You'll Never Be a First Class Blogger, or a First Class Human Being, Until You Learn to Have Some Small Regard for Human Frailty

So I finally did it. And by it, I mean the sex. That's right, this 20 year old virgin is no longer one and in two months, no longer the other. I always thought that once I lost this V card, I'd be a new person and to a certain extent I am. Rest assured, I'm still the bitter, sarcastic asshole you fell in love with so many moths ago, but I must say, I am not as needy as before. How I longed for companionship! For a cute, shaggy boy who rested beatifically in my bed as I stared at his quietly heaving chest and relished the joy that I knew he was mine, all mine. However, after experiencing just one night of intimacy with another person, I quickly realized that I am in no way ready for a relationship for the simple fact that I don't like to be touched. Let me start from the beginning.

Wednesday night, last week, I was more bored than usual and a special kind of stoned, the kind that makes you do dumb shit even though you know how dumb said shit is. Taking a cue from my roommate, one Ms. Runaround Spatz, I took to craigslist to find some possible action. After posting an ad of my own, as well as answering a few other posts, I finally got a response that tickled my desperate fancy. The inquirer had seen my post and sent along a few pictures of himself for my pondering. He was 39 which was in itself a turn on for me--daddy complex--and he didn't look THAT bad. I mean, his picture was somewhat blurry, but he would do. He also claimed to have an 8 incher and who am I to turn that down? As became vividly clear, I should have. I called the number he gave me after a series of emails and was voice to voice with someone who sounded as if he were missing a couple teeth. But boy was I determined. I had reached a certain point where I just needed to be touched and it really didn't matter, in my mind, who it was. So I left my apartment at 3:00 in the morning to head to Queens. It took a longer time than I had hoped as the G is the worst train to ever run underground and I really think it hates me. I ended up deep into Queens due to the G running express, then I had to double back and ride somewhere into Astoria. All the while, I imagined hooking up with my 39-year old. i romanticized our encounter to such an extent that the actual experience would have to be a let down. Unfortunately, that would be putting it far too lightly.

I ended up at my designated stop at around 3:40. I alerted my intended paramour on his home phone. He didn't have a cell phone, which really should have been a tell-tale sign that this guy was a loser. Still, I remained determined. I waited in what closely resembled the ghetto, but lacked the menace and the bravado, for a solid ten to fifteen minutes, baked and drifting away on my iPod. Then I saw a tiny little man speeding his way towards me. I knew it had to be him, and for a split second I considered ducking into the subway before he saw me. But I had travelled so far and it was so late that I had no choice but to go through it. The little man first went up to an angry looking black man, mistakig him for me, so I went up to him to avoid further confusion. In the light of the street lamps I saw what I had truly gotten myself into. He was short, 5'7 his email had said-that was certainly true. He looked older than his stated 39 years, however: sharp, jagged cheekbones, pale skin, my suspicion of his missing teeth painfully confirmed. Bedecked in his best turquoise shirt, acid-washed mom jeans and a pony tail, he seemed eager to meet me. And by meet, I mean fuck. Clearly. I could not bring myself to match his entusiasm, but I tried to converse with him as best as I could. I can't remember what we actually talked about as with most people, his words went in one ear and out the other. I could only think of how bad an idea this was.

We got back to his "apartment." A house, in which he rented a solitary room, filled with piano keyboards. Oh, yes, he was a pianist. Of the classical variety, though he purported to be able to play anything. We silently crept up to his room, and I though how absurd it was that a 39 year old man had to sneak men into his room the same way a 15 year old might in a similar situation. Though I hope that no fifteen year olds are trolling craigslist at 3 am. As soon as he closed the door to his room, he proceeded to undo the top buttons to his turqouise shirt, put his hands around my waist and gently grind his groin into mine. I stood frozen in a mix of fear and repulsion, my arms up in apprehension. Sensing this, he backed off. I thought that I could leave, I should leave, but I had travelled so damn far that I thought that maybe at least I'd suck the guy off. I sat on his futon and talked to him, simultaneously trying to convince myself that I could in fact go through with this. I also thought it in poor taste to leave so soon after getting there. So we sat down and smoked a joint--hence, the night wasn't completely a bust. In between drags, he told me his life story and I listened patiently. He told me of the time he lived in Australia, this girl he became fast friends with, who was unaware that he was gay and who later fell for him and wanted to date him. Forced to tell her the truth, they eventually came to a compromise so that he could sleep with one guy a week, but he had to be with her the rest of the time. It worked out for a little while, but he fell for some guy and his relationship and friendship with the girl suffered as a result. As he told his story, I felt as if I was in my own bildungsroman and as a matter of fact, I was coming of age but this would not be the man who would be the catalyst to my sexual awakening. I didn't want that dick, no matter how big it supposedly was, anywhere near me. After he asked if I had ever taken poppers, I decided it was time to go. I excused myself on the basis that I wasn't "really feeling this," which he understood and we shook hands goodbye.

In the night air again, I felt such relief at not having gone through with his intentions that I nearly jogged home. The trains, however, did not share my enthusiasm, and I got turned around several times on my journey home, finally plopping down on my air mattress at around 5 a.m. I got three hours of sleep, but the following day I was rather amused at what had happened/didn't happen the night before. If anything, I thought, it would make a great story or a sub-standard blog entry. Case in point. Despite this entire situation, I remained steadfast. I was a man on a mission. I resumed my craigslisting, this time armed with the knowledge hard won in Queens the night before. I saw this ad for a cute white guy looking for a black top, and as I was a virgin, I figured I could pull that off. After another series of emails and exchanged pictures, he gave me his phone number. I called and he seemed cool, down to earth, and he was 2 stops away so that was also a plus. I left to meet him at around 10, bidding adieu to Runaround and her ex, Cookie Puss Darvish, amidst wishes of good luck. Outside, it wasn't as cold as I had previously thought, so I decided to walk. On the way, I phoned a few of my closest friends to alert them of what might be trangressing in a matter of minutes or hours. That cocktail of emotions similar to going into a final or going out onstage to perform overtook me: fear, anxiety, excitement, panic and joy. I hoped this time would be different, that this guy would live up to my irrealistic standards or at least to my much lowered expectations.

We met outside of this gay bar in Williamsburg, and he was indeed as cute as his picture, if not a bit heavier than I would have cared for. He waddled. But, I tried to get passed that. After all, I'm not (that) shallow. His name was Sean and he was 24 and had just quit his job running tne North American division of this European furniture company which he insited on pronouncing with a pretentious French accent. He had quit due to someone he couldn't stand to work with, but the company apparently wanted him back so they were going to find a way to get rid of the other guy in order to bring Sean back, with more money. He was well spoken, no trace of the Nebraskan accent he must have worked hard to eliminate. He didn't have a college degree, he had dropped out early to pursue job offers he was getting though he's going back to finish in the near future. At the bar, he ordered for me and bought my drinks, making me feel like the lady I so often pictured myself as. We went outside to the courtyard area, sat and talked for a bit. He was really into touching and kissing in public and I was not. PDA is for exhbitionists and assholes. I've always mantained that position and I doubt I'll ever change. There's just something about something so personal in a public setting that upsets and distrubs me and reeks of desperation. I like to keep my desperation to myself, thank you. Despite this minor foul, I found myself liking Sean. It was something like chemistry, or maybe it was the beer. In hindsight, it might have been a mix of both and also a touch of that personal desperation to like someone and have them like me back.

We had the typical getting-to-know-you banter and he kept touching my leg, my arm, my face and tried to kiss me, sometimes succeeding and always asking if I was comfortable with it, to which I lied so that he wouldn't stop liking me. After our second round of Bud Lights, we absconded to his place. But before getting there, we stopped at a market so he could pick up some Smirnoff and some other little things. He should have gotten some lambskin condoms while he was at it. When we finally arrived to his apartment, I was pleasantly surprised. It was cute, well-decorated and he raved about the down comforter. Instead of getting straight to the task at hand, we went out and talked some more, over the bottles of Smirnoff. He revealed to me that he really liked me, through text message, and I responded that I really wanted to date him, a confession I thought was real and true, as I was taking one of many whizzes through the night. Thoughts of us dating and cuddling and being a couple flooded my head. Isn't this what I wanted? Didn't I want to couple with someone? I tried to convince myself that yes, it was what I wanted. I'm always trying to convince myself of something rather than facing the blank truth for what it is. In all honesty, I wasn't really attracted to Sean. He was cute, smart, kind of funny, successful, everything I should be attracted to. But there were certain things I couldn't quite get over.

Finally, he was ready to have sex. I won't go into details because I, myself, don't want to relive them. But dude had a small dick. And he was a bit of a whiner, constantly making baby noises and at one point in the night he nudged his head up against me like a neglected kitten. I don't really do that. And he also wanted to have sex without a condom because he was allergic to latex. And I REALLY don't do that. Eventually he let up and let me fuck him with the latex. I don't want to brag or anything--and if you know me you know that's a boldface lie--but he asked me to stop because I was hurting him. I mean, yes he had already come, but still, do with that as you will. I however, didn't get off that night. You would think that I would be the one most upset at that, but Sean felt that he hadn't done me a good service as my first time. I really didn't care and was ready to go to bed. The plan as we had decided earlier was for me to sleep in his bed and then I'd wake and go home to get ready for the day. Instead, he asked me to leave, out of shame, or maybe he was just done with me; either way, I still didn't care. I might not have came, but I saw and I conquered.

On my way home, I called bff and hag extraordinaite, Karma to let her know that I had gone through with it. She was happy for me, as was I, but I still felt somewhat empty. Sean had asked what I had rough plans to spend the weekend together and I was supposed to call him the next day. Yet, when the next day came, I didn't call. I didn't want to. In the dark I had liked him, I had wanted to be with him but with the light of day came all this second-guessing. I focused on all that was wrong with him and the more I thought about it, the more turned off I became. He was too fat, too hairy, too pale, too needy, too touchy feely and I dreaded having to see him again. So Friday came and went and I didn't call. Then Saturday and I was a bit more comfortable in my decision to abstain. By Sunday, I was over it. Runaround Spatz asked if I felt comfortable around him. And I didn't. I didn't feel like myself. He had come on to strong too soon and had scared me away. That was the real root of it. Everything else I didn't like about him was only magnified by my discomfort around him. And like that, I had turned a corner. From being hapless virgin to that asshole who says he'll call but never will. How quickly one grows up when given the right circumstances.

I watched The Philadelphia Story on Saturday It's one of my favorite films and has been for years. I always likened myself to the protagonist, Tracy Lord as brought to magnificent life by the incomparable Kate Hepburn. She was so cool, so distant, so unapproachable and could disarm anyone with a cold, withering stare. I respected her and those qualities so that I wanted to embody them, to be Tracy Lord. And I guess I got what I wanted. In the film, her first marriage, to Cary Grant's C.K. Dexter Haven, doesn't work because she is so cool, frigid, really, so distant and so unapproachable that she refuses to sleep with him. Dexter remarks to her that she'll "never be a first class woman, or a first class human being until you learn to have some small regard for human frailty." On the eve of her second marriage, she undergoes a transformation through the help of Dexter and James Stewart's Macauly Connor. She learns that being an icy goddess prevents you from loving and being truly loved. Maybe the problem wasn't with Sean, but with me. Hell, it probably was with me. I know I'm distant and can seem cold and foreboding, but it works for me. In fact, I prize myself on it. To me, the world is two-faced, cruel and horribly unforgiving. Thus keeping people at arms length prevents me from being hurt. And yes, it also prevents me from loving anyone more than as a friend, or being loved as more than such, but...I don't need that. At least not right now. I'm not a first class human being and I don't want to be. One day I'll inevitably have to be though it will take the right man to convince me it's worth it. If anything I've taken away from this experience, it's peace of mind. Now that I'm no longer emblazoned with my personal scarlet letter, V, I feel as if a weight's been lifted. So I may be ready to let someone in sooner than I know. Or I could just end up fucking any and everything that walks. Either way, I'm fine with it. Rats off to ya, kids.