Tag Archives: sex

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Hey There Beautiful

Before starting this blog, I wasn’t a big fan of Valentine’s Day. Even though I pine over things with delicate little hearts (forgive me future child for your nursery decor) and cry almost every single time I read Modern Love in the Times – I’ve always felt like V-Day was more about consumerism than cupid.

But two years ago, I decided to challenge you — yes, you! — to write a different kind of Valentine. Not one you’d give to your crush or husband or anyone. But instead, one that’s written to you. Taken or single, the day isn’t about chocolates and dinner dates or wondering if you’ll be the only one in the office who wasn’t sent flowers…. it’s about self-love. So why not count all the ways you love, you?

Because you’re pretty great.

And beautiful. And incredibly brave and strong. Determined and kind-hearted. Forgiving and a free spirit full of charm, wit and dreams. You are all of these things — and you deserve to read it.

I’m excited to announce the third edition of Valentine’s To Yourself on Confessions of a Love Addict. It’s really simple — click this link and write a letter of love from you to you. If you’re a blogger and you want me to link back, I will. If you want to be anonymous, that’s cool, too. I’ll publish them all. (Just like I did in 2011 and in 2012).

So, hey there beautiful — go ahead and get started. It’ll take you weeks to list everything that’s great about you…

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Getting Naked in Soho

Yesterday, after taking the pup for a quick jaunt around our block, I hopped the downtown train to make an appointment that had me a little jumpy. But no really — it was a trampoline exercise class that brought back childhood nostalgia along with a quick fix for my champagne hangover from the night before. I quickly discovered that while I’ve always had quite the bounce in my step, when I try to actually put some steps to that bounce… it’s not exactly graceful. No matter — I found myself sweating more than I thought possible when it’s under 20 degrees outside, and once the class ended, I graced the streets of Soho without muffs or gloves to get an iced coffee.

When the wind hit my flushed cheeks, I inhaled and smiled at the dirty, yet fascinating concrete landscape before me.

Since I’ve been living in the fog of cold, dreary days and the cloud of a warm, promising someone, I haven’t had much time — or really energy — to just walk around the streets I moved hundreds of mile to walk on. And so, carrying around gym clothes and a book I’ve been trying to read for a month without much progress, I decided to forget about the frozen sidewalks and have a day date with my very first love.

I tried on a dozen puffy down coats because I know I need one, but can’t seem to fall enough in love with one to actually fork over the cash to bring it home. Then I browsed clearance black boots in search of a replacement pair for the ones that my lovely dog not-so-innocently chewed the zipper (thanks, Lucy). I spent a good thirty minutes redesigning my bedroom in Bed, Bath and Beyond, filled up a cart and determined I could find a way to budget it into my savings before concluding that I liked the way my space looked and put it all away. I lost myself in the Container Store because for some odd reason, organizing gets me excited, and I landed a pair of expensive running pants on sale for $2. And then, I walked across some avenues and got naked.

No, but really.

It wasn’t technically in Soho, but at the Soho House — a swanky, members-only establishment in Meatpacking — but saying I stripped down to nothing in Meatpacking just seems very terrifying and kinda dirty. And while I’d love to say that my baring-it-all adventure was caused by a lovely combination of friends who encouraged me to let it all go and some sparkly something to make me feel at ease, it wasn’t that type of situation. Instead, it involved a fancy gift certificate and a massage therapist who knew just how to knead out the soreness in my very tired legs and shoulders.

It doesn’t seem like much of a story, I know — but when I walked out of my relaxing oasis into the women’s changing room, sporting a fuzzy robe and slippers, I caught a look at myself in the mirror and couldn’t believe what I saw.

For the first time, probably ever, I saw natural beauty.

Beauty that wasn’t made by Maybelline or lined with liner or pinched with pouty lipstick. Instead, it was me. With some flaws and lines, some scars and teeth that definitely aren’t aligned symmetrically and flushed cheeks from nearly falling asleep from an hour of rubbing. I’ve worn makeup nearly every single day since I was 13, and though my skin isn’t entirely clear yet, with the help of Accutane lately, it’s been rather radiant. I’ve been so amazed with the results and the changes, that I decided I would try the makeup-free thing at the spa. So, I must have looked a tad obsessive, standing there looking at myself, but I realized that in my pure state of just me, I was actually, just fine. Better than that actually — I was, and am, just lovely.

With that confidence, I headed to the steam room, where I decided I wanted to go… robe-less. And though no one came in for me to compare myself to, I know I would have felt comfortable if they did. The past six months, I’ve worked really hard to get myself to the very best me that I can be — both emotionally by letting go of the past and imagining a future that’s better, and physically, by making a commitment to running and putting things in my body that are good for me. Or, in the case of my acne-prone flesh, doing what it takes to feel pretty, literally, in my own skin.

And you know what? Sitting there, naked at the Soho House, feeling the sweat everywhere, I felt so incredibly refreshed… and beautiful.

That feeling, though wasn’t just because of a toned body or a complexion that’s clearing up, it was also from dedicating myself — and the pages of this blog — to learning how to love myself for who I am, regardless of what I have and what I don’t. Who I’m dating or not dating. If everything is perfect or everything is unsure. I still deal with bouts of insecurity and moments where I doubt anything I see — but finally, I’m really starting to see the changes I’ve worked for since I started this journey. The transformations aren’t huge breakthroughs or major events that I’ll remember the date of, but it’s moments like that one, that make me see how far I’ve come.

While I will always have a long way to go, I really couldn’t imagine a better ending to my much-needed time with New York than catching the train home, relishing in my daring bare of a day.

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Falling in Love on Fridays: The Most Important Love Story of My Life

This week’s Friday post comes from a dear college friend of mine, Michelle. She’s bubbly and brilliant, brave and intelligent. She’s one of those girls who takes chances and follows what she believes, without wavering. That’s part of why I love her story so much — she really did have to love herself first before she could find that special man. Though I haven’t met the lucky guy, I look forward to it — and to reading more posts on her new blog. Hope you fall in love with her story below and if you want to submit your own, read this.

The Most Important Love Story of My Life

Most people that know me would label my love life as…educational, at best. With quite a few relationships of varying degrees, I have wined, dined, and rolled my eyes with more than a few gentleman callers. Only a couple seem worth remembering for their lessons and values–most served their purposes depending on the time of my life. There have been times when I’ve been bored or feeling mischievous or desperate, but all of those feelings and emotions tend to blend together after time. There have been times of feeling broken-hearted–months of agonizing relationship faults and wondering what I did wrong, trying to love myself again since the man that had left me made me feel worthless. Times where I felt dumb and defeated, but swore I would forget the feelings any thoughtless man had given me, and rejoice in the love I had in myself.

This desire for self-love lasted for a very long time.

Long enough for me to forget butterflies from former flames, to be foggy of times that had felt so real, so important at the time. The romance I embarked upon with myself became the most important love story of my life–it is because I learned how to love myself, my faults, and my strength that I am the woman I am today. Two years of self discovery led me to something that was so much bigger, so much more wonderful than anything else I had ever imagined. Because I allowed myself to be in love with my own heart first, I am now in absolute, head-over-heels, crazy love with the most perfect man I have ever met. If it hadn’t have been for that time period of falling in love with myself, I would never have been ready for the kind of love he has brought into my life. If it weren’t for the terrible experiences, I would never be able to appreciate the man he is to me, and what our life together has become.After an intervention from my mother and sister, I decided that it was time I “put myself out there”. I absolutely despise that term–it’s not like I was ever closed off to the idea of being in a relationship, it’s just no one seemed that…great. My mom and sister insisted that I was closing myself off on purpose–I had been hurt, led astray, and infuriated with guys before, so I was shutting all future suitors out before they could get in. At first, I was annoyed by their assumptions–I had just gotten a new job that I liked, I was getting involved with community theater, and had a group of friends that I adored. I thought I was getting my life together, and that a guy would happen when it was supposed to–I shouldn’t have to go looking for it. It would just happen, right? But they pointed out that although my new job was great, it took up a great portion of my time. My group of friends, although wonderful and hilarious, allowed me to create a barrier against any strangers when going out–it is intimidating to approach one single girl in a group of rowdy folks to ask them for a number or a date. I huffed and puffed, and reactivated my Ok Cupid account.

I had used OkCupid when I lived in Washington, D.C., mostly to fill the void of loneliness I had moving from my college town to a huge city. I had some moderate success, but nothing really stuck, so I was hesitant to relying on it for true romance in my new city. With some new pictures and witty one-liners, I updated my profile and allowed the rest of the universe access to my vulnerable dating state. It was nerve wracking.

I messaged a few guys here and there, but was mostly underwhelmed by their responses. One night with a glass of wine and a rom-com in the DVD player, my sister insisted on looking at my profile, editing it, and finding some suitable gentlemen for me on the site. I reluctantly gave her control, and as she deleted and searched, I wondered if what I was looking for could be found on a site used primarily for booty calls. While browsing, she clicked on one fellow in particular–a Mr. “unnecessarybeef”. “He’s cute!” she exclaimed. I looked at his pictures. Cute, yes, but he looked like a jock with his marathon photos. “He won’t be into me, I hate sports,” I said, but my sister pushed on. “Just message him. What do you have to lose?” she responded, and while rolling my eyes, I looked at the rest of his profile.

In the section labeled “You should message me if:”, he had a long list of quirky, personal skills that he had, that he wished to share with another person. I found this endearing right away, but my eyes lit up at the sentence “You want to learn how to shoot a bow and arrow”. Seeing my gateway line, I sent him a message saying hello, and that I was dying to learn archery.

A couple days later, I got a sweet response saying that he would love to teach me. He also wrote that he didn’t know many other girls in their 20’s that had an interest in learning to shoot a bow, and inquired why I was interested. I knew I had to be honest. It was a compatibility test of sorts–could this guy deal with my nerdiness? I told him the truth: I loved the young adult book series The Hunger Games, thought Katniss was a bad ass, and wanted to learn her life-saving skill in the books. I clicked send and waited for the universe to decide what to do.

I got exactly the response I had been hoping for. “I love The Hunger Games, that is awesome,” he wrote, and I had a good feeling about this guy. We exchanged numbers and set up a date that week at a local bar downtown. He asked if we could each exchange a book that we loved when we met, and my good feeling turned into a feeling of “Oh my God, who is this prince?”.

When I walked to the bar and saw a fit, handsome, and well-dressed man awaiting me outside, my mouth dropped. I saw him before he saw me, so I don’t think he noticed, but I was in awe. His smile and greeting eased my nerves, and we went to the lower level of the bar where we chatted non-stop about anything and everything for two hours. He had brought me a Noam Chomsky book which made me realize he was as intelligent as he was adorable, and I brought my favorite collection of Augusten Burroughs essays so he would know I was funny and open-minded. I found out that he loathed sports but found a lot of joy in running, which was relieving. He didn’t kiss me good-night, but we made plans for a date the next night, and when I got in my car I called one of my best friends. When she asked how the date went, I told her I had just gone on the very last first date I’d ever have.

We’ve been inseparable since that meeting, and I couldn’t ask for a better partner. He challenges me to be the very best that I can, and supports me with his wisdom and heart. He makes me laugh so hard it makes my stomach hurt, and he has introduced me to so many new hobbies and skills (including shooting a bow and arrow, which I am awesome at). He helped me train and ran my first 5K with me, and together we’ve gone on adventure after adventure. I love how mature and put together he is, but also that he is incredibly goofy and passionate for life. I never want to know what a day without talking to him is like. He’s successful and kind, he loves to help others and make people laugh. He is my missing puzzle piece, and it is because of him, he has completed the love story I have with myself. He loves me so deeply, that it allows me to view myself the same way he views me.

Currently we are house hunting and chatting non-stop about our future–it’s exciting and fun and crazy and everything in-between. I am so happy these days, and it is because of so many things. A job that I love, a family that supports me, a community of friends that I wouldn’t know what to do without, and living in an amazing city that I never want to leave. But it’s him, my partner, that pulls it all together in my heart. I wish that everyone can experience this kind of love. I hope you all find it.

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When You Listen

It’s easy to ignore especially since it’s nearly impossible to detect unless you let yourself escape away with it. You can tune it out and pretend that you don’t hear the gentle, nudging — maybe even nagging — rhythm it beats. It’s simple enough to just go on about your day and all of the errands and tasks that define those 24-hours, trying so hard to focus on the car horns and the street signs, the dance of the traffic lights and the unfamiliar faces that pass.

But then it gets a little louder.

It gains momentum and tries different tactics to steal away your attention, oftentimes without you even realizing its sheer force and determination. You can’t adequately describe what exactly it is. Even with your best attempts, the words don’t come out the right way and your friends just can’t wrap their brain around this alluding, and perhaps deluding concept that you seem so fascinated by. You explain and you examine, you question and dissect your options, hoping that by some pro-con list or magical realization that you’ll find a way out. You’ll discover the easiest path to take you the easiest way, and you’ll never have to step up to the plate and battle that thing that’s ringing in your ears.

That thing that for whatever reason feels a lot like an intuition.

That feels eerily like a voice telling you to do something that you can’t really explain. It’s the same irritating, pesky feeling that makes you do things that make you uncomfortable and explore emotions that you’d rather hide away where they’re safe from any harm.

But then, if you’re anything like me, you start singing that song of urgency and you follow along the notes until it takes you to the very spot in the middle of Times Square that not only makes your skin crawl but puts you so far out of your warm-and-fuzzy-mode that you’d basically do anything if you could just run far, far away, back uptown to your apartment. With your dog.

So there I was, standing in a room of strangers at a trendy-ish bar in midtown, refraining from plugging my ears from the raging DJ’s awful taste, not knowing one single person, and yet, knowing I was meant to go to this party. It was a fundraiser for a new charity in New York and from the moment I saw the invite on Facebook, something — that silly something — told me that I had to go.

When I started bringing up the Friday-night event to my friends, it seemed like every last person I knew on this island couldn’t attend: “I’m sorry, I’m out-of-town!” “Oh, I’m not feeling good. I might be able to do it, I’ll get back to you.” “I’m going to stay in tonight and be lazy, have fun!” “It’s in Times Square? Sorry, just can’t handle it.” “I have plans with my boyfriend that I can’t break, miss you!”

Ugh. So, I flew solo, just as that intuition instructed.

Now, why am I supposed to be here? I wondered while making small talk with another small town girl from the South over a $5 glass of champagne. She was talking about dating in the city and seeking my “expert” advice while pointing out men that looked like celebrities. That one looks like Ross from FRIENDS! And that dude by the bar looks like Channing Tatum, doesn’t he? Maybe a little? She was quirky and sweet enough, but I knew it wasn’t her that I was supposed to meet.

Or was I supposed to meet anyone? I considered. Maybe my mission this evening was to join yet another non-profit — since I can’t seem to refuse to help anyone — and give just a bit more of my free time to another cause who needs me. But that’s not it, I told myself as I signed up to join the marketing committee, mentally calculating how in the world I was going to make this work with my already jam-packed schedule. 

I decided to give the party another hour while I mingled and moved about, desperately trying to find the source of this lingering voice that made me come to the party to begin with. But the minutes came and they ended, and I was still uncertain of why exactly I was drawn to this establishment, and I started to doubt my ability to distinguish between intuition and restlessness. As I started to make my way to the front, I started to lose the voice I had heard all week, and I decided that maybe, my imagination was just getting the best of me. Or was it my ever-hopeful heart?

After closing my tab and unchecking my coat, I glanced at my phone to see a number that only started texting me the day before. The number, those 10 unsaved digits that meant really nothing to me, wanted to buy me a drink on the Upper West Side. Tonight. Like in an hour.

Then suddenly the voice was back. It just had the time frame all off. And the actual location. But it returned with more clarity. It wasn’t screaming or demanding and it didn’t need any words, I already knew its directions: go. Just say yes. Without hesitation, I agreed. I listened.

And you know what happens when you listen? You get rewarded for following your heart and trusting in its timing and its patience. When you listen… you sometimes get lucky enough to meet someone who really, truly, for the first time in a very long time, could be… someone.

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Last Single Girl Standing

Waiting for my doorbell to ring the day after New Year’s, I anxiously anticipated the arrival of one of my dearest best friends, M. We were ordering cheap Chinese, exchanging Christmas presents and catching up about the 10-plus days we spent apart – something we never, ever do except during the holidays.

She’s a girl who is as much fun as she’s dependable and honest – always giving you the support you want with a side of healthy reality that you need. We’ve been through the trenches together, had a knockdown, drag-out, three-hour-long fight in my bathroom — telling each other what we really think — helped each other move and build furniture, pick the other one up when they couldn’t walk home (whoops) and brought pizza when a breakup was enough to break us. New York has always felt like home to me, but it wasn’t until I found my partner in crime – and for sharing margs and guac weekly – that I really felt like I could settle into my city. There’s something about having a best friend that lets you let down your guard and know that even if the guys suck, the job is tough or the tummies pooch – you have someone who will love you unconditionally, make sure you get over yourself and remember how great you are, too.

Maybe it’s my hidden jealous side that I try to keep at bay or just the fear of losing something that’s precious to me – but I was nervous about M coming over that night. I knew we’d have a great time because we always do – yet I also knew I was about to receive a piece of news that I didn’t quite want to hear. And not because it was bad news (it was in fact exciting and amazing) but because I knew it would change things.

You see, M has always been my single friend.

The gal who encouraged me to dance a little more, stay out a little longer, give that short guy a chance or walk out of a date if it was bad (and meet her for martinis after). The one who would let me analyze everything to death and talk it into the ground, and then match my stories with ones as terrible as my own. If not more awful at times. The one who was there to swap our silly dating troubles, edit each other’s online dating profiles and talk about how weird it’d be when one of us got a boyfriend.

And weird it is.

I haven’t met her new beau — we’ll call him Mr. Bear — but I’ve never seen her so bubbly and giggly, and yes, because it’s M, a little uncomfortable with the whole thing. Since I knew it was coming (something in my gut just told me so), when she arrived — grinning from ear to ear — I went for it head on:

Do you have a boyfriend? I quizzed directly. Coyly, she tucked her hair behind her ear and nodded, Yes, I have a boyfriend. He asked if it was for real — and it is!

A real relationship is exactly what she needed and though she’ll hate me for saying it on this blog – something she’s been wanting for a while. She’s flown solo for a long time – five years! – and I knew her bright, shining “one day” would come along sooner than later. I also knew it’d take a special guy who could be tender with her while also challenging her in the way that keeps her intrigued. When we were tipsy off of wine one time – we made predictions about the guy we’d date next: she said my guy would be one of those goofy, slightly nerdy, but handsome and tall and unbearably kind kind of guys. I said she wouldn’t like her guy right away (she didn’t care for Mr. Bear at first), but that his charm, his sweetness and the way they connected would bring them together. And make her eventually give in.

I like being right – but I can’t lie that when my suspicions of her new relationship were confirmed, I felt a little disappointed. Maybe disappointed isn’t the right word per se – maybe more like: Oh god! I’m the last single girl standing! What if she disappears into the couple nook and I don’t see her for months because she spends so much time with him? What if she changes from the outgoing, fun girl that makes me a better, more relaxed person into a girl I don’t even recognize? What if she starts doing double dates with all of our friends with boyfriends and I’m forever the third wheel?

What if I lose my best friend?!

But when I looked at her – blushing and probably a little nervous to tell me about her new beau –considering I’ve been in the market for one of my own for a while, too – I swallowed my pride. And instead of seeing my fears and the envy I felt boiling – I felt something different: happiness. This man has brought her something that I can’t, that I wouldn’t want to bring – and for the first time in a long time, she looked at ease. She looked like she was bursting with stories to tell, incredible new experiences to tell me about, romantic encounters that of course, she has to share with her best friend. (Especially a friend who loves love to a disturbing, addicted degree.) I saw in her what I miss feeling myself: hope. Anticipation. Excitement. Wishful thinking. Love.

And so, I stopped thinking about what I don’t have (yet) to be a great listener to someone who has always listened to me. Because though she’s my best friend, her relationship isn’t about me and the choices she makes because of it aren’t up to me, either – it’s a new unchartered territory for her to explore with someone she could one day really, truly care about. And while I may wish for something similar of my own, I more so wish for continued glee – and a very long honeymoon stage – for M and Mr. Bear.

So when do I get to meet him?? I asked, matching her smile and giving her a much-delayed hug.

I may be the last single gal standing of my group of gals – but I’m proud to stand by them. And – I guess — their boyfriends, too.