When I die
And the coroner cuts open my chest
There will be gravel embedded in my heart,
Tiny animal bones
Thorns and jagged bits of metal
All for you
Every scar for you.
When you die
Your heart will be opaque and reflective
Smooth and unruffled
Like polished stone
With no sign that I almost
Left a mark.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Hit me, baby, one more time.
I might have to burn this bra. It shouldn't have been the last straw, but it was.
Last night I couldn't get laid to save my life. I called my five regular guys, answered two ads on craigslist, and nothing. I was agitated. I was horny. I was alone.
Finally, I gave up and went to Safeway. A pint of Ben & Jerry's, a bottle of cheap wine, and cat toys. Doesn't get much more lonely single woman than that. The cashier said "I'm supposed to ask you if you're 21." I said, "I look it, don't I?" She chuckled and said "If I look it, you look it." She was at least ten years older than me.
I drank my wine, ate my ice cream, and watched TV until I could sleep.
This morning I was fine. Slept late, made Dessert Burgers with the kid, played with the cats, everything's fine.
No sign of any boy distraction, so I go over to Shane's. We watch a movie, get high, everything's fine. My chances are slim, but in the back of my mind there's a roaring desperation I don't even see, and I try anyway, lifting up my shirt to show him my pretty new bra.
"It looks like a Grandma bra," he says, but hey, you kinda look like a Grandma." My first thought is for my bra, pink and lacy and pin-tucked. My second is I'm thirty-fucking-five, you asshole, and I'm crying.
I lie in bed and I cry. He lies next to me and I cry. He pats the cat, "My Cosmo." He pats me, "my Jane." I know he doesn't mean it, never will.
"I'm not yours. Choking, wiping snot on my shirt, "You don't deserve me."
"I didn't know I had you." Stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard.
"You've always had me." I cry and cry and cry.
Eventually it comes to a shuddering halt. I grope my way out of bed and pull on my jeans, and head to the garage for a cigarette. Someone on the Art Bell show is talking about using expensive and exotic machinery to map the magnetic resonance of known UFO sites. I stare at the old printer box, with the idealized portrait of three All-American brothers. The younger two look like they could turn into bullies. The oldest, like you might have him for a night, but never more.
O smoke and I think about Shane. I thought he had already hurt me as much as he ever could, but I was wrong. I will leave him, I decide. One last night, holding him as tight as I can, loving him, forgiving him, then walk away for as long as it takes.
I go back to bed. He's up, on the computer. I lie in bed and wait. I think about what he could do to win me back, to make it better. It wouldn't take much. Put your arm around my waist, pull me close, and sigh. That's all it would take.
I wait.
I can't believe how long it's taking. If he cared at all, surely he'd be here. I hear the creaking of the chair, the bubbling of the bong, the long exhale. I know these sounds like my own heartbeat. Surely something will happen soon. I've been waiting so long.
I wait.
My nose is stuffed from crying. My mouth is dry. I can't sleep. I'm too nervous. I can't stand the suspense. I want to leave, but I feel paralyzed.
I can't stand it any more. I get up and go to the kitchen for water. I'm standing at the sink, drinking, when he comes up behind me and says, "Oh, hello." As if nothing had ever been wrong.
"What does that mean?" I say, trying not to let my voice quaver.
"I just thought you were in bed." I set down the glass, and soon I am.
I lie in bed. I wait. He comes in. I forget what we say. It isn't enough. He doesn't care.
He falls asleep, snoring lightly. Tears roll noiselessly out of my eyes. I get up, look at the bus schedule. I just missed the last one. I can't get home.
I go back to bed. I don't know what to do. I didn't think he could hurt me this much again. "Go to sleep," he says.
"I can't."
"Read," he says. I can't understand him. He repeats himself, exasperated.
"I can't," I say. I wait. Finally I say "You're not even going to give me a ride home, are you?" I can't stand it. I hate myself. I want to be home and cry for days.
"Why the fuck should I do that?" He's highly aggrieved. "It's the middle of the night. You live all the way across town. you came to spend the night, so spend the damn night."
I gather my strength. I get up, put on jeans and shoes and the now-hateful bra. I pack my books, steal a notebook. That which does not kill us gives us more shit to write about.
I walk. I get to the bus stop and smoke a cigarette. The bus won't come for another four hours. I walk.
Woodstock to Foster. Foster to Holgate. I want to lie down in the graveyard, soak the graves with my tears, but I'm not that far gone or that goth. I think about a cab, but I don't want to spend the money. I'll walk to the Tik-Tok, drink coffee 'till 5. I notice the cars going by, think about throwing myself in front of one. The thought shocks me. I'm not that bad. I want to live, more than I used to, even though I'm hurt real bad.
Holgate to Powell. It seems so long. I think I see the Tik-Tok, a mirage, then finally real. I sit in the bus shelter outside and smoke a cigarette. Leaving, I surprise a hooker. Or at least she looks like one. I am obscurely pleased that there are still hookers on 82nd.
I go inside. Coffee, water, and a shot of cheap whiskey. I drink. I write. Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" comes on the radio and the tears roll out of my eyes. Fucking Journey, man. Gets me every time.
More coffee. Little cups of creamer. I down another shot of whiskey just after last call. Fucking Tri-Met, stops running before the bars close.
I drink. I write. I wait.
I go out back for a cigarette. starting to feel the booze now. I talk to a black stripper named Raven, and her new guy, Mike. She offers me a ride home, assures me she doesn't bite. Maybe, I say. Maybe.
Somehow I'll be ok.
I go back to my table. I drink coffee and read bout drugs I'm too scared to try. Raven and Mike leave without me, I'm not sure when. Probably better that way. My bus will start running in an hour and a half. I read. I wait.
It's five in the morning. I'm tired. I'm drunk. My heart is broken. I'm going home to sleep. To live through this.
Last night I couldn't get laid to save my life. I called my five regular guys, answered two ads on craigslist, and nothing. I was agitated. I was horny. I was alone.
Finally, I gave up and went to Safeway. A pint of Ben & Jerry's, a bottle of cheap wine, and cat toys. Doesn't get much more lonely single woman than that. The cashier said "I'm supposed to ask you if you're 21." I said, "I look it, don't I?" She chuckled and said "If I look it, you look it." She was at least ten years older than me.
I drank my wine, ate my ice cream, and watched TV until I could sleep.
This morning I was fine. Slept late, made Dessert Burgers with the kid, played with the cats, everything's fine.
No sign of any boy distraction, so I go over to Shane's. We watch a movie, get high, everything's fine. My chances are slim, but in the back of my mind there's a roaring desperation I don't even see, and I try anyway, lifting up my shirt to show him my pretty new bra.
"It looks like a Grandma bra," he says, but hey, you kinda look like a Grandma." My first thought is for my bra, pink and lacy and pin-tucked. My second is I'm thirty-fucking-five, you asshole, and I'm crying.
I lie in bed and I cry. He lies next to me and I cry. He pats the cat, "My Cosmo." He pats me, "my Jane." I know he doesn't mean it, never will.
"I'm not yours. Choking, wiping snot on my shirt, "You don't deserve me."
"I didn't know I had you." Stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard.
"You've always had me." I cry and cry and cry.
Eventually it comes to a shuddering halt. I grope my way out of bed and pull on my jeans, and head to the garage for a cigarette. Someone on the Art Bell show is talking about using expensive and exotic machinery to map the magnetic resonance of known UFO sites. I stare at the old printer box, with the idealized portrait of three All-American brothers. The younger two look like they could turn into bullies. The oldest, like you might have him for a night, but never more.
O smoke and I think about Shane. I thought he had already hurt me as much as he ever could, but I was wrong. I will leave him, I decide. One last night, holding him as tight as I can, loving him, forgiving him, then walk away for as long as it takes.
I go back to bed. He's up, on the computer. I lie in bed and wait. I think about what he could do to win me back, to make it better. It wouldn't take much. Put your arm around my waist, pull me close, and sigh. That's all it would take.
I wait.
I can't believe how long it's taking. If he cared at all, surely he'd be here. I hear the creaking of the chair, the bubbling of the bong, the long exhale. I know these sounds like my own heartbeat. Surely something will happen soon. I've been waiting so long.
I wait.
My nose is stuffed from crying. My mouth is dry. I can't sleep. I'm too nervous. I can't stand the suspense. I want to leave, but I feel paralyzed.
I can't stand it any more. I get up and go to the kitchen for water. I'm standing at the sink, drinking, when he comes up behind me and says, "Oh, hello." As if nothing had ever been wrong.
"What does that mean?" I say, trying not to let my voice quaver.
"I just thought you were in bed." I set down the glass, and soon I am.
I lie in bed. I wait. He comes in. I forget what we say. It isn't enough. He doesn't care.
He falls asleep, snoring lightly. Tears roll noiselessly out of my eyes. I get up, look at the bus schedule. I just missed the last one. I can't get home.
I go back to bed. I don't know what to do. I didn't think he could hurt me this much again. "Go to sleep," he says.
"I can't."
"Read," he says. I can't understand him. He repeats himself, exasperated.
"I can't," I say. I wait. Finally I say "You're not even going to give me a ride home, are you?" I can't stand it. I hate myself. I want to be home and cry for days.
"Why the fuck should I do that?" He's highly aggrieved. "It's the middle of the night. You live all the way across town. you came to spend the night, so spend the damn night."
I gather my strength. I get up, put on jeans and shoes and the now-hateful bra. I pack my books, steal a notebook. That which does not kill us gives us more shit to write about.
I walk. I get to the bus stop and smoke a cigarette. The bus won't come for another four hours. I walk.
Woodstock to Foster. Foster to Holgate. I want to lie down in the graveyard, soak the graves with my tears, but I'm not that far gone or that goth. I think about a cab, but I don't want to spend the money. I'll walk to the Tik-Tok, drink coffee 'till 5. I notice the cars going by, think about throwing myself in front of one. The thought shocks me. I'm not that bad. I want to live, more than I used to, even though I'm hurt real bad.
Holgate to Powell. It seems so long. I think I see the Tik-Tok, a mirage, then finally real. I sit in the bus shelter outside and smoke a cigarette. Leaving, I surprise a hooker. Or at least she looks like one. I am obscurely pleased that there are still hookers on 82nd.
I go inside. Coffee, water, and a shot of cheap whiskey. I drink. I write. Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" comes on the radio and the tears roll out of my eyes. Fucking Journey, man. Gets me every time.
More coffee. Little cups of creamer. I down another shot of whiskey just after last call. Fucking Tri-Met, stops running before the bars close.
I drink. I write. I wait.
I go out back for a cigarette. starting to feel the booze now. I talk to a black stripper named Raven, and her new guy, Mike. She offers me a ride home, assures me she doesn't bite. Maybe, I say. Maybe.
Somehow I'll be ok.
I go back to my table. I drink coffee and read bout drugs I'm too scared to try. Raven and Mike leave without me, I'm not sure when. Probably better that way. My bus will start running in an hour and a half. I read. I wait.
It's five in the morning. I'm tired. I'm drunk. My heart is broken. I'm going home to sleep. To live through this.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Me vs. the Tigard PD
I stumble out of Joe's apartment and circle the building blearily until I find the right Max stop. I hate trying to navigate first thing in the morning. I have to remind myself that the people around me can't see into my head to know how stupid I am.
I get off the Max and run to catch the bus. Ridiculous, at my age. I am way too old for this shit, hitching up my waistband every few steps. How do the kids these days do it? Are there suspenders hidden under those baggy shirts? Andy Fucking Rooney, that's me.
There's a Willamette Week on the bus seat-- the headline reads, "To Catch a Stoner." Shit, better read that. Evidently, Tigard cops are placing ads on Craigslist, in Casual Encounters, my home turf, to catch men willing to trade weed for sex. They claim it's a widespread form of prostitution. What. The. Fuck. I am not a prostitute. I may have sold a pair of my panties for $20, but I have never sold my body. I keep reading.
The ads the Tigard detectives placed are, mercifully, very different from anything I've ever posted. Unlike the sting's fictitious hot blondes, I will not fuck just any random guy, no matter how much weed he's got. I think about last night, and how Joe sheepishly confessed he was out of weed. I didn't storm out. I shrugged and had another beer. Surely no one will accuse me of prostituting myself for two cans of PBR.
Here’s a thing about dating—in a normal relationship, I’m all for paying my own way. But for the casual sex thing, yeah, I do expect the guy to pay. Simply because no-strings dick is a glut on the market, and no-strings pussy is rare. There are so few areas of my life where being female is an asset, that I don’t feel too badly about taking advantage of this one. Don’t get me wrong-- I’m not a gold-digger. I’m just talking about a couple of drinks, maybe a sandwich, a few hits. I’m a cheap date, and unless you’re a creep, you’re pretty much guaranteed to get in my pants. I don’t think that’s unfair.
So people keep asking how I got into this whole thing. I mean, it is a little weird. Two years ago, I was an old married lady with a kid and a mortgage and everything. And then I fell in love. Boy, was that a mistake. Of course, it didn’t last, and that is how I found myself divorced and alone for the first time at 35. Not so much what you dream about when you’re a little girl.
I knew that there was no way I should be looking for another boyfriend, on account of I was having this whole Franny Glass-style nervous breakdown, what with the divorce, and the breakup, and all this other shit that isn’t even relevant. But on the other hand, no way did I want to be celibate. You know what they say about women over 35? Yeah. Totally true.
Sometimes it’s fun, meeting a new guy. You shave your legs all the way up. You put on a little more makeup than usual, make sure you’ve got good underwear. You sit at a table in a bar with a book, trying not to look around in an obvious, uncool manner. You fidget with your drink, smoke too many cigarettes, and wonder— how will this one be? You have a number of half-assed theories about what traits signal a good lover: one cat is good, two cats is bad…
The part that’s hard sometimes is that apart from the crazy, I really think I have a lot of admirable traits as a girlfriend. I don’t mind if you check out other girls— hell, I’ll check ‘em out with you. If you’ve had a really lousy week, I’ll buy you a dub and let you give it to me up the ass. I’m not going to complain about boy’s night out, or that you don’t want to go shoe shopping with me. I mean, in a lot of ways I’m pretty cool.
The problem is, I’m not really an adult yet. I mean, yeah, I’m 35, I was married for 15 years, I have a kid, bla bla y bla. But I’ve never had to be responsible for myself before. It’s ridiculous. And it sucks. I hate not being able to whine until someone else does the stupid shit I don’t want to do. Being a grownup is hard, y’all.
I get lonely. I get really, really lonely. Sometime the guys help, sometimes they don’t. The part I hate the most is the morning after, when I’m all bleary and needing coffee and trying to figure out how to get home and not sure if I want to see him again or if they want to see me…. It’s just hella awkward. It’s easier once you’ve seen a guy a few times and you know what to expect.
One thing that always surprises me about guys is how most of them really don’t tidy their apartments, even when they know that there’s a pretty good chance of having a girl over. I’m not complaining, mind you. I’m a slob myself. But dude, dirty socks and underwear on the floor? Not a big deal, but still. I don’t think you’ll catch most girls doing that. But Joe’s place isn’t bad. Beer cans are abundant, but hell, we’ve had a heat wave.
Age differences are weird. I’ve only gone five years older, but Joe is eleven years younger. As long as I’m not actually old enough to be his mother, that’s ok, right? Plus, you know, I’m emotionally immature. It’s weird to me that such a young guy would find me attractive, but I’m not complaining.
I notice guys checking me out more now. I was used to it, when I was young and thin, but it stopped when I was visibly pregnant. It started up again recently, all kinds of guys. Recently, a drunk guy at the bus stop hugged me and offered me two grand to have his baby. Thanks, but no. I look the same as I did five years ago, and no one was checking me out then. Maybe I’m giving off “do me” vibes or something.
I’m checking them out more too, for sure. When a movie starts, before the plot really gets going, I divide all the actors into “Yes” or “No.” I rate every man around me, especially if there’s several of them. I don’t know why it’s more fun to pick your favorite of several options than to rate just one, but it totally is.
Joe’s shoulders are thin, and endearingly freckled. He talks for hours, telling stories of smuggling huge quantities of Xanax from TJ to Anaheim, working as an outdoor vendor at Disneyland, how he went into banking out of an interest in microeconomics. This is not a guy I’d ever fall in love with. This is not a guy I’d ever marry. But tonight, for each other, we are good enough for now.
I get off the Max and run to catch the bus. Ridiculous, at my age. I am way too old for this shit, hitching up my waistband every few steps. How do the kids these days do it? Are there suspenders hidden under those baggy shirts? Andy Fucking Rooney, that's me.
There's a Willamette Week on the bus seat-- the headline reads, "To Catch a Stoner." Shit, better read that. Evidently, Tigard cops are placing ads on Craigslist, in Casual Encounters, my home turf, to catch men willing to trade weed for sex. They claim it's a widespread form of prostitution. What. The. Fuck. I am not a prostitute. I may have sold a pair of my panties for $20, but I have never sold my body. I keep reading.
The ads the Tigard detectives placed are, mercifully, very different from anything I've ever posted. Unlike the sting's fictitious hot blondes, I will not fuck just any random guy, no matter how much weed he's got. I think about last night, and how Joe sheepishly confessed he was out of weed. I didn't storm out. I shrugged and had another beer. Surely no one will accuse me of prostituting myself for two cans of PBR.
Here’s a thing about dating—in a normal relationship, I’m all for paying my own way. But for the casual sex thing, yeah, I do expect the guy to pay. Simply because no-strings dick is a glut on the market, and no-strings pussy is rare. There are so few areas of my life where being female is an asset, that I don’t feel too badly about taking advantage of this one. Don’t get me wrong-- I’m not a gold-digger. I’m just talking about a couple of drinks, maybe a sandwich, a few hits. I’m a cheap date, and unless you’re a creep, you’re pretty much guaranteed to get in my pants. I don’t think that’s unfair.
So people keep asking how I got into this whole thing. I mean, it is a little weird. Two years ago, I was an old married lady with a kid and a mortgage and everything. And then I fell in love. Boy, was that a mistake. Of course, it didn’t last, and that is how I found myself divorced and alone for the first time at 35. Not so much what you dream about when you’re a little girl.
I knew that there was no way I should be looking for another boyfriend, on account of I was having this whole Franny Glass-style nervous breakdown, what with the divorce, and the breakup, and all this other shit that isn’t even relevant. But on the other hand, no way did I want to be celibate. You know what they say about women over 35? Yeah. Totally true.
Sometimes it’s fun, meeting a new guy. You shave your legs all the way up. You put on a little more makeup than usual, make sure you’ve got good underwear. You sit at a table in a bar with a book, trying not to look around in an obvious, uncool manner. You fidget with your drink, smoke too many cigarettes, and wonder— how will this one be? You have a number of half-assed theories about what traits signal a good lover: one cat is good, two cats is bad…
The part that’s hard sometimes is that apart from the crazy, I really think I have a lot of admirable traits as a girlfriend. I don’t mind if you check out other girls— hell, I’ll check ‘em out with you. If you’ve had a really lousy week, I’ll buy you a dub and let you give it to me up the ass. I’m not going to complain about boy’s night out, or that you don’t want to go shoe shopping with me. I mean, in a lot of ways I’m pretty cool.
The problem is, I’m not really an adult yet. I mean, yeah, I’m 35, I was married for 15 years, I have a kid, bla bla y bla. But I’ve never had to be responsible for myself before. It’s ridiculous. And it sucks. I hate not being able to whine until someone else does the stupid shit I don’t want to do. Being a grownup is hard, y’all.
I get lonely. I get really, really lonely. Sometime the guys help, sometimes they don’t. The part I hate the most is the morning after, when I’m all bleary and needing coffee and trying to figure out how to get home and not sure if I want to see him again or if they want to see me…. It’s just hella awkward. It’s easier once you’ve seen a guy a few times and you know what to expect.
One thing that always surprises me about guys is how most of them really don’t tidy their apartments, even when they know that there’s a pretty good chance of having a girl over. I’m not complaining, mind you. I’m a slob myself. But dude, dirty socks and underwear on the floor? Not a big deal, but still. I don’t think you’ll catch most girls doing that. But Joe’s place isn’t bad. Beer cans are abundant, but hell, we’ve had a heat wave.
Age differences are weird. I’ve only gone five years older, but Joe is eleven years younger. As long as I’m not actually old enough to be his mother, that’s ok, right? Plus, you know, I’m emotionally immature. It’s weird to me that such a young guy would find me attractive, but I’m not complaining.
I notice guys checking me out more now. I was used to it, when I was young and thin, but it stopped when I was visibly pregnant. It started up again recently, all kinds of guys. Recently, a drunk guy at the bus stop hugged me and offered me two grand to have his baby. Thanks, but no. I look the same as I did five years ago, and no one was checking me out then. Maybe I’m giving off “do me” vibes or something.
I’m checking them out more too, for sure. When a movie starts, before the plot really gets going, I divide all the actors into “Yes” or “No.” I rate every man around me, especially if there’s several of them. I don’t know why it’s more fun to pick your favorite of several options than to rate just one, but it totally is.
Joe’s shoulders are thin, and endearingly freckled. He talks for hours, telling stories of smuggling huge quantities of Xanax from TJ to Anaheim, working as an outdoor vendor at Disneyland, how he went into banking out of an interest in microeconomics. This is not a guy I’d ever fall in love with. This is not a guy I’d ever marry. But tonight, for each other, we are good enough for now.
Monday, August 3, 2009
How To Be A Slut Like Me-- For Straight Girls
For whatever reason, you have come to a place in your life where you wish to have sex with a stranger. Congratulations. Most women will not have any trouble getting laid.
In the past, your best option probably would have been to pick someone up in a bar. Personally, I find this option a bit repellent. As an introvert, I am mistrustful of small talk. As someone who is past the first flush of youth, I do not like the odds. Newspaper ads, also a good option in the past, are more appealing to me in that people must present you with a nutshell character sketch. It is highly illuminating to see what people choose to reveal about themselves.
Since I do live in the modern world, the method I chose was the Internet—specifically Craigslist. I had previously found jobs, friends, and art supplies on Craigslist, why not a sex partner?
To proceed—you have two initial options: to respond to an ad that someone else has posted, or to place your own ad. There are, of course, advantages and disadvantages to both approaches. If you place your own ad, you will then receive all responses in your
email inbox, and can then pick and choose among them at your leisure.
If you place an ad, you will be immediately inundated with responses. Some of them will have ignored the parameters you’ve set out. Feel free to delete them. Many will include a picture of Mr. Happy. For me, that justifies automatic deletion. You may feel differently. I also screen for writing skills as a proxy for intelligence. Unfair? Perhaps. But if I don’t want to talk to a guy, I won’t want to fuck him, and the ones who can write generally can also talk. Once you’ve narrowed down your candidates according to your own preferences, you may start negotiating. (More on that later.)
Alternatively, you might choose to respond to someone else’s ad. Like the afore-mentioned newspaper ads, people will tell you a great deal about themselves in remarkably few words. Consider, for example, how the title “SUCK IT BITCH” gives a very different impression from “Do you feel like receiving a long, relaxing massage?” Both, of course, have their audiences. It is worth examining your immediate gut response to titles—you may discover an interest you didn’t know you had. Ad posters will generally give their age, as most of us do have a preference in this area.
Most also give a brief physical description, which is very useful if they are telling the truth. Often a picture is included. Again, these will often be of Mr. Happy. (If I may allow myself a judgmental parenthetical—it never ceases to amaze me how blatantly unflattering some of these pictures are. I appreciate being forewarned if your equipment is remarkably small, but do you really want to put it out there for the entire world to marvel at?) Or, they may include a head or torso shot. Or, there may be a more generic image of a sunset, a huge sticky bud, an example of the kind of woman they are looking for, or an illustration of activities they might wish to engage in.
Women posting ads do not include as many images. When women do include images of themselves, they tend to feature close-ups of scantily clad tits or asses. I have yet to see a genuine ad from a woman that included a picture of her “bits.” Women also may include images of desired activities or substances.
Once you have found an ad (or ads) that you wish to respond to, you must craft your opening email. Most people find it useful to have a “stock” statement ready to be adapted (or not) to individual ads. I like to comment on something about the ad that caught my eye, and then give a list of my attributes and habits that I know some people might object to: “I'm 35, 5’ and 130 lbs, a cigarette smoker who would like to quit, a
social drinker and 420 smoker with no plans to quit, a broke college student, can’t host, non-driving, and already seeing a small number of regular guys.” And conclude with “Still interested? Let’s talk.” I receive a response to this opening email about half the time.
One word to be aware of: discreet. (Often and unfortunately spelled “discrete.”) Many of the people seeking casual sex are married or otherwise attached. Whether or not this places them off-limits is, of course, up to your individual code of ethics. But if monogamy and honesty are important issues for you, you may wish to create a policy of whether or not you are comfortable being a party to an affair. Some advertisers make no secret of being married; even going so far as one ad I saw entitled “Sneak into my garage after my wife’s asleep!” Others may only tell you of their marriage the first time you meet, if ever. Often a potential partner is in a committed relationship, but with permission to seek outside partners. In this case, you need only consider how you feel about sharing your toys.
I cannot stress enough how important it is not to use your real name or primary email account until you are sure who is at the other end of your correspondence. Using a free web-based email with a fake name is an easy way to help protect yourself from being obsessively Googled and possibly even stalked. Crazy people are everywhere, and most especially on Craigslist.
You may or may not wish to include a picture with your reply. Most people do require a photo before meeting in person, but this is not universal. When selecting photos, you must keep in mind that any image you send may end up anywhere on the Internet. I suggest not sending anything that you would be ashamed to show to your grandmother. It is also important to choose pictures that portray you accurately. If you send a picture from five years and twenty pounds ago, your actual appearance is likely to be an unpleasant surprise, and that won’t be a nice situation for either of you. Naturally we all wish to present ourselves in the most flattering light, but honesty is more important.
Once you decide you're ready to meet a candidate, there are a number of steps you need to take to ensure your safety. Always arrange to meet in public. Although I am not usually a woo-woo sort of girl, I do firmly believe that people give off "vibes”, and that you should pay attention to your gut. If the man you meet makes you feel uneasy, even the tiniest bit, do not go anywhere with him.
I also strongly recommend that you keep a friend apprised of your whereabouts. Tell her who you are meeting and where, and call her again before you leave to let her know where you will be, and to set up a time when you will check in again. (It's also not a bad idea to have a code phrase you can use to signal that you are uncomfortable and may need help getting out of the situation.) If you decide to go home with the man (or take him home with you,) all you need to do is call your friend and be off.
If, however, you decide that this is not someone with whom you wish to pursue further acquaintance, it is best to say, simply and clearly, "I'm sorry, this isn't working for me." Do not allow yourself to be guilt-tripped-- this man is a stranger, and you do not owe him anything. If he shows any sign of anger or reluctance to leave, approach one of the staff members, explain that your blind date has gone sour, and stay within their sight until he is gone. Call your friend for backup or have someone escort you to your car. I do realize that this all sounds mortifying, but it is worth any amount of embarrassment to keep yourself safe.
(A quick aside on weapons-- it may be tempting to carry mace or a knife, but remember that anything you use as a weapon can also be taken from you and used against you. I am told, however, that a bottle of Visine squirted into his drink will leave your would-be attacker in severe distress within a half hour. Just so you know.)
But if the man seems decent, smells ok, doesn't set off any alarms etc., you may as well give him a try. Just make sure you take precautions and don't compromise. Even the best sex isn't worth risking your life.
Afterward, if it was lousy, leave as quickly as you gracefully can, saying brightly "Well, that was nice, see you around." Remember that you are under no obligation to see anyone again. Some duds may redeem themselves with a second chance, but frankly, most will not. If it really was nice, consider sticking around for more. When you do leave, say, “I’d love to see you again. You have my number, right?” Or, if you are a more forward sort of girl, make sure you get his. Not all men will want to see you more than once, but in my experience, most of them do.
So, now you’re well on your way to a distinguished sluthood. Just remember to watch your back, and have as much fun as you can.
In the past, your best option probably would have been to pick someone up in a bar. Personally, I find this option a bit repellent. As an introvert, I am mistrustful of small talk. As someone who is past the first flush of youth, I do not like the odds. Newspaper ads, also a good option in the past, are more appealing to me in that people must present you with a nutshell character sketch. It is highly illuminating to see what people choose to reveal about themselves.
Since I do live in the modern world, the method I chose was the Internet—specifically Craigslist. I had previously found jobs, friends, and art supplies on Craigslist, why not a sex partner?
To proceed—you have two initial options: to respond to an ad that someone else has posted, or to place your own ad. There are, of course, advantages and disadvantages to both approaches. If you place your own ad, you will then receive all responses in your
email inbox, and can then pick and choose among them at your leisure.
If you place an ad, you will be immediately inundated with responses. Some of them will have ignored the parameters you’ve set out. Feel free to delete them. Many will include a picture of Mr. Happy. For me, that justifies automatic deletion. You may feel differently. I also screen for writing skills as a proxy for intelligence. Unfair? Perhaps. But if I don’t want to talk to a guy, I won’t want to fuck him, and the ones who can write generally can also talk. Once you’ve narrowed down your candidates according to your own preferences, you may start negotiating. (More on that later.)
Alternatively, you might choose to respond to someone else’s ad. Like the afore-mentioned newspaper ads, people will tell you a great deal about themselves in remarkably few words. Consider, for example, how the title “SUCK IT BITCH” gives a very different impression from “Do you feel like receiving a long, relaxing massage?” Both, of course, have their audiences. It is worth examining your immediate gut response to titles—you may discover an interest you didn’t know you had. Ad posters will generally give their age, as most of us do have a preference in this area.
Most also give a brief physical description, which is very useful if they are telling the truth. Often a picture is included. Again, these will often be of Mr. Happy. (If I may allow myself a judgmental parenthetical—it never ceases to amaze me how blatantly unflattering some of these pictures are. I appreciate being forewarned if your equipment is remarkably small, but do you really want to put it out there for the entire world to marvel at?) Or, they may include a head or torso shot. Or, there may be a more generic image of a sunset, a huge sticky bud, an example of the kind of woman they are looking for, or an illustration of activities they might wish to engage in.
Women posting ads do not include as many images. When women do include images of themselves, they tend to feature close-ups of scantily clad tits or asses. I have yet to see a genuine ad from a woman that included a picture of her “bits.” Women also may include images of desired activities or substances.
Once you have found an ad (or ads) that you wish to respond to, you must craft your opening email. Most people find it useful to have a “stock” statement ready to be adapted (or not) to individual ads. I like to comment on something about the ad that caught my eye, and then give a list of my attributes and habits that I know some people might object to: “I'm 35, 5’ and 130 lbs, a cigarette smoker who would like to quit, a
social drinker and 420 smoker with no plans to quit, a broke college student, can’t host, non-driving, and already seeing a small number of regular guys.” And conclude with “Still interested? Let’s talk.” I receive a response to this opening email about half the time.
One word to be aware of: discreet. (Often and unfortunately spelled “discrete.”) Many of the people seeking casual sex are married or otherwise attached. Whether or not this places them off-limits is, of course, up to your individual code of ethics. But if monogamy and honesty are important issues for you, you may wish to create a policy of whether or not you are comfortable being a party to an affair. Some advertisers make no secret of being married; even going so far as one ad I saw entitled “Sneak into my garage after my wife’s asleep!” Others may only tell you of their marriage the first time you meet, if ever. Often a potential partner is in a committed relationship, but with permission to seek outside partners. In this case, you need only consider how you feel about sharing your toys.
I cannot stress enough how important it is not to use your real name or primary email account until you are sure who is at the other end of your correspondence. Using a free web-based email with a fake name is an easy way to help protect yourself from being obsessively Googled and possibly even stalked. Crazy people are everywhere, and most especially on Craigslist.
You may or may not wish to include a picture with your reply. Most people do require a photo before meeting in person, but this is not universal. When selecting photos, you must keep in mind that any image you send may end up anywhere on the Internet. I suggest not sending anything that you would be ashamed to show to your grandmother. It is also important to choose pictures that portray you accurately. If you send a picture from five years and twenty pounds ago, your actual appearance is likely to be an unpleasant surprise, and that won’t be a nice situation for either of you. Naturally we all wish to present ourselves in the most flattering light, but honesty is more important.
Once you decide you're ready to meet a candidate, there are a number of steps you need to take to ensure your safety. Always arrange to meet in public. Although I am not usually a woo-woo sort of girl, I do firmly believe that people give off "vibes”, and that you should pay attention to your gut. If the man you meet makes you feel uneasy, even the tiniest bit, do not go anywhere with him.
I also strongly recommend that you keep a friend apprised of your whereabouts. Tell her who you are meeting and where, and call her again before you leave to let her know where you will be, and to set up a time when you will check in again. (It's also not a bad idea to have a code phrase you can use to signal that you are uncomfortable and may need help getting out of the situation.) If you decide to go home with the man (or take him home with you,) all you need to do is call your friend and be off.
If, however, you decide that this is not someone with whom you wish to pursue further acquaintance, it is best to say, simply and clearly, "I'm sorry, this isn't working for me." Do not allow yourself to be guilt-tripped-- this man is a stranger, and you do not owe him anything. If he shows any sign of anger or reluctance to leave, approach one of the staff members, explain that your blind date has gone sour, and stay within their sight until he is gone. Call your friend for backup or have someone escort you to your car. I do realize that this all sounds mortifying, but it is worth any amount of embarrassment to keep yourself safe.
(A quick aside on weapons-- it may be tempting to carry mace or a knife, but remember that anything you use as a weapon can also be taken from you and used against you. I am told, however, that a bottle of Visine squirted into his drink will leave your would-be attacker in severe distress within a half hour. Just so you know.)
But if the man seems decent, smells ok, doesn't set off any alarms etc., you may as well give him a try. Just make sure you take precautions and don't compromise. Even the best sex isn't worth risking your life.
Afterward, if it was lousy, leave as quickly as you gracefully can, saying brightly "Well, that was nice, see you around." Remember that you are under no obligation to see anyone again. Some duds may redeem themselves with a second chance, but frankly, most will not. If it really was nice, consider sticking around for more. When you do leave, say, “I’d love to see you again. You have my number, right?” Or, if you are a more forward sort of girl, make sure you get his. Not all men will want to see you more than once, but in my experience, most of them do.
So, now you’re well on your way to a distinguished sluthood. Just remember to watch your back, and have as much fun as you can.
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