What is it about the promise of a Saturday night booty call that can end up in such disappointment? It must lay somewhere between the expectation of momentary bliss and overall next day glow of a really good shag. We put some seriously high hopes in those moments between the sheets – as if just that one night can cure a really bad work week, a month’s long sexual dry run or even a year’s worth of self-imposed celibacy. That’s just too much pressure to put on anyone. But as girls do, and ladies we do, if that Saturday night booty call wasn’t any good – poor guy – word gets around. Sympathy for the friend ensues with a “O God I’m so sorry you had to experience that!” and a quick deletion of his phone number forever erases the bad memory (at least from the mobile). The guy is tossed as useless and therefore ceases to serve a function as anybody’s booty call henceforth. It’s a sad situation, really, all the way round and it’s not as if it’s his fault (entirely), but if he can’t deliver the goods on that one occasion when we happen to be drunk and really horny – that what good is he? After a booty call let down, this guy is not even worthy of fixing the leaky toilet, or wiring up the new flat screen or changing the oil on our car. O for shame, he’s not even worthy of quick cup of coffee on his way out the door!
Is there anything wrong with sending hate email to an ex-boyfriend? I mean just gather up all your rage and angry poison and blast it all away in one email? Just to let him know that my life is in complete shambles, that I’m having to live with my parents, that I’m so sick I’m unable to work, that every night I cry myself to sleep? I want to lay it so thick that he might feel a pang of guilt, remorse, regret, love? Maybe I just need some counseling or a good-old-fashioned fuck. Whatever pit of despair this is, I am most definitely at the bottom. The very rock bottom. I’m at the point where even my most reliable distractions are not working (my snuggle buddy has left town – god, that’s bad timing!) and all I’m left with is a half empty box of tissues, red eyes and a fucking headache from the 24 hour pity party that I’ve been hosting. Jennifer Aniston has nothing on me. I’ve been told I should be like a phoenix raising itself from the fire, but unless those ancient Egyptians sent hate email I don’t see any help in that metaphor.
Being single again means being painfully aware of my body and all it’s charming (and not so charming) “quirks”. In the most vulnerable time between breakup and first date, there are certain anxieties that we must face. The first kiss; do I have bad breath? The first feel up; did I remember to put on my Victoria’s Secret? The first fully naked moment (not including a surprise flash from the blinding white screen of the Mac while receiving spontaneous oral sex); Oh My God! Are those really my breasts? Last I looked 10 years ago, they were a tad…perkier! There seems to be so many new things to worry about – things I wouldn’t have given a second thought when I was safe and sound in a secure relationship. My insecurities have driven me to the internet. Research Project: Fake Tits has begun. The before and after pictures look great, but will mine really have those same results? There are so many things to consider like: how to get the stuff in there? Armpit? Nipple? Bellybutton? Or the stuff actually in question – silicone, saline, some kind of gel? What about the shape – round, natural, smooth? And the placement – above the muscle or below? Also to consider is the price tag: fake tits don’t come cheap. A pair of rubber tatas will run you anywhere from 4 -10Gs. But wait -there is financing! I can pay off my new set over several months or years if I so choose. Oh the options! It seems like it may be something to consider. I have been warned, however to check out the surgeon performing the operation. Apparently everybody wants in on the plastic surgery game – even dentists!
It seems a shame that women can’t be satisfied with their natural, normal bodies. I used to scoff at those girls brimming with bust – now I envy them. I want a pair, too!
How does one know when that invisible line between friend and potential lover is about to be crossed? And how, once one has discovered where it lies, is it possible to back slowly away from it without offending the friend? Questions to ponder, as I answer my third text of the day from him. A guy friend, yes, but he’s campaigning very hard to change categories. It occurred to me like a bolt of lightening as we sat over a fantastic meal of ahi tuna and bellinis (should the invitation for dinner and movie have tipped me off?) that the sustained eye contact was a little too intense, too deep, too meaningful. In other words, the line was rushed like an impending WWI battle with me standing there eyes wide shut. retreat! retreat! Then later, after a funny conversation about our best three skills, he turns to me and (with that intense stare again) says he’s really good at giving back rubs. Yikes! Red flag central! This is most certainly not something I intend to pursue but he’s such a wonderful friend and person that I need to communicate to him (morse code?) in not so many words – that I’m NOT INTERESTED! That line needs to be re-drawn in no uncertain terms. I know I’m good at being blunt (my best friends and worst enemies tell me so) but this situation requires a delicate touch. Should I send an email? A text? A telepathic thought? Different invisible lines, yes but perhaps they might serve well to re-establish the one that so desperately needs to be understood!
Maybe I sounded upset on the phone or perhaps it was my request to fly solo today that tipped my friends off, but whatever it was the suggestion for a beer, a bong and a lapdance that came vibrating through a text message made me laugh out loud. Is that what people do when they are trying to get over someone? Maybe, but certainly distraction in any form is helpful. I find when the day unwinds and the night settles in that it’s hardest to accept that I’m sleeping alone. Or when buying groceries, single serving – just for one. Or when looking for apartments -the inevitable question: ”is it just you renting?”. Or whenever the music and chatter in my head finally stop and there is nothing to listen to except the stillness that fills the in-between moments. Those are the hardest. Then it’s my heart’s turn to be heard. And try as I might to drown it out, it comes through loud and clear: I’ve lost a love and nothing but time will soothe it’s ache. If it sounds pitiful, it’s because it is. I’ve never had the carpet of my life pulled so completely, so quickly from under my feet – adjusting to the new balance is difficult and I understand it needs some focus -but the blurry life of distraction is so much easier to deal with. It’s just those awful in-between moments when time stretches out like an elastic and I wait for the snap, the sting and it always comes. God, I’m writing in metaphor. It’s worse than I thought….maybe I should take my friends up on their offer: a beer, a bong and a lapdance might just work.
