Tag Archives: faith

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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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I Don’t Want to Write About Love

Today, I move to Step 7 on this journey. I never have a profound reason for going from one step to another, just when I sense the feeling that it is time to push forward, I do. Those moments or experiences where I “just knew” it was time to progress have come in varying forms and based on personal reflection and conversations.

But this transition didn’t involve anyone else other than my lifeless fingers, my tired eyes, and my blinking cursor on a blank page. Oh and this repetitive thought: I don’t want to write about love.

Sure, I still have thoughts about relationships. I’m positive I’ll continue to share those sentiments in days to come. As things progress in my love life or something springs up or I’m frustrated, or all of the above, I know I’ll be more inclined to write about men and sex, love and relationships, and how those four things don’t always work together as cohesively as we’d all prefer. By the time I’m finished penning this post, I may have an epiphany or an awakening into what I should write about – but at this time, in this paragraph, I don’t want to write about dating. Or the sex I’m having. Or the love I’m flirting with. Or the relationships I’ve had in the past that failed or changed me or moved me. I don’t want to write about lessons I’ve learned or what I’ve taken from each and every single little experience with each man I’ve ever encountered.

To me, that says maybe I’m starting to adapt the greatest lesson of all: my life isn’t shaped by dudes. I don’t want to write about love because I’d rather write about life. And for this woman who’s often blurred the line between life and love, making each incomplete without the other, this feeling of accepting that life is, in fact, content with or without love…changes my perspective.

I sit down around the same time every few days to write a stock of blogs, as scheduling in bulk saves time and gives me a few days to come up with new material. For whatever reason, yesterday I found myself glued to my computer, attempting to write about what I’m feeling. This space has always been an open forum for me to express what I’m experiencing and the thoughts I’m entertaining. Usually, this process isn’t hard and never takes more than an hour – but what I noticed was that I’m not uninspired or unmotivated or uninterested in love. I’m not against being in a relationship and I’m very much pro-incredible-sex-and-multiple-orgasms, but the whole game isn’t in the forefront of my brain. Blame it on Mr. Possibility (I’ll get around to giving all the details about him soon) or on my changing mentalities, but I just don’t spend as much time worrying about bliss in love as I used to. When I do the thunder catches me off-guard and if I happen to become a little melancholy, I shake it off faster than it shed upon me.

Lately, my life hasn’t been about falling in or out of love or stressing about any of it, at all. Sure I’ve indulged in a little fantasy here-and-there and I’ve sent countless emails to Mr. Possibility while he’s been away, but I’ve been so focused on other things that sitting down to write about relationships and dating, almost seems dishonest. Yes, I’ve thought all of those things, done all of those things, and written about all of the things in my life – but what about the rest of me?

You know – the part of me that isn’t focused on overcoming a self-prescribed love addiction? What about that woman? Who is the Lindsay outside of this journey? Does she shine through?

I don’t think so. At least not so far, that is. Because there is a lot more to me than my thoughts about dating.

What about my new apartment – nestled closer into town and with three amazing girls who I instantly clicked with? Or my job that continues to give me opportunities to write frequently and meet up-and-coming entrepreneurs I’d never have the chance to shake hands with otherwise. Or the causes and the foundations I’m passionate about – the charities I donate to, the time I dedicate to helping children who want to be writers? Or women who have suffered great emotional and physical distress for nearly all of their lives? Or the financial savvy I’ve developed in a short period of time? Or the friends who are the only reason I survive as happily and beautifully as I do? Or the out of town adventures I consistently go on or the runs I have or the freelancing I’m vigorously going after to excel my career? Or the sleep I’m not sleeping, the packing I’m procrastinating, and the décor I’m designing?

Step 7 is about releasing all of my negativity toward the shortcomings of love and truth be told, my direction is already pretty positive. I still have worries of being alone forever-and-ever or of never finding the place of sassy independence that I so long for – but I’m quite self-assured as it is, already. I have a ways to go, but what I never considered about the journey to self-love is that somewhere along the way, I’d stop needing or even wanting to write about relationships.

Because if you’re learning to love yourself with or sans a man, then why would you feel the desire to write about one every single day? Doesn’t quite make sense, I suppose – but what did I know seven months ago, anyways? Now, I find myself wanting to take a different direction both contained and beyond the pages of this space. Maybe it’s the urge to just go or the fear of getting stuck in a God-awful rut, but could it be that some things, or most things, are more important than having a boyfriend or not?

And that the journey to finding peace as a single-something is learning that your life isn’t defined by your relationship status. Or by the number of love stories you write. In fact, it isn’t defined by anything except the terms you agree upon for yourself. And those terms, are always up for a rewrite or at least a second draft.

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You Probably Think This Post is About You

I’m overly analytic of nearly everything in my life, which is probably the reason why I’ve been able to consecutively blog for such a long time. My friends always comment on how they’re amazed how a single moment can cause me to spew a 1,000 word post in twenty minutes. I can’t explain it other than I feel like I was born to write because it comes easier to me than anything else and I’m lucky to have it as my day and night job.

So, with idle time this weekend after finally finding the perfect apartment for me (more details to come), I spent some time in the back-end of this blog, figuring out what I could about the people who visit and the readers who comment. Always interested to see what works and what doesn’t, I went through the posts to see what topped the list. As trite and overly cliché as it seems, I was under the impression that the most read and most liked daily journals would be the ones I considered empowering and demanding. The ones that slap you in the face with their boldness and their dedication to being fiercely single and satisfied. The posts that I wrote when I felt completely content being alone and celebrated the fact that any opportunity was around the corner, and if it wasn’t, I was more than okay stomping to the beat of my own Louies, while telling the man of the hour or the man of forever to hell with himself.

And as I usually am when I think I’m right about something – I was totally wrong.

Apart from the blog that made it to the homepage of WordPress (and is primarily the reason many of you are reading), “Frankly, I Do Give a Damn” – the most read posts have to do with one thing and one thing only: Mr. Possibility.

This discovery not only annoyed me but confused me: why is he the breakout star of my blog? Why do I receive more traffic when I write something about what he does or how I feel about him? Why does he matter so much in a space that’s supposed to be about declaring independence and breaking away from whatever bounds restrict us to the need to feel completed by a dude? In a blog that’s about the journey to learning to love myself, why is everyone so concerned with who I possibly could be falling for? Why does Mr. Possibility get all the attention?

Equally intrigued and irritated, I painstakingly went back through all of the top 20 posts, 13 of which mentioned, referred or described Mr. Possibility in some fashion, and re-read them. I looked for trending topics and themes, the style of writing and the language I used. I tried to pinpoint my tone or the overall conclusion I reached by the end of the topic-of-the-day. I read through comments, I checked the links I linked to, and even Gchatted a few friends to see if they would join me in my rather unimportant research.

Could it be that everyone loves a love story? I suppose if there was a “Mr. Big” of the blog, Mr. Possibility would hold that title. We did see a Broadway show starring Chris Noth, so maybe that analogy isn’t so far-fetched. Nevertheless, is it the possibility that something more could unfold, that I could find happiness in romantic love while blogging the e-pages of the endless tangled web of WordPress? Is it the ups and the downs we’ve experienced, the drama that’s unnecessarily unfolded, and the fact that the ending is undetermined as happily ever or undefined? Is it that we relate to a character who shows promise, who grows on us, who we give a second chance to, or even just a first if we’re so jaded that we often refuse to give anyone a window into our hearts? Is it from the lovers who want to see love, or the haters who would like to see me crumpled on the cold New York pavement, that so many hopefuls like myself, have found themselves, in the decades before?

Or is it the honesty? Is it the willingness to go on record (even if it is just my own) and say how I feel before a world of strangers? In front of people I’ve never met and most likely never will? Is it that while you can share your name on an online space that belongs to you, there is a sense of anonymity in blogging – real names, real emails, real anything not required to begin, comment, or share? Is it inspiring, entertaining, and comforting to read about the dating dilemmas we all have in common? Is it that we’ve all felt the same things at different points in varying towns from California and Georgia to South Africa and London? I mean, isn’t any man a Mr. Possibility until he proves to be the right guy or another in the long list of Mr. Wrongs?

Or is it me?

In re-reading through the posts, trying to take an outsider’s perspective on my own experiences, I discovered that somehow, along my path to self-love, I took a different direction. Instead of being a single gal parading about town, dismissing guys as quickly as I tempt them to buy me a drink, I found myself pretty connected to one person. And while my blog was always about finding self-love, with or without a relationship, when the prospect of being a couple doesn’t seem so scary or so far away, things change. Along with priorities and perspectives. And hype is built, along with hopes and plans of what a future could hold regardless of how likely or unlikely such a thing is. Somehow in those pursuits, I found myself swept and carried away, writing and rambling about my love life because that’s what I’ve always done. That’s the pattern. When someone new and exciting who brings me joy in a way others haven’t before, I get excited. The only difference now, is that I have a record showing the progression and the story I’m writing with Mr. Possibility merely a click away. There is no hiding from a published post, no matter how hard you try.

And so I realized again, as I tend to realize quite frequently these days, that I’m human. That when I like someone, I don’t hide it. When I’m upset, I write it. When I’m pleased, I proclaim it. When I’m tired, I damn it. When I’m hurt, I walk away. And when a Mr. Possibility is a possibility, I pour so much into the post, so much of that brutal honesty that readers seem to click.

I may have been so vain to think this post, this blog, is about me and maybe I was right. But popularity apparently is not based on the blogs that entice independence and make me look powerful in my super high heels. It is tracked, however, by the ones that get – and deserve – the most attention because they get to the heart of the matter. The heart of the person writing. The heart of the person who is dwelling in possibility or in impossibility, depending on the day or the time or the guest star.

And Mr. Possibility is currently deserving of that role, even if the length of his stardom is undetermined. My guess is though, should he lose, gain, or denounce that title, and another man takes it – the clicks will be just the same. I mean, he, just like me, can’t be as vain to think this post is about him. It’s about every Mr. Possibility who has ever been a possibility for any Lindsay or any anyone who has ever saw a glimmer of love that could make a someone into a something.

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Me, Myself, and My Shadows

I’m usually not forgetful. Really, I’m one of those odd characters who remarkably recalls something that happened six years ago in a fleeting moment. But yesterday – I could not have been more absent-minded.

I won’t make excuses, but this week has been superbly busy. One of our biggest issues of the year is in the making, our office is moving to a new location next week, I’m on the mad search for a new apartment, I’m running daily, attending a happy hour or two, Skyping with Mr. Possibility extremely early or late my time or his, and you know, this, writing daily blog posts. Not to mention some Twittering, Facebooking, Tumbling, and when I’m lucky, maybe getting seven hours of sleep.

I’m not complaining – I consider myself extremely lucky and blessed to have a life that’s full, that’s ever-evolving, that’s full of the best things a city could offer: great friends and grand adventures. Nevertheless, sometimes with so much going on and residing in a place that encourages less rest, hard work, and more play – I’ve found myself a little off my A-game recently.

Case in point, after work and after viewing yet another vacancy on the Upper West Side, I made my way to the gym, excited about releasing all of my stress with a healthy four-miler. When I arrived, I was happy to see a moderately-empty place and a treadmill readily available for me. I rushed to the locker room to change so no one would take my coveted machine before I had time to dress down and throw my hair up. After putting on my running shorts, I discovered not only had I forgotten a sports bra, but also a hair tie and socks. For a successful, focused sprint, all three of these items are necessary – even if the ladies aren’t exactly luscious, they do deserve and need support.

Frustrated with my forgetfulness, I did a few reps to relieve stress on the abs, arm, and leg machines, and then decided I was brave enough to brave the semi-chilly weather outside. After dropping off my gym bag and Longchamp at my temporary apartment, I hit the pavement…well, running, of course.

Though the sound of my own feet beating the road matching the beat of the music usually soothes me and clears my head, last night, I just couldn’t get the rhythm. I wasn’t losing my breath, but I also wasn’t finding my clarity. Out of my zone and continuously burying myself further into my worrying fit, I felt someone behind me. Suddenly on guard and wondering if it was possible to be unsafe at what I consider an early hour, 8:30, I quickened my pace without glancing behind. Though it was only a few seconds, the moment that passed seemed to be in slow motion, but as I turned the corner, I realized the shadowing I noticed was not an intruder, but just my own shadow.

Somehow, on the edge of the park where I was running, the way the street lamps mixed with buildings hovering above caused me to not only have one dark reflection, but three: one behind me (what I saw), one to my left, and one in front of me. I’m sure this has happened to me a dozen times without my recognition, but on Central Park West in that experience, I couldn’t help but watch my threesome of shadows come together as the light changed as I moved.

Symbolically, I felt like I was witnessing my past, my present, and my future mold into what those things make up: me.

Twenty minutes later, walking back to my apartment and stopping for a much-needed Greek yogurt (current food obsession), I thought about how much of what causes me anxiety or worry is stressing about the things I can’t change. And most of those headaches have to do with wondering what will happen in times I’ve yet to experience. Like on May 1 when I move to an unknown location or when Mr. Possibility settles in New York for an extended period of time, after several bouts of traveling. Or where my byline will appear six months, a year from now, or the networking event I’m attending in a few weeks. And then my forehead scrunches up in such a way I’m sure I’ll have wrinkles there one day (we’re ignoring the fact I already sorta do) -I struggle with letting go of what was. Like the friendships that just aren’t the same anymore or the people I should call more, but don’t. Or the battle I have to apologize for pain I caused years ago, when in reality, the wounds are healed, and if not scared over, they’re most likely disappeared forever.

But worse than wrestling with all the places I’ve been and all the places I hope to go, I often forget to value the place I am today. Though I remind myself (and I’m often told) that the only path leading to peace is not really a paved road at all, but the spot I’m standing – I’m often too busy running away from it to realize its beauty. I’m too scared of the past sneaking up on me, too concerned with where I’m going, that I rarely see how all of the pieces come together, effortlessly, in their own way and right, without much trouble at all.

I don’t really believe there is a way to fully release our experiences, nor do I think it is healthy. We must take from our own educational past to continue to grow, and we must have something to go toward, if we’re going to get anywhere. But without accepting, and dare I say, loving the person we are right now- the past and the future don’t matter.

A few steps before my front door, on the phone with my mom, I stopped in the middle of my block, and took note of the shadow before me. Wildly stretched longer than I’ll ever be or would ever care to be, I saw the shape of my body. Without any distinctive features or coloring at all, I didn’t resemble myself – but I knew the street reflection was me.

It was me, myself, and my shadows. With the most important of the trio not the shades of dark and light surrounding my feet, but the part that was real. The part that would still be, even when I walk inside, and leave the rest behind.

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Breaking the Golden JAM Rule

A common recommendation from New York natives or those who have officially claimed the coveted “New Yorker” title after residing (and surviving) here long enough, is to never look for three things at the same time:

An apartment, a job, and a man.

I broke this Northern rule the moment I turned my back on the South. In fact, in the one diary I’ve kept my whole life that I lovingly call my “Dream Book” that documents everything from my first dollar made to my bucket list, I wrote the following on the plane ride to this restless city:

J (Job)– At a magazine geared toward women; fulfilling, full-time, benefits; at least $35K; gives me room to grow; in NYC or a borough; find it within a month.

A (Apartment)– Under $1,000/mo with utilities; one bedroom; in Manhattan; if I have a roommate, must have my own room; find it within three months.

M (Man)– Sincere, funny, successful, charming, romantic; tall; has great relationship with his family and lots of friends; doesn’t live at home; we have a quick engagement and a long marriage; meet within one year.

Not even six months past my 21st birthday – you could say I was a little unrealistic. But I was damned and determined to find exactly what I had come to this city to find and do what I wanted to and love who I knew I was meant to love. For me, catching that flight wasn’t an option, it was the next undeniable step I wanted to take to create the future I knew I was destined to have. I may have had some lofty expectations but I sincerely had the best of intentions. I was taught to instruct the universe on what I wanted and if I believed and was willing to put the elbow grease in, I would surely be worthy of my desires. I may have not been the first, but I was surely a lady who had faith in the American dream, no matter how far away from the States I often wish I could getaway to.

And maybe because I’m lucky or blessed or understand to thrive in Manhattan, you must never lose your spirit – I did find that job. And that apartment. And many, many men. I did manage to meet my minimum income requirement at a job that allows me to write  and is located in the heart of Chelsea, steps away from the Empire State. I did find my preferred location with a low-rent, no-fee, and cozy, yet homey apartment. And the guys I dated, from the Millionaire to the dozen-or-so who ultimately were incredibly unavailable, were (and are, presumably) successful. They were charming and funny. And Mr. Possibility, the man of the hour, doesn’t live at home and fits all of the specifications I laid out long before I stumbled easily into his life on a bus back to the city from JFK.

My high ambition to make New York jam for me was not unreachable, come to find out. I wanted to find a job in a month – I found one in three weeks. I wanted to find an apartment in three months – I found one in two weeks. I wanted to find the man I would marry – well, I grew up and realized I was (and still am) far too young to make such a huge commitment. Nor would I want to put a time limit or a deadline on something that will be one of the greatest and most important decisions I’ll ever make.

At the time, I handled the stress of moving, the fears of never succeeding, and the unrealistic notion that love would complete me fairly well. Maybe because I knew it was a make-it or break-it situation or because I had yet to be jaded by anything or anyone, but nevertheless, I set my mind to it and went after those three things diligently.

A handful of awful dates along with a few who blew it out of the romantic park, one cockroach by my sink, one giant hole placed in my 20th-century floor by literally earth-shattering sex, hundreds of blog posts, countless bylines in various publications, a partner with possibility, and the best group of friends (and gay hubbies) a gal could ever ask for – I find myself here. Settled just enough to feel stable, but still with the desire to explore. Happy with where I am, but knowing there are better things before me. Dreaming of what could be, remembering what was, and enjoying what is. And not only satisfied but thankful I was able to break the Golden JAM rule.

But now, that JAM is not so jammin‘. Or at least one part of it, anyways.

The search for an apartment couldn’t be more stressful. Not only is everything completely last-minute but it is like most of the good men in the city – the best apartments are taken before they can sincerely be considered available. Apart from finding a location that is not only free of a tiny disaster called bed begs but doesn’t cost an arm, a leg, and my first-born child, there is also often income requirements or the option to have someone sign who makes 40-80 times your rent. This is standard practice and understandable, but who wants to sign away such money on a dotted line – just in case my roommate and I are not able to fork over the dough one month? It is something I’d prefer to never request of someone, but I may have no choice. No-fee brokers are reachable night and day and willingly show apartments at the drop of a dime, after work hours and on the weekends.

And yet, I’m completely stressed out. As I write this post, I consider the time I’m losing scouring Craigslist while formulating my thoughts for this blog’s 200th post. The Golden JAM rule may always be applicable and it is something I’d now suggest to New York newcomers because maybe I’m older and more tired. Or just overly busy with a full-time job, a blog, and well, a life – but apartment searching on its own – no mind resumes and dinner dates – extinguishes my energy. .

Perhaps it took some familiarity with the city I love, instead of just seeing it on a shiny pedestal for a dozen years, for me to fully internalize the Golden JAM rule. It’s an important one to follow because all three of the components deserve all of your attention. If one is given more dedication than the other, if you’re looking for all of them at the same time, and if you’re under the impression they will all look as you thought they would – you will end up sorely disappointed. While there is no need for a man to make a happy home, there is a need for an income. While there is no need for an apartment if you’re living with a boyfriend, you need a job to escape from him. While there is no need for a job if you depend on a man to provide for you, you will still need a place to call haven. They may not all go hand-in-hand, but what would life be like without all three?

Well, at least without two, anyways – we know by now a relationship is optional until it is an option we can’t deny. And in this city, the men, the apartments, and the jobs are limitless. It’s just a matter of finding the right one at the right time in the right place.