Tag Archives: single life

Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 17

I had a purge day.  A purge day according to me, is when I realize the absurdity of “dating” a handful of people, and decide to purge out all of the non-essentials from my life in a single 24 hour period.  It’s just like when you eat too much cake and ice cream.  At first, it’s delicious and even though you know it’s bad for you, you just don’t care.  Then you embrace it for a moment.  Then you get uncomfortably full, and you’re sighing and wondering how and why you put yourself through that.  Then, you feel the sudden need to barf it all out.  You know that the process of throwing up will suck, but once you get it all out of you, you will feel much better.  Now replace too much cake and ice cream with too many boys, and that’s where I was.  I have plenty of stories about purge days, but I’ll save those for another time.  The reason I brought this up, was to inform you, the reader, that I am no longer trying to balance a million boys in my life.  I got rid of the ones whose time and energy I was wasting.  So the boy that I’m about to discuss, is in the past.  I considered skipping over this one, but I think the conclusion of it is important, and something we should all consider.

I see more and more interracial dating and I think it’s fucking fantastic.  I’m a huge advocate for dating someone who is completely different from you whether it’s religion, culture or race.

A few weeks ago I had a dinner date with thug boy.  I call him thug boy because he absolutely looks like a drug dealer.  I most certainly inform him of this notion each time I see him.  It’s still up in the air as to if he actually is a drug dealer or not.  I met him at a dive bar where I was by myself, bumming a cigarette off of a bum (not kidding), drinking Budweiser bottles and whiskey and pounding out a five paragraph essay for my Muslim co-workers.  My thesis was that pigs in their natural state are not any more or less “unclean” than any other meat.  If you’d like more information on that topic, I’ll send you my essay!  I’m not sure why I was wasting my time on this because they can’t exactly read English.  I’m just addicted to useless knowledge.  Anyway, the thug walked right up to me and my brightly lit laptop and asked me if he could buy me a drink.  I had about eight ounces of whiskey still in my glass (this bar does not fuck around with pours), so I was definitely good on the drinks for at least another paragraph.

To be perfectly honest, in the first couple of seconds I did kind of blow him off.  I was in the writing zone and I was just not trying to talk to anyone that night.  I even wore my hat, which I do when I haven’t washed my hair in a week.  Also, I am convinced that my hair is the only reason why boys initially think that they like me, so my theory is that if it’s semi covered, they won’t try to hit on me.  A few seconds later though, and he had my mild attention.  Mostly because he took the rejection the way that men should.  I told him that I’m good on a drink for now, and that I’m just trying to get some work done.  He said that he hopes I have a successful night writing, and that if I would like to have another drink, it’s on him, and then he walked away to go finish up his pool game and smoke black & milds.

He was perfectly polite and didn’t say something fucking stupid like, “I’d like to see that beautiful smile more,” or “You sure, girl?  I could help you with your writing,” so I was intrigued.  Those are the lame lines I’m used to getting.  Still, I let him walk away and I finished up my essay and then just sipped the remainder of my whiskey and wondered why it’s Swiss guards that guard the Vatican.  That can be my next essay.  I packed up my backpack and was mentally committed to leaving, but thug boy was right at my twelve o’ clock, so I felt compelled to say hi/bye.  I walked over to him and of course it didn’t turn into a goodbye.  It turned into a fun twenty minute conversation where we laughed about how my wallet looks like it belongs to a Grandpa, and how Patron is for posers.

Then he asked me the inevitable question… “do you date black guys?”

I can depend on getting that question from just about every black guy who hits on me.  It’s not so much sad to me as it is just utterly baffling!  Maybe if we were living in backward town Mississippi, I would understand that question, but not here, in Tampa, Florida amongst young people!  Apparently though, plenty of girls do say that no, they don’t date black guys.  What the fuck.  What in the hell is wrong with everyone?  First of all, don’t you people know that mixed babies are the prettiest!  I take that as an evolutionary sign that races are intended to mix.  They take on the best genes of both races.  Shit, I would consider mixed people the elite!

When I ask the black boys that I date if they are offended when girls say no they don’t date black guys, they tell me that “No, it’s cool.”  What?!  No it’s not fucking cool and I’m not sure that I believe them that they’re not offended.  With that being said, I understand not being able to grow in a relationship due to cultural differences.  For example, the thug boy grew up in the projects, and I see how having a boyfriend who grew up so differently than me, would most likely leave us with difficulties being able to relate to one another.  It’s not because he’s black, it’s because it would be hard to understand each other in the long run.  Just as it would be difficult to relate to a white guy who grew up golfing and with a Senator for a father.  However, we should all still try!  This is the answer to world peace… understanding each other.  The same applies for any cultures.  I love dating people who are completely different from me, because you end up bonding over your differences instead of your similarities and that can be a very fun and ultimately mind-expanding experience.

On our first date, I was laughing when he was rolling his eyes because the only Drake song I know is that one from years ago called Take Care which features Rihanna.  He said, “Oh man, I’m going to have my hands full with how white you are.”  I punched his arm and stated, “I looked like such a fucking hipster with that stupid floppy beanie on the night we met!  You knew exactly what you were approaching!”  He laughed and agreed and then said something about “black culture” at the same time that he refused to let me open the restaurant door.  Not because I’m a lady, but because of germs, to which I shouted, “Now THAT is a black culture thing!  You guys are all germaphobes!”  He almost spit out his chocolate milk (which he made a special trip to a corner store for) laughing. I totally stand by that claim by the way.  Most black people I know are weird about germs.

About a week after that, he invited me over to watch documentaries and drink mango flavored vodka with him.  Which I of course found hilarious.  We ended up talking through the documentaries.  Naturally, sex got brought up, and it is important to note that at this point, him and I had not even held hands, let alone kiss or anything.  During our discussion, I think we both realized that we approach sex VERY differently, and we were both fascinated by the other’s perspective.  It became crystal clear that our sexual history is polarizing when he said somewhat out of nowhere,”So you don’t go down on guys?”

Me:  “Ummm yeah, sure I do.  Sometimes.”

Thug: “Oh, okay.  You just don’t seem like you would.”

I’m pretty good at reading people, and the way he said that, I immediately knew that he was absolutely not used to a girl coming over and not performing oral sex on him right away.  Of course, I just blatantly asked.

Me: “So most girls you hang out with, if they were in this exact same situation, they would just pull your pants down right now?”

Thug: “Ummm yeah.”

Now, here is where I think my lesson about getting to know people far different from you truly comes into play.  I could have easily taken offense and stormed out the door, disgusted with his overtly sexist expectations.  However, because I DO get to know all types of people, I understood that he wasn’t being rude, he was just being honest and equally as eager as myself to attempt to understand each other’s vastly different approaches toward romance and relationships.  I respected him and I could tell he respected me, and I knew that he KNEW I wasn’t going to go down on him.  This was the mutual, unspoken moment when we became just friends.

Me: “So even if you have never kissed a girl, she would do that.”

Thug: “Yeah.  I don’t really kiss.”  Pause.  I was baffled.  He continued, “You like make-out with people?”

Me: “Um, yeah!  And I think you need to recognize that you are absolutely the abnormal one in this situation.  I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say that most people round the bases in order.  You can’t just run to third base!”

He laughed.

Nothing happened that night.  Obviously.  We had an eye-opening conversation and I left.  The point I think I am trying to make is, although nothing romantic is going to come between him and I because we are too different, I think that we are both better off for getting to know each other.  We’ve actually hung out a couple of times since then as just friends and it was cool.  It’s so crucial to understand people who are different from you.  It makes you smarter, more well-rounded and ultimately a better person.  I took the time to get to know a guy who is very religious, he only listens to rap and hip hop and wears white jeans sometimes.  He also thinks kissing is foreign and he is probably a drug dealer.  He took the time to get to know a little white girl hipster and I think our eagerness to do that is saying something respectable about both of our characters’.  I just realized, after writing this whole thing, that THAT is what we have in common.  Ultimately, we had good conversation because of our differences, but we bonded because of our innate similarities, and I like to think that we are both better for it.

 

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 16

Of the eight boys that I’m semi dating right now, my favorite is my smooth boyfriend.  (Please see Vol. 14 if you’re wondering why and how I got myself into this mess.) I definitely spend the most time with him and he makes me laugh.  He gave his couch a name, he wears socks with pictures on them and he is also obsessed with salmon and has taken to texting me every single time he gets some.  “I’ve got some good news for you.  I just ate some salmon.” is the latest message I received from him.

I actually met him at least a year and a half ago when Rory and I were playing pool at a local dive bar.  A handful of us started hanging out that night and naturally, the conversation immediately turned vulgar and hilarious, so smooth boy and I have had an unspoken bond since.  When the very first conversation you have with a stranger is about anal sex, it’s safe to say that you’re bonded for life.

After that, smooth boy and I would say what’s up if we saw each other in that bar, but I didn’t even know his name and he was usually busy playing pool (it’s pretty sexy how good he is at it) and I was usually busy flirting with whoever my flavor of the month was.  For the first time since the anal conversation a year and a half ago, we had a conversation that lasted more than ten syllables just a few weeks ago, but unfortunately I was wasted.  I was a hot fucking mess that night and woke up the following morning scared that I was kissing this OTHER dude with a red beard at the bar which would be so embarrassing and white trash of me.  I decided that I did make a fool of myself at the bar and I came to this conclusion not because I remembered or had solid evidence, but because of my rule.

Caitlin Rule: Always assume the worst when trying to remember the details about the drunken night before.

Before I may or may not have been kissing red beard, I was definitely chatting it up and laughing with smooth boy.  We had chemistry and though I don’t remember what in the hell we were talking about for so long, I do remember that for a moment, it felt like we were the only two in the bar.  It would have been worth trying to see him again, but I was not about to step foot in that bar though for at least a few months, and I was confident that there was a chance that he thought I was a giant hoe, so oh well.  I’ll see him around in a few months, I thought.  A few days later, I was walking up to a restaurant to get a late night bite to eat and I hear, “Don’t you go to Harbor Bar?”  Oh shit, who is this going to be? is what I was thinking as I turned around.  It was smooth boy.  Crap.  The one person that I was the most embarrassed to see because I had accepted the fact that I had been flirting with him that night, and then started making-out with someone else at the bar in front of him.

I sucked it up though and sat down and ate some food with the guy.  Fifteen minutes into the conversation, I got the courage to just flat out ask him.  “No!  You were totally fine that night,” he said.   “I didn’t even realize you were that drunk.”  What a relief!  Whoo!  I gave myself an inner congratulations.  I must have just thought about kissing red beard.  Or maybe I kissed him outside the bar.  Who the hell knows, I’ve avoided that guy since.

Now it’s a week later and I just went to the strip club with him.  Of course, because what could be more absurd than me, a white 29 year old girl in my faded band t-shirt and leather jacket, rolling into a strip club with these motherfuckers:

Smooth boy, who is black by the way, and wearing red shoes that corresponded with the red lettering on his Nike t-shirt and immediately started yelling with his wad of one’s, “We’re going to change the weather pattern in this bitch!”

Kid bartender.  He’s a white, 21 year old kid who wears a silver chain around his neck and says bro a lot.  That makes him sound lame, but it is important to note that he is very sexy and I would cougar the shit out of him.  Well, not now because he is smooth boys’ friend and I do have some morals.  But, I am willing to bet that Kid bartender could get laid every single night of the week by a different girl if he wanted to.  He’s sweet and I can relate to him because we both recognize the fact that the only reason why the opposite sex is attracted to us, is because of our hair.

Sweet M.  She’s a big black woman, probably in her 40’s, who wears a fake ponytail and big pink t-shirts.  She’s hilarious and has game!  If you could have seen her in that strip club, she was giving us all lessons on how to be a player.  She is a wonderful lady, gives the best hugs and I love being around her.

So that was our motley crew at the strip club.  Kid Bartender and Sweet M were getting lap dances in the back while Smooth boy and I were failing at getting a drink.  The bartender in that place seemed to be the only person who was drunk in that whole establishment.  Getting three beers was a fifteen minute ordeal due to her temporary inability to see, hear or have authority of her motor functions.

Each of them EASILY dropped $250 that night.  I just sat back and let everyone entertain me.  The crew that I was with was just as entertaining as the strippers were.  When a song came on that he liked, Smooth boy would yell at whoever was on stage, “Oooo girl, you better do something good with this song!”  Then he would literally run over to the stage, hold a wad of cash in front of the stripper like a launch vessel that he was teasing them with.  If they sucked, he had no issues with shouting advice at them.

One stripper had this fringe type, belly dancer thing around her waist.  It was pretty annoying because it made that obnoxious sound, so Smooth boy took it upon himself to let the manager who was walking by know.  “That Moroccan bitch has got to go.  Get this girl back on stage,” he said as he pointed to the stripper that Sweet M was whispering to who looked like they pulled her straight out of the Amazon.

Later, I heard that jingle jangling approaching and Smooth boy and I immediately made eye contact and said at the same time, “here comes the Moroccan bitch!”  When she walked by, he said, “Morocco!  What’s up?  Girl, we knew that was you coming.”  I don’t think she got it, but I thought it was hysterical, and him and I high-fived and were laughing our asses off.  One of the things that I do like about Smooth boy, is that he initiates high fives with me.  A lot of boys hate high-fiving their girlfriends or any girl who they may want in their bed at any time in their life for that matter.  I’m not exactly sure why, but it seems to be a thing.

I would like to note that we were all sober.

During all this, Kid Bartender was leaning back with his feet propped up, while the strippers came to him and he nonchalantly put a wad of dollars in their thong like a pro.

The night ended with me and Smooth boy on his couch that he has named, watching Family Guy and discussing the best ways to prepare salmon.  Perfect night.

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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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Part 2 of 2: Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 12

…to be continued…

So I drive the child home and I was not planning on exiting my vehicle, but somehow this gem must have convinced me. I don’t remember the details. He tried to get me to go up to his apartment, but that was not happening. So we were walking around his apartment complex, which seemed like a good idea because it was giving me time to sober up before driving home. Of course this led to the kiss because why not?  I’m willing to exploit myself in the name of a good story. We were kissing for a couple of seconds when he stopped and said, “by the way, my name is….”

My first thought as he’s saying this sentence was, I don’t give a fuck what your name is! But then we get to the end of the sentence and he says, Fat Face. Obviously, that’s not a direct quote, but he has the same goddamn name as my Fat Face. The whole reason I was in this mess was because I was pissed at Fat Face, and now the child had the same name as him. I couldn’t do it anymore and I literally starting laughing in this poor kid’s face. He didn’t get it, so I just said, “Of course your name is______.” He still didn’t get it, so when in doubt, smile and nod. Which he did. Good boy.

Then he attempted for the third time to get me up to his apartment, which I will admit, I now considered because this whole situation was just becoming more and more entertaining, but I do have some level of self-respect. I ended it there, I think I gave him a friend pat on the shoulder and said goodbye.

Little did I know, Fat Face was on the other side of town, basically doing the same exact thing as I was.

The next day Fat Face called me, and I thought it was going to be to apologize. Of course not!  He was calling to ask if I knew any remedies to get rid of hickeys.  Fist of all, no.  I have never had a hickey in my life because I think they’re incredibly tacky and disrespectful and I don’t put up with that kind of behavior.  Second of all, I’m still mad at you!  Thirdly, who the fuck are you letting give you a hickey you schmuck?  She better be flippin’ hot! Fat Face doesn’t take things too seriously, so normally he wouldn’t give a shit about a couple of hickeys on his neck, but it was the day of his high school reunion. I took pleasure in this.

He begins to tell me of the events leading up to getting his neck mauled, and I find out that he too went out after our war of words, he too somehow got to talking to someone who he was not into and she too was a child. Just like my child, Fat Face’s child tried to seduce him, but was turned-down. To Fat Face’s honor, for a guy, he is capable of showing amazing restraint even when he’s intoxicated. I wasn’t planning on telling him about my previous night’s escapade, but when he told me about his, it was all too much of a coincidence and I had to let him in on it.

To top it all off, while my two boys have the same name, my name also came up in his night out too! In his half-assed attempt at stopping their make-out session, he tried the excuse, “I have a girlfriend.” She wasn’t buying it.

“No you don’t.”

“Yeah I do…”

“What’s her name?”

“Caitlin.”

Of course, my name was the first one that he thought of.  Not thirty seconds after claiming to have a girlfriend named Caitlin, he receives a text message from me which she sees. Brilliant. I couldn’t have planned the parallels of this night if I tried. My text came immediately after I left the child, and it was my drunk way of trying to be mysterious and take a stab at Fat Face. It just read, “I hope you’re entertained.” God I was being dramatic.  Fat Face probably just rolled his eyes at my text and then continued his make-out session.

He never thinks that the situations him and I consistently get ourselves into are as hilarious as I do, and this time was no different. He laughs, but then he’s just like, “Yeah, cool Cait.”

Later that night, to get even with him, I would crash his reunion. They were at the “after party” at some dive bar on the beach. Before I got pissed at him, I was encouraging and hoping that he’d “re-meet” someone. After his asshole statement from the night prior though, I was now prepared to sabotage. I love Fat Face no matter what, so had he sounded like he was actually having a good time and asked me not to come, I would have respected that regardless of my current disdain for him. When he called me however, I could tell that he needed his partner in crime to spice things up.

When I arrived, I immediately began Mission Embarrass Fat Face. I was yelling through the bar lies like Fat Face had herpes… he was recently incarcerated for having sex with a minor… that he had three nipples, anything that came to mind. I was also pointing out his hickeys to everyone. I was being so obnoxious.

Fat Face is always a good sport though, and he didn’t give a fuck, so he was just laughing and joining in. It basically turned into a Cait and Fat Face performance, and people just started staring awkwardly the way you do when you’re watching two apes fondle each other at the zoo. We were shouting obscenities and literally gleeking whiskey onto each other’s faces.

I went to the same high school and was the class just under him, so I knew a lot of the people there.  A few of them I of course have mild history with, so that made things even more interesting. When a couple of people asked if Fat Face and I were now dating, I told them that we did for a little while, but then shit got weird when we found out that my mom’s great uncle’s nephew is Fat Face’s dad, so it just didn’t work out. I couldn’t tell if these people actually believed me or not, I was just impressed with my improv skills.

Once it became clear that we had officially scared everyone away from us, we went down onto the dance floor that had ZERO people on it, a fucking ugly cheap disco light thing, god awful music playing and a random hoola hoop on the ground. Of course we went on to make utter fools of ourselves by white people dancing together and attempting to hoola hoop, then integrating the hoola hoop with our god awful dancing.

After sufficiently embarrassing ourselves enough to call it a night, we left and decided to walk on the beach for a while to sober up before driving home. In true Fat Face and Caitlin style, we stripped down to our underwear and jumped into the Gulf. I can’t believe we did this because it was dark, so we obviously couldn’t see into the water and that’s always terrifying, but he always brings out the adventurous side of me.

Once we both made it home, it must have been around 3:00am, and I texted him saying that he is now obligated to come to my reunion next year. He said, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” I told him no, there’s no option, to which he responds with,

“Don’t care. Passing out.”

God I love him.

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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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Love in the Time of Amenorrhea

We all know how much I despise discussing my menstrual cycle, but it is necessary to preface this entry with stating that I have not had my period in eight months.  This disorder is called, “Amenorrhea” and is common in girls my age.  It can be caused by many things, stress being one of them, which is the cause in my case.  I have not been taking care of myself, so my body is pissed off at me, and lashing out by not allowing me my period.  This may sound like a gift, but I promise it’s not, it’s really unhealthy.  Keeping all of that in mind, now let me move on to the story which correlates with this information.

My best friend Lance is in town visiting.  Since I left Florida over a year ago, I have only seen him one other time, when I went home for a wedding.  This has been hard on me because Lance is my better half.  I’m going to full on embrace the cheesiness and go as far as saying that he completes me.  I like myself when we’re together, we can talk about everything, and we always have so much fun.

He’s staying with some other friends of ours, but I decided to kidnap him for the night, bring him out with me and then have him crash at my place.  Best idea I’ve ever had.  We knock on the door of the wannabe speakeasy that I discussed in Confessions Vol. 8, and Adam, the door guy who I befriended during my last visit, opens the peek hole.  “I smell hair,” I say reluctantly, rolling my eyes at the ridiculous password.  “Do you?”  he says back, granting us access, and so the night begins.

Inside, there were two other patrons, a karaoke host, the door guy and the bartender.  That’s it.  So of course, because I’m with Lance, the two of us make it a great time. We kick off with our awful rendition of “Lola” by the Kinks.  One thing leads to another, and we’re pretty much best friends with the three staff members.  We were all buying each other shots, dancing, hooting and hollering and just having what was essentially our own private party.  Right about now, is when I don’t remember a good two hours of the night.  Lance filled me in a bit, and from the sounds of it, I was having a grand ole’ time.  We decided that the party was not over when the bar closed, so myself, Lance and the bartender, whose name I believe is Brian, decided to walk to a 24 hour Korean BBQ restaurant.

I proceeded to throw-up in the bathroom, which just needed to happen, and then continued with my evening.  Lance and Brian were making fun of me the whole night for it, but it didn’t bother me.  It was funny, and I owned it.

Caitlin Rule:  If you throw-up, own up.  It’s way more embarrassing to try to deny it when everyone knows it happened.

Lance and I began rapping a song that our friend made-up, with lyrics that say, “Bitch you better suck my dick / Now put your pussy in the air and get fucked.”  I think it’s hilarious, and hopefully everyone else in the restaurant did too… because we were loud.  I remember there being a whole fish, eyeball and all in front of me, so being the mature adult that I am, I plucked the eyeball out and put it in Lance’s soup.  Throughout all of this, Brian and I are exchanging physical flirtation.  Gently holding hands under the table… touching my leg… and so on, but thinking back, I have NO idea why, because I was a HOT MESS.  I’m pretty sure my hair looked like I had just been skydiving, and there may or may not have been a piece of vomit on my face… and I’m also pretty sure that Brian was sober.  Why in God’s name a very cool, sober guy with no agenda would want to be within ten feet of me that night, let alone hold my hand, is beyond me, but I’m not going to complain.

From there, we drove up to the Griffith Observatory, which is on top of Mount Hollywood, and has one of the best views of the city.  I flung my heels off and ran to the ledge, where I was met with a view that never gets old.  The city lights against the night sky.

Me and my heels at 4:00 in the morning, against the back drop of Los Angeles.

Sorry the picture is dark, but that’s why it’s the best look-out point, because it’s the Observatory, so there are no lights.

The three of us sat up there and talked, and this is when I finally started sobering up.  Lance disappeared to the other side for a while, so Brian and I had some one-on-one time, during such, I realized that he’s probably the most genuine guy I’ve met in Los Angeles.  He radiated this humbleness that is so rare out here because everyone has an agenda.  I can’t hate, because I’m the same way, we’re all out here for something.  Everything in LA is so fast-paced, that even human interactions are rushed.  But not this night… this night felt real.

The industrial sized sprinklers came on, and after our pretty bonding session, I grabbed Brian’s hand and we ran together through the sprinklers.  Surprisingly, he didn’t object or hesitate at all, and completely went with it.  Without even thinking, I turned around, dripping in reclaimed water, and kissed him.  Again, he went with it.  It only lasted for a second, but became one of my favorite kisses ever because of the innocence behind it.

Lance and I then ran through the sprinklers together, as Brian sat on the sidewalk, waiting with my heels and anklet ready for me.  Perfect way to end the night, running through sprinklers with your best friend just before the dawn.  We drove Brian home, and part of me wants to seek him out again, but the other part of me wants never to see him again, because I don’t know if it will ever be as perfect.

Lance and I passed out on my bed, and the next day, I got my period.  I don’t think this can be brushed off as a coincidence.  Being with Lance again made me remember who I am.  Being with him and a stranger, letting the night take us all for a ride made me feel alive and all of my stress was alleviated, even if only for a short time.  So maybe the cure for Amenorrhea is simply a single dose of love.

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Confessions of a Make-out Whore

I think I’m finally starting to establish a group of friends out here in L.A.  Well, I was anyway.  I did my typical thing recently where I fall off the radar completely for a few weeks and just ignore everyone.  But!  That’s irrelevant.  We were all hanging out in Silverlake a couple of weeks ago, (the fucking hipster capital of the world) and I was very proud of myself because I didn’t get too drunk and do anything stupid that would make me want to punch myself in the stomach over the next day.  One of the guys’ drove me back to my car at the end of the night.  I don’t know him too well because like I said, this is a sort of budding, newly established friend circle, but he and I have good “friend chem” and while yes, I would say I’m somewhat attracted to him, I could easily go on, just being strictly platonic friends.

He caught me off guard when, almost in the middle of our conversation, he boldly moved closer to me and said, “I want to see what you kiss like.”  I think I might have laughed out loud because it was so honest and such a “friend” way to start kissing.  I didn’t object because how could I?  It was such a hilariously awesome way to initiate a kiss, so I had to just go with it.

That’s the end of my story.  Nothing too insane happened after that.  We kissed for a minute, and then just continued conversing and hanging out.    At one point he did say, “It’s weird that I want to fuck you and talk to you.”  Which also made me laugh out loud.  Obviously, with boys these two notions do not always go hand in hand.

Dear Single Life,

Thanks for all of the great/awkward/hilarious/fucked-up/hot/unexpected experiences.

Love,

Caitlin

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Dear Bearded Musicians,

Please do not get married.  I ask this of you because inevitably you and I will meet, have an annoyingly profound connection, and we’ll both be sorry about that wedding band around your finger that is now suffocating the both of us.  Thanks!

Love,

Caitlin

Epilogue:  I am cursed with falling in love with every guy I come across with an acoustic guitar, tattoos, a beard and a raspy voice.  That may sound incredibly specific, but I would say at least one out of every four musician’s fall into that category.  Fuck my life.

Like many of my tales, this one starts at a bar.  I wasn’t there for five minutes before I made “The Iron Man Eye-Contact.”  This type of eye-contact is very different from typical flirty, eye-fucking exchanges that are made between you and a hot stranger.  Iron Man Eye-Contact only comes around a handful of times in life, and it’s like when Iron Man is in his helmet, and he targets someone and the red lights start flashing, the two of you are locked in… there’s no going back and all of this information appears about the target.

His name was Pete, and I can’t stop thinking about him.  Jesus Christ.  When I looked at him, it was just like Iron Man’s instant information stream.  I felt like I already knew so much about him and knew we would instantly vibe.  He walked past me, and did one of those unnecessary touching your back things while saying excuse me, even though there is plenty of room to pass without the physical contact.  Okay, done.  I was wet just from that, so I knew I was saying hi to him on his way back over.

Just as expected, we immediately hit it off in a way that made it feel like it was scripted dialogue.  Three minutes into the conversation I find out he’s in a band.  Of course.  Fifteen minutes in I find out he plays guitar in the band.  Of course.  Beard, of course.  Tattoos, of course.  Raspy voice… considering my curse, I would say it’s safe to assume that is another, of course.

Eighteen minutes in and he grabs me by the hand, leading me to a quieter area of the bar.  Wet.  Twenty-five minutes into the conversation, my friends that I drove with are ready to leave, so I’m about to mention that we should meet again, and I see the wedding ring glaring at me, radiating energy as if it’s the friggen ring from Lord of the Rings.  It was a stab to the stomach.  First of all, you’re a touring musician and you’re married?!  What is wrong with you?  Secondly, fuck you and me!  We’re both screwed now because I know you felt it too.  So I said bye and just left.  I’m sure I’ll never see that Pete again, but I know that I’ll forever think that we both probably missed out on something really good.

So, my bearded tattooed guitar playing friends, the moral of the story is:

Do not get married, because with my curse, there is a strong possibility that the two of us will meet and both want to rip out our eyeballs if you are.

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