Hahaha

I've moved the blog again. Come find me.

Haha

I can’t take this feeling in my heart anymore
Time for me to step and make my way through the door
If by chance I see you on this road once again
I can guaranty you that I will not pretend

Ok, so what’s new is it really the old pursued?
- Catdiesel [K-OS]

She is stealing my soul

Via Solipsism, aka This Is Not a Blog
PS: Digging that new name there

We've all heard the term "gratuitous sex." Lately, I feel like it's the only kind I've been having - and to be perfectly honest, that's the way I want it. I know that I've been heeing and hawing about leaving the safe and satisfying realm of "making love," but times they are a' changin. The past several years have been full of back-to-back serious relationships, and I've realized that I'm not about to fall in love with anyone, so I might as well stop wasting my time finding someone to make love to.

For a split second, I seriously considered celibacy. I thought about self-respect and the daunting task of putting myself out in the dating world again. I thought about my self-image and the effort to make a relationship successful. And then I realized I was putting too much thought into it. Dating doesn't have to be a stepping stone to anything serious, and sex can be fun without overcomplicating my life. Why make dating and sex such loaded issues? Why not dive into life and see what I come up with?

*
- Thank goodness you realized upon meeting me that I'm a work-in-progress. It's impossible to limit my transitions from who I am today to who I am tomorrow, and you respect that and you respect me. For that, I will always be grateful.


Well. Get out of my head, you.

Soupa-Bowl

Wow. Beautiful game. Even my eyes were glued to the screen. It helped to be caught in between hoping for the Patriots to win -- Wife had a bet on them that involved me getting a new pair of shoes -- and for the Giants, because that.. hope, and hype, and NY alliance... sucked me in since the last/first game I watched. Intense. Go giants.

And..


Racist?

Am I being overly sensitive?

*

[Addon]
It's not the game that did me in. It's the drive home that made me elated to be a New Yorker. People standing outside. Shouting out the window and everyone honking horns at each other. It brings strangers together and shit, it just feels good to cheer like an animal in the streets. Brooklyn had many friends tonight

Happy Superbowl.

Sex

let me speak candidly.

fuck if it actually
factors in past hurts and
tactlessly lasts with me...
Surely the faster we master
the act of compassion we'd answer
these questions more truthfully

Clueless to how the
emotions can rule us, we
do this to others at first opportunity
trying to spin this "love" thing into
monsters we
constantly
try to apply that shit logically

dodging the hurt that
converses nostalgically
verbal abuse makes its presence a noun
solid, it lessens the strength of obsession when
honesty festers and
messes around

"love" is an action, a view and a saying
so I can relate to why you say "expression" -- but

Love

is a fraction of our state of being
and often mistaken for fleeting when bound

maybe we're taking the wrong definition, for
Passion
devours the rest of our whole
one cannot truly exist without other so
lovers confuse the two conflicting roles

you say that the broken can always be mended but
how many women conform to their men?
how many of em distorted their morals and
suddenly found themselves shorted again?

love makes you do
stupid things just to
save
or remain
or be needed
or be validated

but writers will know when
the moment is over
and give it a name
much less complicated

Venturing Out Into the... Well, the Expected

I've had my share of gay rumors throughout my life; I was first made aware of them around 15 or so. I dismissed them with a grin, taking it as a compliment, explaining the truth. I went to an extremely liberal art high school in the city, and my best friend at the time was a declared bisexual white girl that flitted easily between cliques and groups. We were seen together everywhere, and it was just assumed that she and I were messing around.

Fueling the rumors was the assumption that Dynasty was a great big ho. My clothes were form fitting, yes. I will admit that I wasn't as concerned with style then as I am now, so all it really was was tight jeans and hugging tanktops. I had a body to show off, but here's what sealed the deal: I had -- nay, have -- a walk that could put a seasoned hooker to shame. My height complex demanded that I wore heels every day, and my swagger demanded that I wore them slow. My hips have a beat of their own, and it brought repetition to my name in their mouths. I learned to shrug it off quick, so I floated through the halls decidedly ignorant to what could have been said. Things always found their way back to me, though.

As it turns out, they were confused. Here is this Great Big Ho, look... but why isn't she talking to any of the dudes? She always hangs around other chicks, and gay people. And her best friend is that lesbian girl.

OHHHHHhhhh.

That was easily explained. I was in a long-term relationship at the time with a guy who didn't go to my school. There was a 4-year age difference, and I wasn't comfortable with mixing crowds then in general anyway. People didn't know he existed unless I spoke about him, and I deflected all advances sent my way with a respectful, "I have a boyfriend, but thank you." I'd hang out with a few of them, occasionally flirt back; perhaps boys in general were shyer at that age, because I didn't get that many offers. Then again, almost everyone I ever befriended, male and female alike, first judged me to be a huge bitch. A few have told me that they were surprised I was such a dork; I had initially intimidated them and they would never have guessed that I'd buckle into a conversation. Maybe they just weren't aggressive. It doesn't matter.

I didn't know my friend was gay until after I befriended her. Didn't change a thing.

And, what the fuck. If you go to an art school, you're bound to come across some kick ass gay people. Doesn't make a difference to me either way. The people I hung out with just happened to erect oppositely.

Not to say that I didn't speak with ANY of the fellas there... I might have had a mild affair (which I managed to keep very discreet); I wasn't loyal to my boyfriend throughout the entire 4 years of high school, no. But, I would never bring shit into the place I slept. Having affairs with people in such an immediate community is asking for trouble. You only do shit like that if you want to get caught, and I didn't. Throughout all of my high school career, I must have verbally spoken with a heaping handful of males within those walls.

On top of that, I've always had an affinity for the female form. Before I even knew how to draw like I do now, I was breaking out sketches of nudes at the age of 10. I'd simply seen something and imitated it, eventually it became my defining style. Sexuality in the female form found itself in the hipbones I shaded in, the dip I carved into the lower back, the plush of her smirk, the glint of her eyes. I was always absorbing the shape of a woman with my gaze, appreciating the diagonals and curves that bent light.

I am an ass girl. Somehow it turned into a second nature. Perhaps it was growing up around males, perhaps I secretly am gay, but now I understand the man's plight. I check out every ass that passes by me in the street, consciously or not. I dismiss them from memory if they are subpar, I drag my eyes along their path if they catch my attention. Needless to say, my boyfriends have all appreciated this trait in me. It made looking less thrilling and secretive, but now we had a new game to play. We bonded.

As far as sexual urges went, they never really became urgent. I was blessed to be constantly surrounded by a plethora of the coveted, I was a lucky bitch. We would be passing lunch in the art office, and somehow one would convince the sex-faced wild-haired double-D dominican virgin to lift up her shirt and show us her heft. I've taken PG-21 pictures, actually, with her back in the day. There have been moments where I felt the urge to press my lips against a friend's collarbones; sometimes I'd want to take an earlobe between my teeth. I've made out with a few women, and very rarely I would get a hot throb in response to a gesture, a comment, a coy look. I've never been tempted to pursue a romantic relationship with a woman, nor have I ever flashed into fantasies of one buried between my thighs or vice versa. It just didn't occur to me. Factor in that occasionally, my gutter-girl strut will slacken into an admittedly masculine stroll (it's been pointed out to me that my swagger changes sex very often), it's easy to understand why I get assumed to be a bisexual all the time.

Shrug. Lately, my mind has been wandering. I mean, what if? Not purely for sexual purposes, obviously, but what would dating a woman be like? Could I do it? Something changed in the past half decade, and I'm not quite sure what it is. I wouldn't say that I now have thrilling urges to dig a woman out with my undoubtable oral skills (ha!), but there seems to be an acceptance within me that says, it's time. You can explore now, when you're ready. I'm leaving the window open.

My homegirl NN is in an amazing relationship with a woman she met a few years ago. They live together, they support each other, they've met each others families and they vibe together. They have their tough moments, but they are so in love. I was over there a few weekends ago, and saw two pieces of paper taped to the mirror. It said, in script and rainbow glitter, "Paula loves you." When I turned around to ask about it, NN had seen it and her face broke out into the sweetest, youngest, proudest grin. Her voice went up into a soft, raspy croon, and she was three seconds from clasping her hands to her chest and swaying. She said that they had been fighting; then she received an envelope in the mail. When she opened it up, everything was forgotten. It came with a note which contents I will not disclose, but what stuck with me was when NN said that ten years ago, she would never have imagined herself in a relationship with a woman, so happy where she is. She was straight up until she met Paula. She said, "You never say never, cuz you never know."

I Hm'ed.

I've been hit on by many women who have intrigued me to no ends. I passed because I was juggling men at the time, and I don't have it in my capacity to add new complications to the list. Should I date a woman, I'd have to dedicate a whole bunch of my focus into it. It would be a new experience, one I would absorb and learn from as much as enjoy. But now, I kind of regret having told them no. Some of them looked so sweet.

Recently, my Future Tense revealed in her blog that since she's become single:

I'm dating a few people - a woman included - and remembering that pretty faces and kicking good games don't mean that people have the skills to get me off. The woman I'm seeing, PW, is hot - but more than that, she and I can vibe with each other on so many levels. With the men, it's all about looks and personality - but not intellect. I feel like now's the time that karma's biting me in the ass. It seems to be saying, "You had a good run with so many men who loved you, nurtured your spirit and intellect, and fucked you silly - and you denied each and every one of them any real opportunity at a serious, long-term relationship. Now you get to see what the other side's like."

Ignoring -- or perhaps drawn to -- the foreshadowed warning that passage implied, I said: I've been seriously considering including women into my dating peripheral. How is that going?

She replied:
Dating women is going well. After getting over the initial am-I-really-bisexual-or-am-I-just-following-the-trend introspective inspection, I've succumbed to the old Margaret Cho addage: "I went through this whole thing. I was like, 'Am I gay? Am I straight? And I realized, I'm just slutty. Where's my parade?"

Stay tuned.

Attraction, Vanity, and Validation

It's a shameful thing to admit, isn't it? Validation, our tendencies to chase after it, and that we all need it in one way or another.

Bars, clubs, lounges, corners,
Makeup, heels,
those jeans that lift your booty like THAT;
Every cleavage-enhancing top in your wardrobe,
every pair of fuck-me-pumps in your closet,
every clinging skirt that falls off of your ass
JUST so…

It’s okay. You can admit it now. You need it as much as we do. I’ll be your support group, shhhh, it’s okay.

We know how to make our curves scream. We know how to make your eyes draw. We work it because we are our own canvas, and we know how to make you – subconsciously or blatantly -- admire our art.

Where do you think our confidence comes from? Shit.

The majority of us don’t look in the mirror every morning, hands flat, elbows locked, forcefully chanting, “Yes Girl, You are Beautiful. Yes Girl, he is a FOOL for leaving you. Yes Girl, you are a Strong, Amazing Woman.” For weeks we can survive on merely giving our reflections silent nods of approval, turning to the side, cocking that hip, and admiring our figures to walk out that door completely aware of the fact that we are stunning. Our validation comes in steady waves, at least in a city like New York. The men are very open with their gazes and compliments here. They may step disrespectful more often than not, but they will let you know in one way or another that they appreciate your beauty and, in bolder cases, would like to obtain it. On a particularly good day, you will have every man passing by sizing you up in greeting. Any attractive New York City female will consider the glance-over a daily part of her routine.

I do not search the eyes of every man I pass for a sign of approval or a glance filled with lust, I honestly don’t. That kind of need for validation is glaringly obvious in the way a woman dresses, walks, and carries herself. I know that there is nothing but confidence usually emanating from my strut, my attire, and my air; I don't need to see my reflection on your face to confirm any of that. Half the time, I’m completely oblivious to the looks men give me, but my peripheral always catches a turning head or a visual undressing. I’m not stupid, I’m fly as hell. I put care into the way I look, so I rarely doubt my fire.

The validation I’m talking about is SO different from the one insecure girls seek. I’m not talking about the I-Need-Your-Penis-To-Harden-In-My-Presence-So-Ima-Play-Games-With-Your-Soul type of validation. The self-assured girl’s validation is different. Let me digress for like, two seconds, and then I’ll come right back to that.

Call me conceited, like I give a fuck. My type of pretty is not effortless. It’s not subtle, it’s not born into me, it’s not universal at the core. My type of pretty is in your face, and that’s because I pay attention to myself much more than you do. I do not have the type of attractive that will drive a man wild while I lounge in a sweatshirt and ponytail. I do not have the type of attractive that can pass off Capri pants and ballet flats. I do not own, nor will I ever be able to claim, Casual Cute. I make what I have work by knowing what doesn’t, and I apply it every day, everywhere I go.

”There is no such thing as an ugly woman, just a lazy one.
-Helena Rubenstein

Other women will be quick to say that I do it all for the attention of men. Perhaps, but get that it’s more of an added bonus, rather than a goal. I am an artist, and I am picky about the lines I create. (Son, do you not realize that the eye automatically groups like shapes and patterns together? If you have a round face, do you not see that round glasses or earrings will enhance that? It’s so subconscious, but buy you a pair of soft-edged rectangular frames and see the difference it makes. Invest in some visually vertical earrings. Do you not see that parallel laces -vs crossed- and a simple choker across your throat can make a striped shirt pop, because the eye travels all around you, and you maintain a balance with neck and foot?) I like to pay attention to the subtle things.

Ok, let me turn around and pick up where I left off. I had a couple of points to make in this post.

The street verification that keeps us steady is kind of like the confidence level, to a woman, of a man at a bar – we are only aware of its presence when there is a LACK of it, like white noise, and sudden walls of silence. People who are used to getting admired on a regular basis will suddenly realize that they haven’t gotten any looks one particular day, and suddenly feel out of place and inadequate. It’s the oddest thing. We don’t mean for it to happen, it just… kind of does.

And I know it’s not just women. My last ex had his days where his outfits were ON. POINT -- and he knew it. He’d go to work in a bravely shaded getup, his tie and his button-down the perfect pumpkin to his fitted pinstripe dress pants, hips narrow and shoulders all broad looking and stuff. He’d leave the house knowing he looked good that day. He admitted to walking down the street and being slightly confused when some of the women he passed didn’t blatantly run their eyes over his physique, because he had already grown accustomed to that kind of attention after a half hour of pedestrian traffic (yes, us city girls are eye-rapists too). The withdrawal of it shifts things into an indescribable emptiness, which The Girls and I have established as a dip in self-esteem, more often than not occurring under the radar.

For weeks we can survive on nothing but aforementioned street verification and pride. However – and every single woman has experienced this at various points of their lives – one insecure day will ruin the whole thing. A fat day, a blemish day, an acne day, a bad hair day. Getting dumped, even if it’s by someone you didn’t like. Losing your job. Getting rejected. Something will tip the scale, and the secret remedy to this heavy blanket of inadequacy is a nice, hard shot of validation. If they don’t receive it early, it will expand and grow into something much worse, much more desperate… frankly, it will turn into A Rut.

We mostly see using validation to cure insecurity woes as a disdainful, immature thing to do – but I’m not talking about acts that fuel adages like “The best way to get over someone old is to get under someone new.” No, that rarely works, at least not for the woman. We are the receivers, we end up feeling whorish and raped at the end of the day should we follow that path in some angry burst of determination. You don’t need to seal the deal with the deed in order to get what you need from the situation. You just have to be reminded that, kicks heels, yes you still got it.

All people need, in the end, is to be coveted. Admired. Wanted. Anonymously.

My girl called me a few weeks ago, and pouted into the phone. “Dynasty, I feel ugly today.” She already knows that I’m not one to lift my voice a few octaves and insist that she is beautiful, she is gorgeous, there are so many men in the world that would die to touch her, women who would kill to be her. I don’t need to tell her any of that shit, because it’s something that she should already know. She is hot as fuck. I don’t give false and unnecessary compliments, nor do I tolerate people fishing for them -- but I knew that wasn’t it, she wouldn't have called me for that. I crooned into the phone, “Let’s go get validated”; she laughed, but we never followed up. Little by little, she started feeling worse and worse about herself. All it would have taken was a smooth walk past a strip of idling dancers at a club, most likely on our way to the exit door, or the bar, or the bathroom. It’s almost guaranteed that as a female (much more as an attractive female) you’ll get welcomed hungrily by their eyes, their words, and in few unavoidable cases, their hands. It might not solve worlds of problems, but it would make you feel good about yourself without having to really give any of yourself away.

Even if it’s not that deep, just think about how groups of friends – both male and female -- get together to take a member of the fam out to a club or bar or other social scene post-breakup. Not only is it to ease the wounded back into the game, if successful it’s a way to ease him/her out of the insecurity that usually follows after getting dumped.

Women will spend hours on their hair, indulge in shopping sprees, change their outfits 6 times at least in order to achieve the most flattering figure, all so that they can go out that weekend, and turn down the men they’ve been accepting drinks from all night. It’s kind of fucked up, isn’t it – but I must say, it’s a hell of a remedy.

Another subtle form of validation is one I unfortunately find myself participating in regularly – retail therapy. Ohhh, nothing feels better than looking in that fitting room mirror triumphantly, contemplating a new piece to add to your wardrobe, because damn that shirt makes your waist look fly. Damn, that waist makes this ass look fly. Damn, those stripes lead you right to the good parts. Metal-backed stilettos and eye-catching scarves and deep v-neck sweaters that hug your breasts like air. The makeup industry – MAC, Sephora, entire stores dedicated to “enhancing” your beauty, aka “tapping into your deepest insecurities”… they’re there to make us feel better when we need them. There’s no other reason a woman could get coerced into purchasing a $40 tube of lip-gloss. If you saw her lips the way she saw them when she tried it on… whoo, you’d drop money for it too. Bet she would have thought twice about it though, if she was having a great self esteem day.

Especially in the wintertime, I find a lot of my girls stuck in these Ruts. I myself often slip in and out of self-esteem levels because this is when I get real lazy and stop being creative with my outfits. Black sweater, dark denim skinny jeans, faded brown wraparound boots and on a bad hair day, the everpresent brown houndstooth hat. My outfits vary based on accessories and hairstyles. None of it matters anyway, because the public only sees your coat and your shoes LOL.

This is also the same time I start getting extremely tired of my gear, and -- *rubs belly -- I always allow a decent amount of softness this season because my sweaters can cover it up. However, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m too vain to be this “shapeless.” I will admit to pulling out the off-the-shoulder tops and stiletto suede knee-highs to strut into a lounge with my bodyguard boys in tow. I dance with my eyes closed, and I dance well; it’s a comfort knowing that my fam will protect me if anyone gets too touchy, so I allow myself to really release. I get the attention I desire from afar, and a number will make its way into my pocket a time or two. Even if I don’t follow through, I know that I’ll be grinning at my reflection again, at least for the next few weeks. On those days, I might try something new with my style.

I’m not ashamed to admit any of this. It’s just what we do. Why make it a sin?