Tag Archives: sex

Master of the Universe (or, Australia)


I had a one night stand with a cowboy at a rodeo.


Recovering Manic Pixie Chick 1.4: The Awkward Midwestern Undergraduate Years/Student Film Will Turn You Slutty: Chris

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Chris was a big fish in a small pond, or rather, a good-sized fish in a small pond. He knew a lot of people on campus and a lot of people knew him. Much of the work done on his low-budget horror comedy came from favors called in from friends or mutual acquaintances from the student film club. At that first meeting, my initial impression of him was “Well, he seems like a nice guy.” I suppose that first impression was mostly right.

As mentioned in my previous entry, sometimes the night shoots went well to the 2:00 a.m. point. Being a gentleman, Chris would offer me a ride back to my dorm in his car, which was usually loaded from floor to ceiling with film equipment. We would chat cordially, but I don’t think I ever saw him sexually until a friend of mine looked at his picture online and said, “Hey, he kind of looks like Jude Law.” Keep in mind, this whole time, I’d been having my clandestine encounters on and off with the rather tall, pale and snarky Paul. It was fun, but after awhile, I wanted to be with someone who didn’t make me want to take a shower immediately after he was done touching me. Chris was the polar opposite of that: Eagle scout, white bread, small-town boy with an easy smile and a dorky sense of humor. He was also gentle, if a bit predictable in bed to the point where I referred to him as “missionary position Chris” when discussing him with friends.

Then again, appearances and first impressions aren’t everything. I don’t exactly remember how it started, but we got in the habit of fucking in my dorm room late at night. Or, sometimes he would be editing the movie in his boss’s office and while it rendered, that was more than enough time to have sex. He was a bit paranoid about being caught to the point where he actually pocketed the condom instead of disposing of it in a bathroom garbage can. Still, it was all just a bit of fun.

After the encounter with Paul during the intermission of the student film festival, I saw Chris that night. In a weird, twisted way, that was when I figured out that I didn’t like Paul at all and actually wanted to do the exclusive boyfriend/girlfriend thing with Chris. After a confusing tear-filled conversation, Chris and I sorted things out… and by sorted things out, I mean we had awkward quiet sex that night.

Things sort of came to a head when at Chris’s 21rst birthday, I helped his roommates carry him back to his dorm and then when he suddenly leaned in and kiss me, one of the guys said something to the effect of “Wait a minute, you two just kissed.” This should have been the first sign that something was wrong. Of course, I understood perfectly why he wouldn’t want to publicize that we were having sex to the crew. Thinking back on it now, their surprise might have been more due to “Wait a minute, you two just kissed (and you’re not his actual girlfriend).”

I had to move out of the dorm and back to my parents’ place over the summer. Once again, there was a complete lack of summer romance, especially considering I was still in love with the young man I left behind. We didn’t exactly discuss any sort of agreement one way or another, but once the school year started again, he treated me rather coolly. I was naive to think I was ever his girlfriend. Yet it still took me over a year to get around it. If I thought I had entered a descent with Paul, I found that there was a deeper abyss past the ledge I had landed on. It didn’t help that I found that despite being able to graduate about a year, I still had no plans or prospects for employment after graduating.

One night, I wrote an impassioned open letter on my social networking profile, most likely while under the influence of alcohol. To my surprise, he actually responded sometime around unofficial St. Patrick’s Day.

As a test, I made like nothing had changed and that something close to a year really hadn’t passed since our last encounter. I gave him a hug. He smelled like the same Cameron, a warm sunshine-like smell tinged with sweat amid the old leather of his brown coat and light scent of beer from a night out drinking with his friends on Unofficial St. Patrick’s Day. At first I reached around the coat, feeling its softness from wear and variable roughness like suede and smoothness like skin. It wasn’t a part of him, so naturally there was no real change there. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a metaphor for something since I really hadn’t seen him wear it in a long time. Was I like an old brown leather jacket, something comforting to return to no matter how often I got tossed aside? The thought was ridiculous. I really hadn’t seen him at all, let alone pay attention to what he was wearing when I did.

The following scene had two possibilities:



(pulling away from CHRIS)

I’m not going to have sex with you.


(taken aback)

I wasn’t expecting anything. I just wanted to make peace.



(hugs CHRIS even tighter)

I’m glad to see you again, it’s been too long.


(smiling, pulling back to look RECOVERING deeply in the eyes)

I’m glad I came.

I’ll let you readers draw the conclusion as to which scene was the more accurate. He sat next to me, but on the opposite end of the couch despite the personal space I had already breached.

“I read the letter you posted on your profile.”

“I know.”

Technically, the sex was the same. Sex is never an original act, considering how long it’s been around, but there are slight nuances which make it different from person to person. Paul was violent. Chris was more reserved and a bit nervous, eager to please. However, this time, I sensed complacency, the attitude of “been there, done that.” It was then that I finally realized physically what I had known somewhere unconsciously all along: Chris did not love me. He most likely didn’t even respect me. Perhaps he never did, but even that didn’t matter anymore. It seemed like the one thing I had wanted most that year: to get him back in bed either sleeping next to me or making love to me, was the one thing I would most regret allowing to happen. In the time he and I weren’t speaking, I didn’t really miss him, per se, just missed the safe feeling I had with him. Now the whole experience was just tainted as yet another three month stand.

I later found out from a mutual friend that Chris had a fight with his girlfriend (now wife) about his drinking that Unofficial St. Patrick’s Day weekend. Mainly he likes to get drunk and at the very least, he certainly liked fucking me, she was pretty much anti-drinking and anti-sex from what I gleaned from my limited interactions with her. I had also found out that Chris had also at some point hooked up with one of the lead actresses, the producer’s ex-girlfriend and someone from the advertising program around that time. For a time, I developed a complex about that, wondering if I was just “that girl” the disposable one that guys had fun with until they found a “nice, respectable girl” to settle down with. That complex would eventually come back to haunt me later.

So yes, that is the story of how I technically cheated on someone, but the cheating was mutual. I’m not saying that made it ok, especially considering I didn’t know what the fuck was going on at the time. For the longest time, I thought that Chris was the greatest love of my young adult life. In retrospect, I am glad that I was wrong.


Confessions of a Recovering Manic Pixie Dream Girl, Pt 1

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This is the first installment from BDGS anonymous columnist, “Recovering.”

Of course, even the most sex-starved men can only take so much. At the very least, he let me know he was breaking up with me, albeit over AOL Instant Messenger on Christmas Eve no less. I suppose if there’s any lesson to be learned out of this, it’s that staying in a dull situation you no longer want a part of and doing messed up things to “keep it interesting” just because you hate your roommate is not healthy behavior. I think that’s a lesson to be filed under “shit I should have been able to figure out without actually doing it” right along with “don’t have sex while on your period over white sheets.” On the off chance Alan ever actually reads this, I’m kind of sorry about that.


Where should I begin? I could discuss at length the peculiar circumstances of my upbringing, the various neuroses and daddy issues that warped me into the serial bad dater that I am today, but that’s not what you came here to read. In the news world, you’d be more interested in the what, where and when as opposed to the how and why. So, here’s hoping that my confessions not only provide much needed self-reflection and catharsis on my part in the hopes of breaking the vicious cycle, but a few chuckles or bemused grins from those who have either been there themselves or watched a romantic trainwreck from the sidelines eagerly with a bag of popcorn and a large soda.

The title comes from the fact that on numerous occasions, I have been accused of being one of those one-dimensional, yet effervescent creatures, merely a stock character whose motivations only revolve those of the shy, sensitive male protagonist. Well, for once, the story’s being told from my point of view. I won’t promise that I’m a particularly sympathetic narrator, or even all that honest of one. Here goes everything.

1.1: The Awkward Midwestern Undergraduate Years, Alan

It could have been OKCupid. It could have been Craigslist. I don’t remember. What I do remember was that it was my freshman year and I was recently made single after my high school sweetheart broke up with me not so much with a phone call, email or even text message. So what’s a vivacious 18-year-old to do? In hindsight, undergraduate was a lot easier of a scene than post-college doldrums and graduate school, considering I refer to my undergrad as an “all you can fuck cock buffet,” but we’ll get to that later.

The first sign that this was going to be a complete disaster was that Alan had read my rather Spanish last name as meaning I was Latina and asked if I often dated gringos. The second sign was when he figured out I was Asian and commented on my “porcelain skin.” This simultaneously creeped me out and nauseated me because as a lower-middle class Midwesterner, my only encounters with porcelain involved toilets and other bathroom fixtures. That’s right, he was what I would forever refer to as being one of “those guys,” or as the vernacular goes, a guy with the “yellow fever.” To be fair, I have a rather raging case of “matzo fever,” considering I’ve dated plenty of Jews. Alan, however, was not Jewish, although with how lanky and socially-awkward he was, he may as well have been.

If the above two reasons weren’t bad enough, our first date was going to see Matrix: Revolutions. As we walked out of the movie theater, there really should have been a square on the ground reading “Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.”

Yet not only did I see this guy again, I ended up losing my virginity to him. For one thing, I always hated that term. What exactly is lost anyway? Before I rant about the whole cult of virginity and how previous generations backwardly cling to some antiquated notion of purity, I’m going to mention that at some point, I was on my period and he still wanted to have sex. What a keeper, right? That was an interesting morning after, considering we both looked like we had just finished cleaning up a murder scene.

The sex was middling, but of course, I didn’t know any better at that point. I didn’t even particularly like him as a person or find that we had enough to converse about longer than it took to get from his apartment building door upstairs to his bedroom. I also hated my dorm roommate freshman year, so being able to have a retreat with sex on the weekends was nice. For reasons unknown to me to this day, I approached the whole relationship with the “What would Marla Singer do?” approach. I would tell him all manner of things that were either fucked up because they were true or because my brain could even come up with something that fucked up. I would never let him know if I had come during sex and then either go to the bathroom or get dressed and leave immediately afterward. I made it a point that I would never introduce him to any of my friends or family members.





The Preacher and The Pagan


I have great respect for Christianity as a concept.  I just think most Christians should take a lesson from the Quakers and shut the hell up.  They might learn something.   It would be nice, though, if Churches actually worked for social justice, sustainability and peace, which is what I was hoping when I met H. D. Smitty.

HD was the pastor of a small, suburban church in Colorado. The membership of this church had declined so steadily that they were fixing to say one last benediction and sell the building to Latino Pentecostals. H. D. Smitty and I both went to college in Austin, Texas.

Like many modern romances, this relationship began on the Internet, but not because of computer dating.  It all started on account of my blog, Menopausal Stoners.  The Preacher stumbled over a couple of years ago, when I was fantasizing about The Menopausal Stoners Militia – a group of generally older women with shotguns and weed, prepared to return fire if any Teabaggers started shooting.  H. D. Smitty offered his services as shooting instructor and chaplain in the comments.

I followed the link to his blog, where HD was carrying on about a neighboring church singing Onward Christian Soldiers in support of The Troops without the faintest idea that it was the theme song of the Salvation Army and appeared to advocate killing infidels.  I commented, “Dude, surely you must have noticed that Christians are notoriously obtuse when it comes to recognizing inherent contradictions.”  He wrote that one of the great disappointments as a preacher is that bright, energetic people like me who were committed to making the world a better place won’t come to church any more because of the assholes.   He then started leaving more and more comments at my blog, and we became cordial.  When he offered to teach me to shoot again, I figured that a preacher with a shotgun would come in handy if the world got so fucked up we needed to get off the grid.  He could shout scripture at the Teabaggers while he reloaded.   One afternoon in February, he sent me a personal email.

It was a pleasant little missive wherein he described some of the questions he was pondering about his own self – like changing his career and moving back to Austin.  I wasn’t sure what the preacher wanted from me and needed clarification in order to respond.  I replied with a simple question: So, Are you married?