Tag Archives: Confidence

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An Intimate Intimacy

I used to wait for the moment when dating someone where our belly buttons touched.

This, obviously meant we were A- Laying down, B- Had our tummies exposed, and C- Close enough to let them meet one another. To me, this symbolized a certain level of intimacy – especially since when your stomachs are rubbing up against one another, you’re not exactly sucking in and positioning yourself seductively. (You know, sheet draped about your body, exposing just enough skin to entice, as the sun colors your body at the right angle and you don’t move, pretending you’re asleep, until he comes in and devours you? We’ve all done it, I promise.)

The belly button moment came several, several months ago with Mr. Possibility. I wouldn’t say belly-button-touching was something we necessarily had a problem with – that part of our courtship was rather seemless. There were obviously other issues (which if you access archives, you can find) and it took a while for him to admit and for me to admit to the bounds of exclusivity. As I’ve said, having a boyfriend and calling it that didn’t sit well with me until I finally accepted it. And ultimately, announced it to the many lovely readers (and haters) of this blog (and me).

But as our relationship has progressed and I’ve continued to grow up – I’ve come to discover that intimacy has nothing to do with belly buttons. Or sex, really. It doesn’t have to do with the act of physically being naked and maybe this is a stretch, but I don’t think it has too much to do with being vulnerable. Intimacy – true intimacy – is based on being remarkably comfortable, having the framework of trust that’s tested and true, and has more to do with you than it has to do with them.

It is impossible to be intimate with someone (as in coming as you are, makeup and push-up free) without being secure in yourself. The majority of us have been wrapped up in the smell of sex and attraction the next morning, plotting the best track to the bathroom, without waking up the guy, so we could freshen up before he wanted round two (insert Bridesmaids opening scene here). I’ve admittedly felt that way far into dating, and even into a relationship. It wasn’t until I found peace in my looks and in the flaws that make those looks beautiful that I stopped caring if Mr. Possibility -or any guy who may come after him – sees me as less than perfect. I’m not perfect, but neither are they.

But being Clinique-free doesn’t define intimacy either – that’s just the part we most associate with reaching intimate levels. The real test of intimacy is a test we give ourselves, often encouraged by our friends who grow weary of our complaints, insecurities, and late-night texting sprees induced by Mr. Vodka and his old pal, tonic.

Being intimate with your partner means being stable enough to know when to stand up for yourself. When to say, “No, this is not enough for me. I need this from you because I know you and I care about you.” If you can’t ask for what you need with the person you’re the closest too, who sees your acne before it comes to the surface, who hears your irrational emotional outbursts, waits for them to pass and then holds you until you fall asleep – then you’re not really intimate with that person, you’re just keeping them around. If you can’t express your desires other than the ones that are sexual, then you haven’t reached a level of intimacy, you’ve only just orgasmed. And let’s be real – it’s easier to do that alone than it is to do with a man, until you train him.

It’s not simple to reach intimacy, I’d go as far to say some couples who race to the altar, haven’t found their intimate level yet. A big part of it is respecting your partner, but the most important element is respecting yourself. And if you know what it is that makes you tick, what you need out of a relationship, and what part of your body and your heart needs to correlate to the other person, then you know how to ask for it. You know how to express yourself in a way that will not only make falling in love easy, but make the tougher stage – staying in love – easier. And it’ll make the sexual part of intimacy…that much more…intimate.

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Showering Over Amsterdam

Many of the New York bathrooms I’ve seen have windows in the shower.

The first time I saw one at a friend’s place, I was horrified: “Why do you have a window in your shower??? What if someone sees you??” They reassured me no one could peep in, that the windows were shaded, and it was a very standard urban design. Maybe it’s for ventilation purposes, as many apartments are super small and the bathrooms would be stuffy without a way to release steam. But still, does it need to be right where you stand to bathe?

And though I vowed I’d never actually shower in front of Manhattan, when I found my current apartment, the only downfall was the powder room window placement. My new roommates and spacious living area outweighed my anxiety about getting naked in front of tinted glass.

Nevertheless, the first time I showered  over Amsterdam, I tiptoed into the tub, covering up my privates awkwardly and attempted to peer out the window, convinced the people walking below were looking straight up at my bareness. The water hitting my back and the glass starting to perspire, I cautiously dropped my hands and listened intently, certain someone would call up something, though I was seven stories up.

Moving slowly, as not to get caught for indecent public exposure, I lathered my hair and waited to be exposed. Minutes later, when the window was completely fogged up and the bathroom felt like a warm haze, I grew comfortable. I started showering as I normally do. I relaxed. I hummed a little tune. And once I turned the water off, stepped out to the marble floor and wrapped myself in a towel, I decided being a bathing beauty before the world wasn’t so bad. Especially since the world didn’t know I was naked above them.

I get asked a lot about displaying my personal life for the web. Even more so, readers want to know what it’s like to dish on men and how they respond: “How does Mr. Possibility handle being written about? Doesn’t it change the dynamic between you?” When freely giving intimate details about my life, is anything off the record when I meet strangers? I once ran into a fan at an event and she casually inquired about something I had penned a few weeks back. Though I remember writing it, felt fine discussing it online, and enjoyed the comments it gained, being quizzed about it in person felt vastly different.

I almost felt invaded. But writing a blog about dating, love, and sex, especially when it’s about whom you’re dating, who you love, and who you’re having sex with, is a lot like showering over Amsterdam in front of a window – it is strange at first.

You’re not exactly sure what will go over well and what will be a little too much. You hesitate answering questions or revealing too many specifics, for fear you’ll be judged or you’ll come across as “crazy,” “obsessive,” “slutty,” or “immature” – all things, for the record, I’ve been called because of this blog. But I’m not crazy, overly obsessive, or immature, and if enjoying sex makes me slutty, then be it (but if you knew my number, you couldn’t label me that, that’s for sure). Writing this blog feels like being emotionally naked day-after-day, with each step and each post, each story I divulge.

But it gets easier. I’ve started to relax. I’ve grown accustomed to my friends not needing to catch up with me when we haven’t seen each other for a while or hearing the words, “I know, I read it on your blog!” I’ve accepted that Mr. Possibility doesn’t care to read very often anymore, since he was literally there for most of the experiences lately. I’ve learned to stop covering up my insecurities, to stop beating around the bush and be direct. To admit my weakness and the places where I feel the most vulnerable.

I’m not completely peaceful showering my personal experiences for the tangled online web, but I try to keep in mind that no matter how steamy it gets, the mist will eventually clear. The heat will die down and the next day will be a clear slate, a defogged window into the life I decide to share. I remember that privacy still remains because the street and the world can’t get a glimpse in unless I open the shade or click “publish.”

And the thing about public exposure, where it is out of your own free will or when it takes you by surprise, if you can find your footing and realize that even if you slip, even if strangers shout things at you that aren’t kind or if you happen to show a little too much – there’s something enticing about it. Because when you disclose yourself fully and unprotected, you are forced to accept yourself for who you are.

After all, once everything is out there in the open and available in archives, there’s no going back. Nor would you want to, coming clean…feels good.

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Nothing to Do With You

One of my favorite places inNew Yorkis a sushi place in the Flatiron district. I used to live in that neck of the city when I interned and they sweetly never carded me when I was underage, making me a regular. Also because if you spend $20, you get unlimited wine – that’ll hook a gal anytime.

I continuously return to this joint, even though I’m well over age and can afford more than a Jackson for dinner because it holds such great memories for me, and each time I return, I make some more. Case in point, Friday evening with a group of my lovely ladies, catching up after weeks of not being able to sync our busy schedules. As we go through our lives, telling the best stories from the time we missed, we somehow stumble our way to talking about relationships.

Tends to be inevitable, I suppose. At the table, two of us are in relationships, the other three are single. And while we disagreed on some things, one trend we all found to be true was best summed up by my friend, K:

“I don’t care how intelligent she is; even the most-together of girls completely loses her mind when she’s in a relationship.”

I don’t think we lose all balanced thinking – but there is something about dating someone or being exclusive with a man that does something to our ability to rationalize. We place meaning and emotion into every word, movement is an indication of how our significant other feels. What’s more important than what he does is what he doesn’t do. Say he usually places his hand on the small of your back and then one afternoon, he doesn’t – suddenly, we’re concerned he isn’t into us or he’s pulling away or keeping something from us. When in reality, he is most likely preoccupied by things that have nothing to do with you.

Come to find out a man’s world does not, in fact, revolve around their girlfriend. And if it does, he probably shouldn’t be dating her and make a valiant effort to go find a life for himself.  Similarly, does our every mood depend on the men we date or boyfriends? Let’s hope not. There are (and should be) many things in our life that matter that don’t involve our partners – we should have things that are independent of a dude.

Even though we feel this way, it is incredibly difficult not to assign meaning behind actions we see as signs of disinterest or growing away from us. I could outline all of the ways I’ve been guilty of reading into things far too much, but in an email my friend R (from yesterday’s post) sent me describes it perfectly:

A Sunday Monologue

By R

Me: Working all day on Mother’s Day. Twelve hour shift that ended up lasting thirteen. Had already been planning on inviting myself over to his house to stay the night. In need of action and company.

Him: Working a twelve hour shift in the kitchen (yes, he’s a chef and I LOVE it). Good mood in the morning. By mid-dinner shift, he won’t look at me, won’t touch me, and won’t even smile at me.

Me: Feeling a little upset about it, then feeling even MORE upset that I AM upset about it because that means that I’m letting him get to me.

Him: Closes up early, impervious to a couple jokes I tried to make earlier to cheer him up. Puts on his jacket and starts to leave without saying good bye.

Me: “Hey, Mr. Sex Buddy.”
Him: Turns around. “Yeah.”
Me: “You headed out for the night?”
Him: “Yeah.” Gives me a hug.
Me: “You okay?”
Him: “It’s a long story. Just call me and I’ll tell you about it later.”
Me: “Okay. Good night.”
Him: Leaves without a second glance.

Me: Feeling mildly crushed that I won’t get to hang out with him that night. Then, feeling very angry at myself for feeling upset. Start telling myself that I’m being ridiculous and I need to suck it up and that silly, stupid stuff like THAT is why I don’t date. No dating. Dating, bad. Sadly…sex, very good, therefore I must put up with dating and gushy feelings. Blech.

Girl talk with friends. They tell me to call him and still ask to come over. I say no. They continue to encourage the calling. I start freaking out over what I’m supposed to say when I call him, because what if I invite myself over and he says no? How do I gracefully escape from that rejection. He was in a reallllly bad mood. He probably won’t want me coming over. But I want to go SO bad. Does that make me clingy? Do I call? What do I say? How do I phrase what I want to say?

My blood pressure continues to rise.

Finally make it out of work and I’m so nervous that my heart it literally racing and my hands are shaking. I continue to hate/chastise myself for acting this way and I keep telling myself to stop caring so much and just go home and forget the whole night, but it doesn’t work.

I call him. He answers. He still sounds upset. Says he going to ride his motorcycle for a while and he’ll call me in 20 minutes. I try to find an opening to see if he wants me to come over, but I can’t find one so I don’t ask. We hang up.

I start driving home and try to call you. You don’t answer so I call S. I hyperventilate on the phone to her, she tells me to calm down and that he’ll call and I’m not being clingy like I say and that I need to come have a margarita with her. I continue to screech about how much I hate dating and what it makes me. S tells me to shut up.

I turn around to go meet her. I’m still babbling about how stupid it is that I feel this way and that’s its too early and that I don’t want a relationship and “this is why I DON’T. LIKE. TO. DATE.” I call myself ridiculous and stupid and really, truly hate feeling the way I’m feeling because I know I feel that way because I’ve let him in. I feel that way because I like him, and I’m scared to.

I feel clingy for wanting to be with him, I feel stupid for letting my feelings be dependent on his feelings (I’m fine until he’s upset, then I end up upset). It’s reminiscent of how dependent I became on Mr. Coward and I need to stop and I hate, hate, hate this feeling.

I calm down slightly when I get to the restaurant to meet S. She gives me a hug. I immediately order a margarita. He calls. Exactly 20 minutes.

Me: “Hey.”
Him: “Hey!”
Me: “Feeling better?”
Him: “Definitely. I feel a lot better.”
Me: “Good, I’m glad. I’m sorry you were upset.”
Him: “Yeah, we’ll the managers did _______, and the other chef I was working with today was acting like ________, and he yelled at me for ________, and I just wanted to get out of there.”
Me: “Well, I’m glad you did. You want some company?”
Him: Stunned silence for a second. “Yeah! I would love some! Are you still at work?”
Me: *Clears throat* “Um, yeah.”
Him: “Great, I’ll see you soon then.”

I feel so relieved, too relieved to even be angry at myself for feeling so relieved that he called. I talk to S for a few minutes, finish my margarita, leave a four dollar tip on a six dollar tab and go to his place.

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Sexually (and Mentally) Liberated

A few years ago, I was lying out in Sheep Meadow, alone in the company of a bathing book (trashy one you wouldn’t otherwise read), when a man on a bicycle approached me. I was underage and pretending I wasn’t with permission from a fake ID that somehow worked, though it featured a girl who was blond and green-eyed, quite the opposite of me.

Classily sipping on a mimosa out of a paper bag and ignoring the fact my chest was turning red, Mr. Bicycle jumped down, shirtless and sweaty, and asked my name. With little makeup on and even smaller concern about it, I chatted with him for half an hour or so until he claimed he had a late lunch to get to. Per his request, I slipped him my number and went about my tanning afternoon, not that interested in him but intrigued enough  hope he called.

Skip to a week later and I’m sitting across from Mr. Bicycle on our second date at a place on the lower east side that’s dimly lit and offers food that’s not only overpriced, but overcooked, too. I’m not a picky eater unless I’m paying for it, in which case I want to get the best sizzle for my steak, but since Mr. Bicycle was forking over dough for the bill, I politely downed my dinner with a smile.

Half-way through, I decided that Mr. Bicycle has potential and was someone I would agree to a third date with. We hadn’t kissed yet, but I wanted to. I wasn’t ready to have sex with him, but I figured he was pretty good and pretty blessed in that department, based off his mannerisms and his build. I didn’t know much more than the basics about him: age, background, occupation, his affinity forPeru, his dislike of Asian food. Unlike me, he actually resembles my fake ID (which I hadn’t told him is fake), eyes as green as Sheep Meadow and blond locks that fall effortlessly around his face. He also has dimples, which time and time again, seems to be a feature on a man I continuously attract.

The night was coming to a close and the city was in an unusual state for a July evening, the humidity wasn’t suffocating and the streets were not buzzing in activity or tourists. For once, New York rests and while it was the second date and Mr. Bicycle had no promise of anything really, I rest happily in the smirk that comes with a date gone well. He asked to walk me back to my apartment, to make sure I got there safely like a gentleman, and I let him. As we approached my doorway and I reached for my keys, he pulled me into him and kissed me sweetly and passionately.

It would have gone down in my book or in this blog as the best first kiss of all time, if what came next didn’t happen. After the 45-second-or-so lip lock, I smiled up at him and turned to open my door as I said, “Thank you for a great evening, Mr. Bicycle.” He stopped me, turned me around and looked me dead-in-the-eye.

“Aren’t we going to go upstairs and f***?”

Stunned and taking myself as “not that type of girl,” I immediately became offended and plainly dismissed his advance. I fidgeted with my key in a rush to get inside and away from this guy who was so inappropriate, when he asked yet another uncalled for question: “C’mon, Lindsay, aren’t you sexually liberated?” I ignored him and stepped inside ad I told him again to have a nice evening, before I ran up the many flights to my apartment, consumed with disgust.

I recently told this story to a friend and as I went about what I usually portray as an unfortunate series of events, I found myself not relaying it without as much style as I usually do or with as many convicted statements like “Can you believe he did that on a second date?” or “What a f***ing a**hole, right?”

No, instead I found myself finding the story….quite commonplace. I mean, what girl hasn’t encountered a guy who has no class attempting to get in her pants? It’s not like every man doesn’t try at least once, anyway – right? If he doesn’t, we question his orientation in a heartbeat – those poor nice guys just often don’t make the cut. While I didn’t want to sleep with Mr. Bicycle that night, had I wanted to – should I have felt bad for doing so? Was he out of line for proposing sex – perhaps. Could he have gone about about it a better way – definitely.  But is it wrong for him to act on sexual urges? Nah.

It took me a few years, a few partners, and a few earth-shattering orgasms for me to change my tune a bit. Or maybe, it took until I did what Mr. Bicycle spotted I hadn’t done yet: sexually liberated myself.  

I was never raised or taught to “wait until marriage” to have sex, though I was brought up in the church. I think my mother is more realistic and she just warned to be careful and to make sure I trusted the person I was giving a “special part of myself to.” I have always valued my private and special parts and I think thus far, I’ve been rather selective of who gets to explore them.

But I’ve also stopped judging myself for having desires. I’ve stopped holding myself back and placing rules and restrictions on myself that are based off nothing but what I think I should do or what I think is acceptable by standards I haven’t even defined.  I’m in awe of my friends who are sincerely sexually liberated -the ones who demand their sexuality to be respected and make no excuses for the lives they lead or the beds they’ve laid.

Maybe I shouldn’t be envious – maybe I should see sexual liberation as an act of opening your mind, not spreading your legs. It’s more about giving yourself permission to say (or scream) yes; it’s about trying new things without basing your decision on outside perceptions, but by what you’re comfortable with and what you want. It’s about valuing yourself as special, as you are, and deciding what special (or just foreign, tanned, and ripped) people you want to share those special spots with.

Too much emphasis is put on our numbers, who we do or don’t sleep with, and what that says about us. When in reality, all sex says about any of us is that we’re…human. There is no better sexual awakening or liberation than realizing that what you feel, what you want, and what you do is exactly what you were made to feel, to want, and to do. So feel it, want it, and do it – in whatever way makes sense to you. Because to have successful sex or successfully let yourself go to enjoy that sex – the first person you have to release…is you.

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Can You Channel Peace?

I haven’t really breached the surface of my career. I feel lucky to be employed doing what I want to do in a market that’s undeniably competitive and difficult to penetrate. I enjoy the freedom I have to write this blog and freelance occasionally, and that while it is a small contribution to the world, it is my own, and I stand by it happily. I’m young and I see my future as limitless and ripe with opportunities and chances that I can’t even imagine, but will shape my life in ways I’ll never understand.

Though I’m pretty set on the path I’d like to take – I don’t have tunnel vision so severely that I would never think of doing something else. I’m not blind to the fact that sometimes the things you least expect or the choices you never thing you’ll face, are the ones that fundamentally change you into the you you’re meant to be.

Part of the reason I feel confident that I could sincerely do anything I put my mind to is because I’ve learned not to define myself by what I do. Sure, editing and writing are a huge part of my day-to-day and pastimes that not only bring me joy but money, too. But I’m not the only talented writer. And I make mistakes as an editor (I’m sure there are dozens across this blog but I forgive myself, I hope you do, too). The beautiful truth about the career I’ve chosen is that even if it wasn’t my career – I could still write. I would still seek out ways to be published. I could be anywhere in the world and have a byline in New York. They aren’t really mutually exclusive of one another.

Where I live, what I do, and who I am isn’t dependent on being an author, a journalist, or a blogger – if that was the case, WordPress and the other platforms wouldn’t be successful. Online magazines wouldn’t attract readers from all regions of the world and no one would lust after the rare travel writer who is paid to have lavish globetrotting adventures, dining at the finest, and staying in the room with the best view and service.

I’m not afraid of not being a writer or not having the dream job I’ve wanted for literally decades now. In fact, when it comes to my career or my ability to string together sentences, I have no doubts. Being a writer is part of who I am, but not the entirety of what makes me function. After all, if a writer leads no life, if they don’t read others, if they don’t find new people and experiences to observe, if they don’t make themselves into a modern-day anthropologist of some subject matter – what would there be to write about anyway? I’d imagine their stories would be quite boring.

Perhaps as boring as I feel my blog is becoming.

I’m not looking for compliments or reassurance – I know a good thing when it’s good and I know a once-sweet thing when it turns sour. In a lot of ways, this space has been a place for me to handle my own identity crisis as a 20-something. It has been a place for me to answer the tough questions in my own language, on my own terms, and in my own time. And now, over six months later, with less than six to go, I find myself at a crossroads.

I started this blog unhappy, dissatisfied with my life, and unable to enjoy my life as a single gal. I was not a mess but I wasn’t together, I wasn’t closed off, but I wasn’t incredibly open. I wasn’t syncing as well as I wanted to with the rhythm of the streets and New York was still idealized instead of realized.

But that’s not exactly who I am now, on a rainy May 4 afternoon, frantically writing this post while attempting to eat a leftover burrito, chat on Gchat, and enjoy my lunch break before getting back to work. No, this Lindsay is different.

She’s not that much older, but she’s wiser. She isn’t exactly single, but she isn’t consumed by it. She has found comfort in the ways that matter: in her relationship status, in her city, and most importantly, in herself. She ventures into the heartbeat of buildings and the people and the sounds that surround her, and instead of worrying about money or worrying about moving up or worrying about things that don’t quite matter right now – she’s settled in today. She’s found a confidence in herself that isn’t defined by links and published posts, by boys and boo-hooing over them, by being the most beautiful or the most sought after.

So what’s next? What now? With still four more steps to go and a personal commitment to write daily for a year – where do you turn a niche blog when your niche changes? Or expands? When what you love to do, who you want to love, and where you love to be are all working in a loving cohesion with one another, where do you seek more love?

Or is love really the answer to all of those questions left unanswered in my heart? Or do I have that many questions that pester me at this moment, anyway? Or maybe it is just one simple question that’s plagued me for months now: why does it become difficult to write about love on a blog about dating and self-love, when you’re dating and you’ve found love within yourself? Shouldn’t it be easier?

Could it be that the best fodder comes from…pain? Struggle? Outright, irrational despair? How do you channel peace to get your groove back?