Sofa Queen

I’m a big fan of explaining via analogy. And one of my favorite recent analogies sheds light on the impact of a boyfriend on the rest of your life:

It’s like when you move into an apartment and it’s empty. And you don’t know what the fuck to do with anything. It’s just a lot of empty space. Anything can go anywhere

Until you get a sofa.

The sofa subtly yet inarguably determines where you put everything else, how much space you afford the other stuff – the TV, the bookcase, the other things in your life.

So basically, I’m saying a boyfriend, or at least an object of your affections, is like that sofa: Once you get one, you figure out where the other elements in your life go – how much time you spend with your friends, how much angst you have left over to lavish on your career worries, what amount of money and effort you’re willing, or need, to put into retail therapy.

I know I’m pretty typical: When I’ve got a guy in my life, or I’m heavily fixated, the rest of the activities will fall into some kind of contingent orbit.

Obviously, different people have different needs – different apartments, different sofas…and different ideas of how much they need a sofa in the first place.

After many years of having many, MANY sofas shamble through my living room, my sofa-procurement need (really, more like obsession) has cooled substantially…well, since the last time I had a sofa.

It wasn’t a very good sofa. In fact, it was a sofa that almost gave me herpes, but that’s a story for another day.

As I’ve come to savor how much I enjoy having the space, and no limitations on how I use it, I look at my friends in their quests to find a sofa. I have a few friends who seem so desperate that they essentially haul in curbside garbage – sofa that’s rife with flaws and stains, with the stuffing visibly leaking through holes and tears. And those are only the problems that you can see. I feel bad, sorry for both parties. I’ve been there myself – spent years there, actually, before I realized that I didn’t so need a sofa that I was willing to take just any sofa, I wasn’t up for a rehab project, and besides – there are plenty of women out there who are perfectly content to have their needs met by some broken down, piss-smelling, gutter sofa.

I am not one of those women.

I also see people, know people, who are compelled to simultaneously house three or four sofas at a time. There’s a part of me that likes this idea, too, but I feel bad for everyone involved. Personally, I’m a one-sofa kind of girl, simply because I just don’t have the time or the patience to navigate multiple large furnishings. I have, however, been friends with lots of people who pull the multiple-sofa thing off. At least to a certain degree. – Once a person has all those sofa, friends are one of the first things to fall by the wayside. And men are at least susceptible to this kind of behavior as women.

Lately, I spend a lot of time wondering why the hell I think I even need a sofa at all. My life is pretty great in a lot of ways. And God, do I resent having to structure my time to accommodate anything else when I don’t feel like it. (Do you even have to wonder that I’m an only child?)

I think it’s out of habit – not the sofa, per se, but the questing for the sofa that I’m so used to.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that it would be pretty great to have an awesome sofa.
If only for the fact that I need somewhere to put my ass.

OMG, I Finally Had a Date!!!

I’m pleased to report that this weekend was more happy, and productive, than I expected.

Ok, I admit, my expectations were low, but this weekend was pretty terrific.

On Sunday, I holed up with about six hours worth of mixes from my new DJ heartthrob Don Rimini, sat my ass in front of the computer, and finished writing a book proposal, as well as edited a couple of chapters.

Yay, me!

I’d effectively blocked off the day to work on the literary project. I finished at 5, which meant there was still ample time to keep up the productivity streak. I decided to address the squalor that’s overtaken my apartment in the past few weeks.

As I started cleaning up around my desk, I was horrified by the amount, and different kinds, or cereal clumped up on the floor. Not only was it gross, but when there’s a lot of cereal on the floor, you know what that means…

I cursed the cereal and vowed to vacuum it up.

Um…I never got around to it. The phone started ringing. Other stuff came up. And frankly, I wasn’t bent out of shape either by the cereal or by what it hinted at.

I suppose it bothered me less because I just finished up a huge project, writing a proposal for an awesome book that’s gonna make me a crapload of money!

And it bothered me less because I actually had, in fact, been out on a date just the previous night.

Continue reading OMG, I Finally Had a Date!!!

The horror of the JEGGING

The people who know me from this blog have probably picked up hints that I’m deeply into fashion.

And talk of fashion is especially apropos at this time of year, when most people are at least sort of tangentially thinking about fashion – you know, back to school, the changing of the seasons, etc.

Yes, fall is indeed a big time of year for fashion. It’s the launch of a billion new trends – many of which will stick around for some time, being appropriated and altered to fit the season.

(Case in point: right now, I am wearing a hybrid tall boot/sandal. It was a summer shoe. It is like the opposite of a mullet: it is open-toed party in the front, black boot business in the back.)

I feel like it’s my duty, as an arbiter, would-be tastemaker…and really, just as someone with a mouth and brain to speak out on the following:

Jeggings are almost upon us. AND THEY ARE EVIL!

For the non-initiate, the jegging is a combination of jeans and leggings. Extremely fitted, stretchy denim leggings with an elastic waistband. The really heinous examples of this trend boast a faux, or trompe l’oeil zipper/fly combo.

Why do I feel so strongly – so, so, so much hatred – for the jegging?

First of all, it’s a slippery slope. The jegging is obviously closely related to the legging, just made out of denim. And the more people start wearing jeggings as pants, the more it legitimizes the practice of wearing leggings as pants…and pretty soon, people are wearing nylons in lieu of pants, then no pants at all.

(Remind me to tell you about being accosted early one morning in my laundry room by a man just wearing a pair of pantyhose with the crotch cut out.)

And jeggings are going to make people fat! By virtue of their sheer comfort. Without a pinchy denim waistband slicing into your stomach, a lot of people don’t know when the hell to step away from the donuts and stop eating.

Seriously, this is why everyone I know who’s ever gone from the corporate world to at-home freelance has gained 20 pounds during the first six months – because they stop wearing pants!

My last two points of contention with the jegging are probably a little snippy, rude and superficial. But by elasticizing the waistband of tight, skinny, figure-hugging jeans, you’re egalitarianizing something that should be reserved for those among us go to the gym, count calories, take the stairs rather than the elevator…
(and in the case of many, subsist on a diet of cigarettes and diet Coke.)

What I’m saying is that skinny jeans are a privilege, and not a right.

And my last beef with the jegging can be summed up in three painful words:

Denim camel toe

Oh hellz no! Seriously?

Not surprisingly, I’ve never remained friends with any of the guys I’ve dated.

Say you’re a 23 year old girl, and you’re dating a guy. And by dating, I mean fucking, being friends with, occasionally going out to dinner or seeing a movie – on your dime, since you recently lost your last relatives in the world and have a small inheritance. Which sounds a lot like dating, but you know from his cavalier attitude that he just thinks it’s a FWB situation. But you’re fine with it, because what you’re getting out of it seems to be enough.

What if then, he says he can’t see you anymore because he needs to be with a more respectable girl, someone he can take home to meet his mother?
And a week later he starts dating a stripper?

And what if, then, dumbly – because let’s face it, all 23 year old girls are dumb when it comes to romance – he pleads to come back in your life, you let him…and then he asks to borrow $20,000?
Not once, but twice?

What if, then, you start back up with him and then he moves far out of town for a job, and he asks you to come up and hang out with him – yes, it’s always just hanging out, isn’t it – and say this was on Thursday the 1st and you buy your ticket, make your plans, fly up there on Friday the 9th, and he picks you up from the airport…

And not at the airport, where you could actually change your plans, but on the way back to his place, he tells you that he now has a livein girlfriend, who happens to have a child?

And what if, you decide to try and be jovial about the whole thing and allow them to take you out in their Podunk town and you get really drunk and someone slips something in your drink and you spend the whole night, and ensuing morning puking?

Obviously, you opt to puke in the comfort and privacy of your own home, so you opt, at your own personal expense, to change your ticket and get on a plane that very morning.

And what it the coup de grace to this whole horror-story-of-a-date was that when you’re landed and you’re walking through the airport parking lot to go back to your car and you finally think, “Home free, I made it out alive” and you’re sucking fresh air into your lungs, enjoying the bright sun on your face – and a seagull flies by and poops on your foot. You’re wearing a pair of sandals, and you watch as the noxious, gooey, dung seeps into your toe cleavage – and then you promptly puke on your own feet?

So say you’re that girl…who has grown into 37-year old me.

And despite the fact that we haven’t seen him in at least 10 years, he starts calling, texting, emailing, IMing the shit out of us.

For whatever reason, he seems hell-bent on getting back in touch with us.

More than curiosity, more than faded feelings of affection, wounded pride, or sadness, we’re pissed off that we have to spare any bandwidth to even think this guy’s name again.

Okay, we’re maybe 3% curious. But not really.

He could just be calling to ask to borrow money again.

We don’t know the same people any more, so he’s probably not calling to tell us so and so got married, had a kid, died, whatever milestones people have. He could be moving back to Southern California, a fact to which we’d be indifferent.

People change, or they don’t. Maybe he is a changed man — newer, smarter, older — who wants to reconnect with me. Maybe he’s the same dude who simply thinks he has a lifetime pass to our nether regions.

Basically, there’s nothing he could say that would mean anything to us.

Rather, the question is, is there something I could say to him that would be meaningful to you?

I am wondering if I should tell him simply to fuck off, like a posthumous apology to you, my 23 year old self.

It would certainly make me feel pretty good.

I did it for science: Mystic Tan

A friend of mine was thinking about getting Mystic Tan prior to her sister in law’s wedding – my pal has something of an adversarial relationship with her in-laws, and she wanted to look hottt.

I don’t think there’s any shame in being pale, but I agreed that I would go with her and get the fake tan, too. (truth be told, I egged her on a bit. I’ve never known anyone who fake-n-bakes, so I wanted to see what it looked like.)

Lots and lots of people do it, right? I see a lot of bad examples (I work on the borderline of Orange County, where bad chunky highlights and orange skin are de rigeur if you’re between the ages of 4 and 64). But I also see the occasional person on whom it looks sorta natural. At least even, consistent, and a hue that is within the realm of acceptable on human flesh.

My friend was probably justifiably worried – she has really pretty, albeit pale skin. And fairly sound judgment. The scenario kept changing, and I offered myself up as a guinea pig. I went down to my local tannery on my lunch hour – admittedly with high, but nebulous, hopes. I wasn’t sure of what to expect. I was hoping that a uniform pigment on my legs might camouflage my bruises, lumps, bumps and scars. Maybe I would like my new, aggressively hued self.

So I ponied up the dough, and stepped first into a traditional tanning booth, then into the Mystic Tan coffin. (seriously, that is what the booths feel like). I didn’t see much of a difference after stepping out of the box. I was told the tan would develop gradually, hitting maximum saturation over the next 12 – 24 hours.

People kept telling me they could see a difference, but I didn’t have the opportunity to peep myself in good lighting. Until I got home that night – already tired and crabby, and unprepared for the horror awaiting me in the mirror.

Wow.

I was streaky and orange, and it just kept getting worse. There was a thick dark swath of skin on my upper thigh that looked like my leg was smeared with menstrual blood. My neck was variegated – dark brown in places, orange in others, and butt white right underneath my chin and down the front of my throat. I was like a Polaroid that kept developing and developing – horribly.

Far and away, the worst part was the odor. In the booth, it was overpowering, and it only softened marginally outside. I smelled like a homeless person. Worse, whatever chemicals are used in Mystic Tan made me smell like a bum fight – unwashed skin, crusty hair, blood, sweat, and a hint of urine.
AFTER THREE SHOWERS, THIS IS WHAT I SMELLED LIKE.

Like the tan itself, the stench faded quickly after 48 hours.
Here is the scientific, factual analysis of my experience.

Cost: $24
Appointment time: 10 minutes
Supposed to last: 7 – 10 days.
Actually lasted: varied, by body part.
Color on face: 3 days
Color on legs: 4 days
Dirty color on tops of feet: 5 days
Orange color running up and down buttcrack: 6 days.
Verdict: EPIC FAIL.

Scandal on the Installment Plan

Author’s note: I’m writing a long-form memoir about a few misbegotten and very turbulent years in my life. It’s tough. There’s a whole lot of ugly there. But you know how committing something to words is like a contract to make progress on it? That’s what this is all about. I’m putting it up here, in small but regular doses, to keep myself motivated. Would luv your feedback: livenudeprose@gmail.com

When you talk about the heroes of people in their twenties, some pretty unsexy people come to mind: if they’re not of the comic book variety, you think of people like Lance Armstrong, who is deeply unsexy. Seriously, the man looks like an anus, and the vocation that propelled him to fame requires of him that his nuts be encased in dank, sweaty spandex for up to eight hours at a time. I cannot fathom a person less sexy.

My heroes of my 20-something self, on the other hand, were all about sex. I idolized people like Dan Savage, Anka Radakovich, Tristian Taormino: people who wrote about sex with passion, demonstrable intelligence, and wit. What separated them from the Ruth Weistheimers and Kinseys of the world was their willingness to inject themselves into the subject matter. Half the time you weren’t just reading about sex, you were reading about the writer.

(This was long before that cunt Candace Bushnell and her equally cunty Carrie Bradshaw were ejaculated into the zeitgeist.)

From the age of 25 onward, my goal, what I wanted more than anything was to be a sex columnist. (Actually, for years, I just plain wanted to be Anka Radakovich, since she had successfully conned Details magazine into thinking her 10 years younger than her actual age, and she was a very accomplished craddlerobber). For me, the allure was not merely about the sex. I wanted to get paid for what essentially boiled down to being myself, being a personality. A personality that had a lot of sex, wrote about it, and had a professional obligation to seek out new levels of kink and debauchery.

Continue reading Scandal on the Installment Plan

My Weekend: Now with 75% more violence!

It pains me to say it, but I think I am destined to live in a trailer park or wind up in a house that has various non-running vehicles propped up on blocks in the front yard.

I don’t think I can escape my genetic destiny: I was born to be white trash. By birth, I am one-quarter hillbilly.

(My grandmother was from the Black Ozarks of Missouri.)

Sure, I have done a good job fighting my fate, what with getting an education; cultivating an appreciation for art, literature and culture; keeping all my teeth and all that. But it’s kind of inevitable.

There are already inarguable manifestations. For example, my ongoing and longterm love of heavy metal. Seriously, I will listen to Slayer ANY DAY over…well, just about anything, but certainly over Beck, the Artic Monkeys, or whoever is on the front page of Pitchfork.com today. I love old muscle cars. I enjoy eating certain foods right out of the can.

I am lowbrow.

One of the ways I can tell is when I think about the things I want to do before I die.

You know how some people have lists that include seeing the statue of Jesus in Rio, skydiving, running a marathon, or any of these hilarious things (halfway down the page), I want to do shit like throw a drink in someone’s face. Fire a gun (actually many guns, including a rifle and an AK-47). Get in a fistfight. Be chased, on foot, by cops (it would be super bonus if I had to run while naked).

I call them my “Montel Moments” and I had an event that almost qualified this weekend.

I went out dancing at the Vanguard. Yes, the place is a cesspool – or as my friend Sara would say, a cesspool of pitfalls. But Adam Freeland was doing a DJ gig there. Cannot miss.

So I went.

There was the usual variety of gross, creepy, aggressive guys, doing the usual gross, creepy aggressive stuff.
Oh, do you call it ‘manhandling’ if the hands in question belong to a woman?

Anyway, I’m used to all that stuff. But there was one guy – I don’t even remember quite what I did, or if it was because he was just super gross – not only did I push him but I decided I was gonna slap him.

Wow, was it the most pathetic display of self defense ever. I like to think I’m all tough, and despite my total lack of upper body strength, I would still be able to lay someone out cold. My hand was kinda balled, and I think an onlooker might have guess that I was trying to bat a mosquito away from him.

FAIL.

I’m gonna get me one of these.

Seriously, check this shit out. It’s a Hello Kitty Taser!

50,000 volts of sweet, paralyzing juice!

When you’re writing about butt sex, do you even need a witty headline?

So there has been recent discussion between myself and my paramour from the story below about further sexual exploits. He knows I’m a number of years older than he is (he doesn’t know the exact number of years is 12), and so he wants a little education and some new experiences.

The topic of anal sex came up.

He’s never. I still find it hard to believe. I mean, this guy is just breathtakingly beautiful, and it seems like he could have anything he wanted from former girlfriends.

Like I told him via text, I [heart] anal and would be perfectly happy to indoctrinate him into the pleasure.

Anal sex really isn’t that scandalous or outre anymore. Thanks to its presence and mention in pop culture – particularly Sex and the City, the act has been stripped of much of its taboo status.

No big deal, right?

Continue reading Butt sex.

Guess what I got last night!

I got LAID!

Finally!

This event was significant for a variety of reasons:

First of all, I cannot even believe how hot the layer (or is it layee?) is. I ambushed him in my hallway; as I was standing there in my five inch heels with my tits hanging out of an Agent Provocateur bra, and I’m looking him up and down, I seriously could have cried. He is stunning. I almost cannot imagine a more perfect physical specimen.

It was also a significant fuck because it’s the first one since October. That’s about seven months.

So I hauled his ass in and had my way with him. It wasn’t anything outre — no cattle prods, costume changes, hidden cameras, nothing went up anyone’s butt. Just straight up, mono e mono, acrobatic, sweaty normal sex. And he loved it.

Normally, I would tell you plain old vanilla sex isn’t worth blogging about. Especially by someone like me, who has clearly engaged in some scandalous behavior. And written about it…well, in 75% of my postings here.

But it is worth blogging about. Because it was (and wasn’t) something more.

Continue reading Guess what I got last night!

Neurofeedback: The $90-an-hour videogame that saved my life

This essay is about neurofeedback, a little-known but increasingly well-regarded option for treating a host of mental maladies — including depression, something that has plagued me for most of my life.

Yeah, I was skeptical, too. But have patience and read the story. Neurofeedback is probably one of the most important things that’s ever happened to me.

And yes, there is a lot of my own ugly backstory. Because to truly understand how significant neurofeedback has been in my life, you have to know where I’ve been, and the other options that have failed me.

I was first diagnosed with depression when I was six or seven years old. God knows what a psychiatrist looks for to make the diagnosis in someone that young, but I remember it was a big deal to my adoptive parents. I went to a therapist and it was the exact type of setup every six year old imagines therapy to be: musty-smelling office filled with books, furniture of dark wood, a cushy sofa that looked as if it had been swiped from a Victorian parlor, and a guy with gray hair who wore tweed jackets with leather patches at the elbow and smoked a pipe. No wonder I hated therapy.

Continue reading Neurofeedback