as physically.”
“I do not understand what you are saying.”
See, I am more romantic than you think.

Two such different approaches to love, sex and relationships is what makes life interesting. It is possibly one reason why I could never be a lesbian. Plus I figure that I could just stand naked in front of my mirror alone and therefore not have to deal with paying for two dinners if I ever became That desperate.

Because when two people [come together and] have no understanding of Why[?], only having the desire to explore, the best fire can be discovered.
And simple obstacles can be overcome.