Tag Archives: sex

My Teenage Boyfriends’ Spoiled Me

The boys that I was hooking up with during my formative years were nice.  Maybe it was simply because they were young innocent’s and the world had not yet swallowed them up, churned them around in its’ acidic bile and spit them out a poisoned, corrupted soul.  Graham Greene said in The Quiet American, “Innocence always calls mutely for protection when we would be so much wiser to guard ourselves against it: innocence is like a dumb leper who has lost his bell, wandering the world, meaning no harm.”

Boom.  Graham Greene is sexy.  Anyway, the dude was on to something.  Maybe I should have guarded myself from innocence because I grew up thinking boys were nice and understanding and patient when it comes to sex.  Was I just lucky?  Did I just happen to get the good ones?  Don’t get me wrong, I definitely had my fair share of shitty bedroom situations when I was a teenager, but the boys I was with when we were younger and learning how our bodies worked, were terrified of hurting me.  They were gentlemen.  And I mean that literally;  gentle men.  They didn’t unbutton my pants on the first date and they didn’t grab my boobs after four seconds of saliva exchange and they didn’t even let it get to the point where I would have to use the word, “no” because they fucking paid attention and just knew when it was and was not okay to progress.  Guys now think that kissing will always lead to sex.  Um no.

There was James.  He was my first, and my first “real” boyfriend.  I was 16 so I don’t remember a lot, but he was nice and definitely never pressured me.  I couldn’t have asked for a better first.

Then there is Cody.  I’ve never written about Cody mostly because I can’t.  There is too much history that it is overwhelming.  There are some things so sacred, in which words seem feeble to attempt to use.  Maybe one day, if I’m ever a better writer, I’ll try to write about Cody.  For now though, I’ll just say that if there was some sort of test for hearts, the way there is an IQ test for your brain, Cody and I would score the exact same.  Cody was caring.  He was like me, because he didn’t need sex.  Not in the way most guys do.  I had some problems, and he was so soft and understanding, (or at least pretended to understand) and said all of the right things when we were rolling around together in his squeaky high school bed that had a sound machine next to it that he was obsessed with.  And boy, could he kiss.  There you go Cody, there is the one thing that I will write about you.

My Love was amazing.  He put up with my fucked up ways and never questioned it.  When him and I first started dating, I remember the first time he put his hand up my shirt.  He went so slow, allowing me time to stop him if I wanted to.  I didn’t stop him.  Then, instead of his hand landing on my breasts, where I assumed they were going, he went all the way through my v-neck shirt and landed at my face.  He cupped my face as we kissed and that was the first time his hand was up my shirt.  I’ll always remember that because it seemed so innocent.  He was a hormonal teenager who could have had a grab at a boob, but he passed them and went for my face and it was more intimate than any awkward feel-up could have been.

Tommy and I were a goddamn rollercoaster, and he came later in life, but when we first started seeing each other, he could read my body language as blatantly as he could read a book.  I remember the first time we hooked up, and it got to the point where we were about to have sex, but I just didn’t feel right about it yet.  I don’t think I even had to verbalize anything, he just stopped.  He could tell from my body language because he was paying attention.  Listening with his instincts.  BOYS DON’T DO THIS ANYMORE!

Those are the ones who I learned with.  The ones that I’ve been with the most.  Maybe I have a jaded current view of boys because I haven’t “seriously” been with anyone in a while.  That is mostly because I just don’t like being in relationships, but I’m wondering if it’s also because boys just don’t pay attention now that we are older.  I’ve dated guys since Tommy, and almost become at least semi serious with a few of them, but I’m wondering if part of the hesitation is that I’m silently screaming for someone who only existed at a time when we were dumb leper’s who had lost our bells.

Like I said, I have had PLENTY of crap experiences, but the one that sparked this random musing happened last night.  I was out with this guy who is a friend, but has been pursuing me for a little while.  Just don’t pursue me.  It’s exhausting.  I leave town often for work and I’m like a dude when it comes to relationships.  Just not that into commitment.  Obviously.  Anyway, this guy was trying to take my pants off, but I kept stopping him.  First question, why did I have to do this more than once?  He then went on to remind me of a time that I threw up and passed out in his bathroom once during a party a while back.  It wasn’t my finest hour.  It happens.  Apparently he can’t brush it off so easily, because he surprised me with this:

“I had to clean up your puke, so at least show me some snatch.”

I swear to God.  I don’t even need to waste my linguistic energy on why that statement is so fucked up.  These are the boys nowadays!  I got so used to the Cody’s and Matt’s of the world, that I grew up thinking all boys are nice.  They’re not.  Not all boys will take the time to read your body language like a book.  Maybe they have all just found their bell and learned to guard themselves against innocence.

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Russian Charades

Last winter I was on the road for a couple of months touring with The Moscow Ballet.  The cast, who were all Russian, I didn’t have to deal with much.  They traveled on a separate bus and had their own world, apart from the crew.  Thank God.  Being the merch girl, I think I had the best job on that tour because I was the only crew member who didn’t have to deal with the dancer’s or the children.  Laura, one of the costumer’s, basically called me a cold-hearted bitch on the regular because I didn’t have a soft spot for the 95 screaming little people running around everyday with snot dripping down their faces and whining about their costumes not fitting properly while simultaneously messing up my display with their orange, cheetos encrusted hands.  While I would love to continue with more on what that job was like, I’m going to save that for another day and get to my point.  It amazes me how much we rely on language, but how much we can do without it if we are just patient, and listen with our hearts instead of our ears.

There were nine of us crew members and we lived together on one bus.  Two of the nine were Russian, the rest of us, American.  Sonya, one of the costumers, and just a beautiful human being, understood English well enough to get by on a basic, needs only basis.  Igor, the sound engineer, started the tour knowing ZERO English.  Witnessing his English improve quite literally on the daily, was astounding.  By the end of the tour he could speak it as well as Sonya.

Igor and I are TIGHT.  I can’t explain how, because obviously, if him and I can’t even have a coherent, linguistic conversation, trying to describe our relationship using language is futile.  Though trust me when I say, we’re bonded.  Due to the language barrier, Igor and the rest of us grew to MASTER the game of charades.

One charades game was me explaining what “69” is.  That was fun.  There’s no being modest when trying to school a Russian on sex position terminology.  The gestures for “blow-job” and “eating-out” were easy, but trying to explain that these acts happened simultaneously was the hard part.  It involved mock demonstrations and minor acrobats on the bus.  While I would have rather not demeaned myself, no one else seemed up for the job, so I took it upon myself to make sure that Igor is now educated in the area of 69.  You’re welcome, Russia.

Another fun charades game happened on the last day of the tour.  I had climbed up onto the counter to retrieve a granola bar or whatever road food I had accessible, making my ass almost directly at eye level, and Igor sort of felt me up.  While that sounds completely violating, it was playful and ok because it was him.  Not everyone could get away with that.  I jokingly said, “Oh Igor!  You just made me feel some kind of way!”  Even though I know he didn’t understand what the fuck that meant, (since that’s a slang phrase from a stupid rap song), he didn’t need to understand the direct translation.  He understood the context.  It’s amazing what you can pick up on just with voice inflection, personality and body language.  Igor then went on to point to his crotch, and say something about Russia.  WHAT?!  We need a game of charades.  Go!

He raises his hand from the ground to his head, and then made some sort of explosion sound while simulating something coming from his ears.  Huh?  You’re bleeding from your ears?  Nope.  Wrong answer.

So he proceeds to point to his ring finger that has his wedding ring on it, and say “home to Russia,” and make humping motions, followed again by the confusing explosion/ear bleeding motion.  Lightbulb!  I got it!  And I started cracking up.

He was telling us that he can’t wait to get back to Russia to be with his wife because he is up to his ears in testosterone and so horny that he is about to explode.  Charades has never been so fun.

On a more serious note, we all knew that Igor was part of the special forces in Russia, but what his job was exactly, or what duties he performed is still unknown.  We just know that he was a badass.  The tour went to Washington D.C. for a show, so we all made an after hours visit to the Lincoln Memorial.  It was beautiful at night.  I love that city.

All nine of us were together, it was freezing out, and Igor and I were walking arm and arm, partly because it was so cold and partly because we’re BFF’s.  Gradually, the sidewalk wall began to rise… I didn’t think much of it at first; barely noticed.  Then all became quiet.

For just a few seconds, I think we all were silenced, when we realized we were walking through the Vietnam Memorial.  I had no idea.  It just happens if you’re not expecting it.  It starts off as just a small, foot tall wall next to the sidewalk, then it gradually becomes taller and taller until its’ black granite is towering over you, like a nightmare or a tangible representation of impending doom.  It was a true experience.  I felt it.  With Igor at my side, I felt him feel it too.  It was a very distinct sense that I think you only experience a few times in life.  That feeling of your soul merging with another, for just a moment in time.

We all continued walking in silence.  No words needed; we all understood.  By the end of the wall, after being immersed in the endless names of faceless men we’ll never know, Igor managed to get out, “I’m sorry for them.”

Hearing him say that, a non-American man, but a man who obviously knows what it means to be brothers in arms, it made my heart swell.  It reminded me that even though we all come from different places, dream for different reasons and fight for different causes, we all have the same heart.  I just squeezed him and shook my head, yes.  That was one of the most memorable moments on that tour, and neither language nor charades was really involved.

With the lifestyle I’ve led so far, I have known SO MANY goddamn people who I don’t anymore.  I’ve traveled a lot… moved a lot… loved and lost a lot… so I’ve learned to appreciate the people you know while you know them.  There are people I miss, that I was once bitter about not knowing and keeping in touch with anymore, but now I’m just glad I got to know them when I did.  I may never see Igor again, but we had the winter of 2013 together, and now we’re bonded for life.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 11

I have discussed what I like to call “uh-oh moments” in past entries.  I was chatting with a friend recently, and he made me realize that these moments have dictated my life way more than I have been giving them credit for.  If you’re not up to speed on my definition of an uh-oh moment, I will fill you in.  The “uh-oh moment” is that single second, after your boyfriend/girlfriend/fuck-buddy/romantic interest does or says something that you can pinpoint exactly, which causes an unexplainable switch in your brain, and from that moment on, you just know that you will never be attracted to that person again.  There is no going back. I will start with the very first uh-oh moment that I can remember.

Sixth grade.  I think back then we called it “going out.”  So I was “going out” with this boy, which basically meant that he met me in the halls in between classes and we sometimes held hands.  We had probably been together for what I’m guessing to be a week, and in my twelve-year-old mind, the thought of kissing was still light-years away.  At my locker, he kissed me on the cheek before leaving to go to his class.  EW!  This was a seriously big milestone in a sixth grade relationship, and I was so grossed out because I could feel his saliva on my cheek.  I wiped it off, but for the rest of the day, I could just sense where he had left his slobbery mark.  Uh-oh.  No more milestones for us!  At the end of the day, I made Allee-Jo break up with him for me because she would see him while walking back home from school.  Now that’s a good friend.

Fast forward to four years later, still very much a virgin and seeing this guy I met in drama.  I was new to the whole foreplay thing, so when he started fingering me and it was the most distressing thing I had yet to experience in my so far innocent life, I thought that might be a normal reaction.  But the uh-oh moment came when not ten seconds after he started this uncomfortable activity, he said, “are you going to come?”  EW!  That word grossed me out so much.  I had never heard someone use it seriously before.  My friends and I, whose activities at this time in our lives included melting action figures on Glenn’s stove, and coming up with inventive things to put into macaroni and cheese, would use that word only to be funny and purposely disgusting.  Hearing my “boyfriend” say it to me was a HUGE turn-off.  The next day I broke up with him in the hallway before French class.  I entered class a bit shaken, and received some good advice that I’ve lived by ever since.  “Next time Caitlin, you might want to wait until after school to break up with your boyfriend.”  Thanks Mrs. King!

Fast forward now to my twenties, and these moments are no longer in chronological order.  My twenties have just been one big jumbly mess of social conundrums.  This guy never closed his mouth, and he always reminded me of someone.  It would drive me crazy that I couldn’t pinpoint who it was that he resembled.  When I realized that it was Brainy, the mouth-breather from the cartoon, Hey Arnold… uh-oh!

Brainy.

Brainy.

 

This next one is bad because I was actually pretty into this guy.  He was the first relationship I even mildly took seriously in years, and I fucked it all up because I’m such a snob.  He put his hand in the back-pocket of my jeans while we were out.  Uh-oh.  I thought that move had been abandoned in the 90’s, gone forever, as it should be.  It’s just such a gaudy behavior, and I’m the opposite of gaudy when it comes to relationships.  Due to that moment, what I had been stewing on for a few days became blindingly clear, we were just not going to work out.

This move.  No thanks!

This move. No thanks!

 

Another guy bit my nipple.  Hard!  While attempting to be hot.  Done.

I was lightly seeing this kid in college, who was much more fashionable than me, which was already a problem.  I suppose he was just a hipster, but that term hadn’t become popular yet.  My roommate could never remember his name, which is mostly my fault because at the time, I was seeing a few boys, so he had trouble keeping them straight, and would just come up with clever nicknames for all of them.  Corey’s nickname was “the train conductor,” because there were a couple of occasions when Corey would wear this hat and vest situation… and he really did look like a train conductor.  The next time I saw Corey, after hearing my roommate call him the train conductor for the first time, I thought, uh-oh.  All day, all I saw was a goddamn train conductor.  He was no longer Corey.  It didn’t matter anymore what he was actually wearing, I just always saw a fucking train conductor from that moment on.  Michael and I still laugh about Corey on occasion.  At least I got a good inside joke out of it.

Another guy killed me when he used the phrase, “dummy dumb dumb dumb.”  He was telling some story and said, “I felt like such a dummy dumb dumb dumb.”  WHAT?!  Everyone else I associate with would just say, I felt like an asshole, or I was being an idiot.  This kid busts out with dummy dumb dumb dumb.  Each syllable of that ridiculous phrase felt like a gunshot to our relationship.  So I maybe could have survived “dummy dumb,” but he had to take it all the way, and just murder me with the five syllable onslaught.  I’m a jerk, I know.

Some irrelevant guy I was seeing for a second, started touching himself while kissing me.  We had never done anything but kiss, and one night we were doing exactly that, FULLY clothed I’d like to add, and barely “into it,” when I realized he had his hand down his own pants and was jerking off.  That’s fucking foul.  Done.

At a bar and I let this guy use up my last credit on the jukebox.  He chose a Creed song and was 100% serious about it.  Uh-oh.  I don’t know which is worse, Creed fans or Nickelback fans.

One of the funniest uh-oh moments I’ve ever heard of, didn’t happen to me, but to my friend Cody.  Back when we were teenagers, if I remember correctly, he went out only a couple of times with this girl because she was really hot.  She told him that she doesn’t like guys who like corn.  WHAT?!  So that was Cody’s uh-oh moment.  It’s not that he loves corn, he just couldn’t like a girl who doesn’t like guys for such an absurd reason.  It makes me laugh every time I think about it.

 

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How to Make a Guy Fall in Love With You

These were some of my secrets, in no particular order.

-Be forward.  Playing hard to get is overrated.  If you like him and the two of you vibe, straight up say, “I like you,” then grab his face and make-out with him.

-Keep your past a mystery.  Ambiguity = Intrigue!  Example: When/if he asks why you and your ex broke up, do NOT, for the love of God, tell that story.  Instead, say something along the lines of, “Oh, just life.  So many reasons that don’t even matter anymore.”  Example 2: He asks, “What brought you out here?” (I get that a lot living in Los Angeles), keep it a mystery!  I usually respond with, “I’d tell you that story… but it’s not a very interesting one.”  Not only is this true in my case, (ha!) but it keeps the boys wanting more.  Keep them wanting more in more areas than one!

-Never refer to him as, “dude.”

-Get your vagina under control!  Rinse that shit out regularly with water!  No excuse for foul smells!

-Call yourself out.  Example: I am generally pretty low maintenance, but I have my girly moments.  When these occur, I straight up say, “I’m sorry, I’m about to be such a girl right now, but I have nothing to wear.”  Without that disclaimer, I would lose cool points immediately in his book.  But because I own up to my occasional ridiculousness, I not only get away with it, but I gain cool points because now he knows that I am able to check myself.  Example 2: My feet are NOT cute.  I have disgusting, fat, square, dancer’s feet.  Instead of trying to curl them under while cuddling together on the couch, I just openly make fun of my “Flinstone feet.”  Now I’ve manipulated him into thinking that my “negative” is kind of endearing.

-Magic words, “not like you.”  When he compliments you… says you’re beautiful or sexy or have a pretty smile, or whatever, instead of blushing and saying thank you, gently bite your bottom lip, make cute eye contact, and say, “not like you.”  This one is TOP SECRET!  It works every time, I guarantee or your money back.

-Be able to get ready in fifteen minutes.  You don’t need to do this every time, but he needs to know that you are able to get ready on the fly when necessary.

-Don’t talk about your period.

-Do NOT ask him what his “number” is.  Let me say this again.  DO NOT ASK HIM WHAT HIS NUMBER IS!

-If he opens the car door for you, reach over and unlock the driver’s side for him.

-Pretend to know about something he is interested in.  Without being creepy, find out about a subject he is into, that he doesn’t think you know he is into.  Example: (A shitty one, but an example still), you’re in his car and see a book in the backseat about mixology.  Don’t say anything about it, then go do some homework.  Just spend twenty minutes researching some generalities on mixology, then next time you see him and it gets “casually” brought up in conversation, modestly impress him with your knowledge on the subject matter.  Real life example:  I had a harmless crush on this foreign valet guy.  I thought he sounded Russian, but asked one of his co-worker’s where he was from, and was informed that he’s from Serbia.  So, I wikipediad (yes, I just turned that into a verb) some general info on the country, and bam!  Now he thinks I’m a cultured, wise and hopefully irresistible because I use to eye fuck him like it was my job.

-Show some skin, but not too much!  If you’re wearing a low cut top, do not wear a short skirt.  If you’re wearing a short skirt, pair it with a not so revealing top.  Remember, we’re going for love not lust here!

-Want him, but don’t need him.

-Tell him you’re not really into relationships.  Whether this is true or not, act like it is.  This will make you seem “dangerous.”  We always fall for the dangerous boy over the nice one.  Secret:  It works both ways!

-Make him feel special by lying.  I used to bring guys to this awesome “secret spot” that overlooked the water and had this beautiful view and was sort of secluded.  I would tell them I had never brought anyone else there before… I was totally full of shit.  Example 2: Tell him an anecdote that is relatively personal (keep it short and sweet though, don’t talk his head off) and then tell him that you’ve never told anyone else that before.  I know, I’m going to hell.

-Keep your room smelling nice, and always have a dark-colored comforter.  Get rid of your Martha Stewart pastel colored crap.

-Let shit go!  Be easy going!

-Do not pee in front of him or talk about poop.  As far as you’re concerned, girl’s don’t poop!  This rule (along with some of the others), bend with time of course.  But at the beginning, he will always think it’s weird if you pee in front of him and he doesn’t want to be reminded that your butt functions as anything more than a cute spectacle.

-In the sac, teeter on the line of seeming utterly vulnerable, yet sure/dominating at the same time.  I know, it’s tricky.  Show him that you’re comfortable with your sexuality and you know what you want, but at the same time you need to come across as somewhat fragile.

-Be spontaneous!  Go hop a fence and jump into a pool together, go on a mini road trip, sneak onto the roof of a tall building and make-out!

-Be someone he wants to fuck AND talk to.  Guys generally look at a girl and see one or the other.  You want to be both.  This is ultimately what will make him fall in love with you and what I would consider to be the most important on the list.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 7

Why do guys say, “you’re so wet” when you’re clearly not.  Ummm what vagina are you finger fucking because mine can definitely not be described as “so wet,” right now.

First of all, I’m not into any type of even mild dirty talk.   Or any sexual spoken communication at all for that matter, while hooking up.  The very occasional oh my god is fine, and the you’re beautiful’s are sometimes necessary, and I dig the heavy breathing, but aside from that… please shut the fuck up.

Was making-out with this boy, and though I knew I wasn’t going to take it all the way, I let things go into second base.  I think I was just bored.  He’s hot, but I’m not that into him.  Anyway, he starts fingering me and I started with the manual stimulation as well, and he says, “you’re so wet.”

What?  No, I’m really not.  Trust me, I wish I was my friend, but sadly, your awkward dry humping is not completely doing it for me.

While I was absolutely lubricated (it’s not as if it was sandpaper down there), I could not be described as so wet.  This is not the first time I’ve had a boy say this to me when it was clearly not true.  I’m guessing they say it to try to convince themselves?  Maybe?  Or maybe it’s just a go-to phrase that they think will turn us on and in turn, make us more wet?  I don’t know.  All I know, is it drives me crazy and makes me begin to not fantasize about ripping his clothes off, but fantasize about how I’m going to gracefully end this hormonal exchange.

A better question is, why do I continue to make-out with guys that I’m not that into?

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The Adventures of Touring with a Rock Band – Part 3

To continue with my list of reasons why everyone on Warped Tour is miserable, I will start with what perhaps, I should have started with in Part 2.  All day long, you are…

That will put anyone in a bad mood.  We put that sticker on our tent as a reminder, not that we had the luxury of forgetting.  Maybe it was more of an attempt to add humor to the hell.  There were six stages on the tour if I remember correctly, which meant that at all times, there were six different bands playing within earshot, which also meant six different forms of torture all day long.

I do understand that there is a big difference between music that is bad, and music that I just don’t like.  One of my pet-peeves is when I hear someone say, “That band sucks.”  No, they don’t suck, you just don’t like them!  With that being said, a few of the bands that were on 2010 Warped Tour sucked.    It did make me wholeheartedly appreciate the good songs/bands however, which is another romance I had in my misery that I will get into later.

I am going to speak for the boys here, and say that another reason why they were all pissed off and frustrated is because they were forced to watch half-naked teenage girls flaunting around shamelessly all day everyday.  While many men have no qualms with checking out underage girls, there are also many men that do have issues with it.  The guys that I was with most of the time, hated that they had these inappropriate thoughts about underage girls.  It made them feel skeezy.  But when a fifteen year old girl who looks like she’s twenty-two walks by wearing nothing but tiny shorts and stickers over her nipples asking them to autograph her stomach or boobs… you can’t blame the men for not being able to help but imagine titty-fucking her.

Of course, I know the guys would not be turned-on by the disgusting girls above – they’d be repulsed – but it’s just an example of how some of the attendees dress.  I would imagine trying to jack-off on the tour would also be difficult, so releasing their built-up sexual frustrations probably felt like more of a chore than it did a pleasure.

You may think that as a musician, getting laid on the tour is as easy as drinking water, but it’s actually a little more complicated.  First of all, you can only get backstage or to the bus area if you have a pass, and security is pretty strict about this.  There were a couple of times when I forgot my pass on the bus, realizing it as I approached the gate, and had to walk all the way back to retrieve it.  At a lot of these venues, the busses were sometimes parked over a half a mile away.  The point is, getting a potential lay back to the bus is not a simple task.

Also, there is “bus call.”  Bus call is the time we head out and you have to be back to your bus.  Those driver’s will leave without you!  Obviously, we travel at night, so bus call varies, depending on how far away the next city is.  Sometimes bus call was as late as 3:00am, but other times it was as early as 11:00pm, and the festival usually lasted until 9:00pm.  So, if a guy did go through the trouble of getting a fan/groupie to the bus, he then has to make sure that he gets laid before bus call.

That was my very long way of explaining why the men are always pissed off and sexually frustrated on the tour.

On top of that, you are sharing a tour bus with sometimes eleven other people so you better hope you love all of them because unless you’ve retreated to your bunk, there is no personal space.  The petty arguments that stem from who gets drawer space and who doesn’t is awesome.  On most of the busses there are twelve bunks, two columns of three on each side.

That was not our bus – ours was way dirtier – but the layout is the same.  Half of the tour there was eight of us on the bus, but the other half we shared with another band that were high school kids (literally the members had just graduated high school or were going into their senior year), so there was a full twelve of us.  Nightmare.  Although, we did get one of the high schoolers to smoke weed for his first time, and while he was high he said, “It feels like my legs are having an orgasm.”  That was a fun night.

It’s safe to assume that everyone on the tour is also going through some serious relationship problems, which also adds to everybody’s misery.  Touring murders any type of romantic relationship.  Obviously, being gone for three months at a time while living a rock-star lifestyle will put a strain on any relationship.  But if the boyfriend/girlfriend comes with you on the tour, that’s a recipe for killing a relationship as well.  Conundrum.  I have never seen a relationship turn out well when the couple is on the tour together.  This is because of my main point, that everyone is at their absolute worst while touring.  Couples see each other in a whole different light.  Like I said, relationship murderer.  Even trying to maintain a casual, we-just-like-to-have-fun-together-fling-type of relationship with someone from back home, is nearly impossible.  So on top of everything else, it’s safe to say that 90% of the people on the tour are also going through some type of personal crisis.

Touring is this strange break from real life, so people who do it enough, never really have to grow up in many ways.  This is why most musicians are at least partly insane.  And that is why I am plagued with always falling in love with one.

…see. This is us going insane.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 6

I completely blew off the bartender today who I spoke of in Volume 4.  I do feel bad about it, but I will not subject you to my tales of self-hatred and woes.  Instead I am going to talk about why it just wasn’t going to work.  Last time I hung out with her, I had what I like to call, an “uh-oh moment.”  I think we all have had these moments, but I have actually named it because it unfortunately happens oh so very often and it is the beginning of the end.

The “uh-oh moment” is that single second, after your boyfriend/girlfriend/fuck-buddy/romantic interest does or says something that can be pin-pointed, which causes an unexplainable switch to go off in your brain, and from that moment on, you just know that you will never be attracted to that person again.  There is no going back.  I’ve grown to recognize these moments, and when it happens, I literally think, “uh-oh” in my mind because I know that no matter how hard I try to salvage romantic feelings, or force myself to be turned-on by the person, it’s simply a lost cause.  It’s sad, because it’s never something the person did wrong… it’s one of the few times that it is truly a “it’s not you, it’s me” occurrence.

For example, I was at the bartender’s apartment just lounging around chatting with her.  She is absolutely beautiful, and has this great energy that radiates from her, but she hit me with, “I think humans are the product of aliens mating with monkeys.”

UH-OH!

Ummmm I’m sorry, you think what?!

She explained that she doesn’t exactly believe in evolution because if we came from monkeys, then there would be no more monkeys.  Okay, I didn’t even justify that with a response.  Then she went on to say that she believes in intelligent alien life.  I have no problem with that.  I think that it’s naive and close-minded of us to not believe that there is some kind of other life in the universe.  As far as it being intelligent is up for debate, but not something I have a strong opinion about.  Then, she says that she believes that these aliens visit Earth all of the time… shit… please stop talking and I may be able to write that statement off as hopelessly endearing.  But she kept going, and hit me with her brilliant theory of evolution:

Aliens were a dying breed, so they needed to procreate with a stronger species.  They came to Earth on their space ships, fucked apes, thus creating humans as their offspring.

      +            =      

She was dead serious.

I have only gone out with this girl a few times, so I tried to be polite during the discussion, suppressing my “call-out” urges.  I do have a bad habit of calling people out when they say something embarrassingly stupid.  Anyway, when I rebutted with the two species cannot procreate fact, she had no idea what I was talking about.  “What do you mean?  What about donkeys?”

Oh man, the hits just keep on coming.  First of all, I think you mean mules.

I informed her of the simple law of science, that while yes, a mule is a product of two different species, the line ends there.  A mule cannot produce another mule.  She was dumbfounded and so was I.

Despite my uh-oh moment, I still made plans with her for this week like a jackass.  I never learn.  The closer the date came to seeing her again, the more I knew I just didn’t want to.  It was doomed.  Yes, I was a bitch and blew her off when I should have just called her and let her down easy, but as stated, we had only hung out a few times, so a serious, “this isn’t working out” discussion seemed just that… a little too serious.  No excuses though.   I do feel bad about it but like I said, I’ll leave my confessions of self-hatred for a private journal entry.

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Vagina Dialogue

Am I alone in this?

I find it incredibly disturbing that I’ve heard multiple Doctors refer to the vagina as a, “self-cleaning oven.”

I get it, and suppose I should be grateful for my two-in-one appliance, but… really?  Self-cleaning oven? !

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The Adventures of Touring with a Rock Band – Part 2

In Part 1, I shared some observations I made during the summer of 2010 while working as a merch girl, on Van’s Warped Tour.  In this part, I am going to discuss the overall touring lifestyle.  It may provide some insight as to why musicians are out of their mind.

The biggest mind fuck is not living out of a bus or van… it’s not going in and out of time zones sometimes twice a day, it’s the utter lack of privacy.  I started that summer being one of those girls who claimed that females don’t poop.  Two weeks into the tour, pooping was a topic of conversation with me and everyone else.  Typical club tours are much different than Warped Tour and other traveling music festivals.  With club touring, the pooping situation isn’t as much of a problem, but on Warped Tour, it’s the number one problem.

I did not poop, at all, for ten days!  I know.  It was absolutely awful and definitely added to why I was so miserable ninety percent of that tour.  Even after I finally did, it still was not regular the entire summer.  Many people had this problem I came to find out, but not as seriously as I did.  Traveling in general can make one constipated, but then on top of that, your diet does a complete 180.  We had a catering service that traveled with the tour, and it was better food than you’d imagine, considering that they’re doing all of this out of a semi-truck.

The catering service really impressed me, and the guy who swiped your tour pass in the food line was sexy (unfortunately not pictured above).  They have to feed 600 people three meals, every single day!  Yes, it takes 600 people to make Warped Tour happen.  Despite the hot guy, and the pretty good food considering, you are still eating from a mobile kitchen and your body knows it.

Also, half of the venues do not have bathrooms.  We have toilets on the bus, but they are STRICTLY for pee only!  No toilet paper even.  After you wipe, you have to throw the toilet paper in the trash.  Yummy.  So, if you’re at a venue with no bathrooms, and you have to poop, you are subjected to using porta-pottys that all of the other 12,000 (literally) sweaty,puking, muddy, teenage attendees have been using all day and night.  Me and the band had an ongoing inside joke that walking into a porta-potty actually makes your butthole involuntarily contract, not allowing anything to exit or function properly.  It’s true.  I know, gross inside joke, but like I said… privacy out the window and there is nothing more hilarious than some of the conversations that spawn while touring because no one holds back.  Pooping in a porta-potty is just not an option your body leaves you with, so there was that to add to my constipation.

After the fourth day of not pooping, I finally had to go to our Tour Manager, Kyle (pictured)

because he is the one that would have to get me in touch with the touring Medic.  Yes, Warped has a Medic who tours with us… kind of makes it seem more bad-ass than it actually is.  She gave me some natural pill that didn’t work.  Every morning Kyle, and everyone else on our bus for that matter, would ask me if  “it” happened yet.  Of course, they didn’t sugar coat it though.  They would just yell across the bus, “Caitlin!  Did you shit yet?!”  When I still hadn’t after a week, Kyle made arrangements for me to see a Doctor in the following city.  Now, thanks to Dr. Clemens, I do not leave for tour without Colace,Benefiber and Miralax.

Apart from everyone knowing about your bowl movements, right down to the size and color of them (some of the guys would even take pictures of their shit and compare with one another), everyone also knows when you’re having sex and who you’re having sex with.  The “walk of shame” has a whole different meaning on a tour bus.  Those poor girls who just hooked up with one of the band dude’s in their bunk, had no choice, but to walk past ALL of us on the way out.

(Though it’s hard to tell, there are eight people just right there).  There’s no escaping to a bathroom to quickly fix your hair or eyeliner so to minimize the “I-just-spread-my-legs-for-a-stranger-look.”  We did our best to try to avoid eye contact with these girls, act like we didn’t notice, but I think that just made it worse.  The guy, would then be subjected to being made fun of for the rest of the tour if the girl was on the more unfortunate looking side.  Regrettably, I was in a relationship with one of the band member’s at the time, and if we were both MIA for twenty minutes, everyone knew why.

Overall hygiene, as you know it, is also out the window.  Again, not every venue had bathrooms and showers, so baby wipe showers become your number one source of hygiene control.  I am not kidding, I would say on average, I was able to shower once every four days.  Keep in mind, that Warped Tour is in the dead of fucking summer, so you are essentially sweating your ass off for three months straight.  I had to push two hundred pounds of merch up hills, over crazy terrain, set-up tents, sit outside for eight hours, unload and reload the trailer… the pro is I got skinny and very tan, the con is everyone is disgusting.  When there were showers available, there were usually only a few, and remember that there are 600 people, and I would say 400 of them are trying to shower on any given day.  Extremely long lines, filthy bathrooms and no hot water.

Towards the end of the tour, Kyle got some “shower bags” that are made for camping.  That was helpful, but where did the showering take place?  In between the busses of course.  As stated previously, that detached space polluted with generator exhaust, rivers of spilt beer and the eerie feeling that home has never been so close or so far away.  Also the space where everyone was constantly walking through and hanging out.  I had to shower in my bathing suit for all to see.  People try to be respectful and not stare, but it’s still just hilarious to walk up on someone loofahing in a bathing suit under a makeshift shower that is rigged up to a trailer.

These are just a couple of reasons why touring brings out the worst in everyone, and there are many more reasons I plan to share next time!

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Texting is Not Real Life

Text message I just received from a boy:  “So can we hang out sometime?”

I don’t know what this means.  I think you just asked me out on a date by way of texting, which could not make you look more like a pussy.  This is a major “Caitlin fowl.”  Boys, after receiving a girl’s number, please for the love of God, call her, do not text.  It’s sad to say, but nowadays, it is a huge turn-on when a boy has the balls to make the first attempt at communication (since the awkward phone number exchange) with a real life, real-time, heart-racing phone call.

Caitlin Rule:  Texting is not real life.

So close your eyes, concentrate, and find your inner teenager, back before texting was running rampant and you still had to ask out girls to their face or by calling their house.  Then embrace the butterflies, and make the call.  Congratulations!  You’re already one step closer to getting laid.

Texting is acceptable only AFTER the first hang out session.  The day after the “first date,” assuming it went well, I would recommend a simple text stating, “Thinking of you.”  This will definitely get you laid.  You’re welcome.

Needless to say, the, “so can we hang out sometime,” boy is still waiting for a response.

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