Tag Archives: sex

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Falling Into Like

Baby dolls and Barbies turned into Backstreet Boys and Bon Bons. Sleepovers and truth-or-dare transformed into cell phones and driver’s licenses. Crushes became lovers. Bubblegum was replaced with Mike’s Hard lemonade. Worries of missing a curfew outweighed stress over class. Kids grew into adults, while parents tried to remain young at heart. High School prepared us for college, but being away for school never prepared us for the big world we’d eventually dive (or be pushed) into. Broken hearts and tear drops intensified into Merlot-induced waves of anger, depression, and hopefully, acceptance.

And like became love.

I can remember moments during middle school, when the boy band or the boy in the band – had all of the power in the world to overtake my every thought and fill up pages in my notebook. Mr. Curls served as the main obsession during my three-year span in junior high and more than I cared about classwork, fitting in with the popular girls who were allowed to wear mini-skirts, or the boobs I wasn’t sure how to handle yet – I wanted this dude to like me. And I wanted him to not only care about me – but I wanted the whole school to know he picked me, he was with me, and no other gal could steal his attention. While today, I’m sure young ladies and lads update their Facebook status at the ripe age of 12 years old, in my time, saying you were together meant you held hands. Preferably down the hallway between class change or at the mall, while my mother waited in the food court for us to finish our “date.” I scribbled we’d be together forever on my composition book, but really – I just wanted to know that someone, especially him, liked me.

If we all stopped focusing on the love, on The One, on how wealthy a man is, how clever or witty he is, how strong his background or his lineage is, how well he takes care of himself, and where he sees himself in five years -would relationships be much easier? What if instead of contemplating the prospect of a relationship itself and determining if there is a future, we just focused on whether or not we liked the guy? And if he liked us?

How have we all forgotten the importance of falling into like?

Of all the men I’ve dated – Mr. Buddy aside – I haven’t been friends with them before we decided to make our relationship official. Whatever relationship we developed was never based on a mutual understanding, share interests, or a history of experiences together that eventually turned into something more. Instead, from the moment I met them, spent a few days getting to know them, or going on dates – I was more or less ready to try out the girlfriend role. The title of friend never interested me and while I may have liked who they were, it was never as much of a priority as my ability to love them, and they love me in return.

Somehow, between being a boy-crazed pre-teen and a 20-something wading through the dating pool of Manhattan, I lost sight of getting to know a person and turned my priority on getting to know a boyfriend.

I won’t discount the importance of passion, intrigue, and mystery when meeting someone who could grow into a partner. We all, regardless if we claim to be interested in the nature and intensity of love, want to have a great story to tell when an outside source asks us about how we met our significant other. Perhaps Harlequins and rom-coms have destroyed our ideas about what encounters should be. Maybe we all believe they should be romantic and by chance, where both parties involved instantly have a connection, and in the very best scenario, one of the two or two of the two, just know the other person was always meant to be theirs. My parent’s story has swayed me into the mindset that a man should gaze at me with endearment, find me the single most beautiful creature he’s ever known, and chase me into the great unknown endlessly, just for a chance to be by my side.

While those stories are wonderful and ever intriguing, maybe a cardinal mistake I’ve made is not taking the time to really get to know someone before I started dating them. To figure out what they are really like, what makes them tick, what brings them happiness, which parts of their personality they hid away at the beginning to entice me to stay, and who they are when they aren’t enthralled with the idea of me, but me as my most honest self.

Though I make a sincere attempt to never regret anything, in hindsight, a lot of unnecessary pain with Mr. Idea and others, could have been avoided if I would have been their friend first. If I would have figured them out before figuring them into my life. If I would have taken a step back and made an effort to determine if they are someone I would chose as my friend, before being faced with the decision of having them as a mate.

I’m well-aware we don’t have the opportunity to control who comes and who leaves our lives, or how we feel about them from the initial meeting – but instead of ruling out all of the maybes because they don’t have that spark or that thing that I’ve always thought I needed, perhaps I should try being a friend. Try falling in like before I let myself fall in love.

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I Could Have Been Cinderella

Once upon a Tuesday morning in Manhattan, I was greeted by the angry call of my alarm clock, demanding I rise earlier than any darling cares to do. Irritated that my sweet dreams in slumber town had been interrupted, I groggily tiptoed across the wood floor of my studio, and submerged in a steady stream of almost-too-hot water.

A stubbed toe and curse word later, I found myself riding the downtown train to the Southern part of the island I hardly visit. But when your job demands you arrive on Fulton Street in the wee hours of the A.M. to listen to bloggers and agents discuss the healthcare reform, you have no choice but to oblige. Maybe free coffee and breakfast help make the trip worth the long haul and the bright-and-early start time.

Like anyone who lives anywhere, I’ve found myself set into a routine of taking the same trains to the same places during the same hours of the day – with a few crazy weeks, here and there. And even if I don’t recognize the reoccurring faces, there is some sort of energy that remains static with repetition, or maybe I just get used to the route. Nevertheless, the trip to the business threshold of New York had far different inhabitants than the subway I usually take.

Mainly, there was a fresh plethora of beautiful men. And not just attractive, but ones without wedding bands. (A single gal has to look out for the married ladies, in case their man is tempted by her fruit, and she must remind him the only place his low-hangers are welcome.)

Though I noticed their Armani suits, Cartier watches, and Burberry briefcases, I was busily preparing for the event I was heading toward and had little-to-no-time to pull out The Look or place energy into smiling cleverly. And truth be told, since the start of this journey, I’ve relaxed a bit on the ogling and let the gentlemen (and the jerks) come my way, all by themselves. I mean, they are big boys, grown men, with jobs that triple (or more) my salary – surely they can approach a lady in a black mini blazer and pencil skirt. Right?

Yep, they sure can. Kind of anyways.

As I’m sitting, writing away, looking at notes, and planning what I could suggest to my publisher to add to the conversation, a guy of my type shifted in front of me. With a packed train, I watched his bag go right above my notebook and since it disturbed my flow, I quickly looked up to give the glare I never had until I moved to the city. But when I met his eyes, I let go of a little of the sleepiness-induced temper, and grinned. He did too. And he had dimples.

With only a few stops to go, I began to pack up, and kindly asked him to move over if he could at all in the crowded tiny cart. He obliged and replied, “Anything for you.” Catching on to his sarcasm, I thanked him and threw my bag over my shoulder. Not willing to put a move on him (as I would have six months ago), I waited for him to say something, since he obviously had an easy-in to a conversation with me.

“So where do you work?” He finally asked matter-of-factly. A little thrown off by his harshness, I let him know my position at the magazine, and the moment “editor” can out of my mouth – his face went from concerned and nervous, to smugly assured. “A writer, eh?” He said with a smirk as he cut his eyes across the train before looking back down at me. I nodded and shortly defended my job title – though I wasn’t sure why it was in question. “Well, I’m a senior vice president, at 30, at Blah Blah Blah Bank. When is your event over?” Confused by what my morning committment had anything to do with his job, I blankly said, “It ends at 11.”

Out of some sort of misguided and overly arrogant sense of self, he offered, “If you’re interested, I can have my secretary buzz you up and I can show you a good time you’d love to write about. ” Stunned he would have the nerve to make such a proposition to a woman he’s known a measly three minutes – not to mention, he didn’t even know I was a dating blogger, or my name, I dropped my jaw without even moving. Then the train stopped. I excused myself to get around him and confidently hurried away from him and up the stairway.

A few steps away from daylight and complete freedom from the businessman who thought he was more bad ass than what he really is  – I literally stepped right out of my high heel. I was in such a rush that it took three steps for me to stop, turn around, and realize I had actually lost one of my Jimmy’s. Flustered and fearing I would be late because I was so irritated with the dude – I went to reach for it and there he was.

Both of us seeing the undeniable irony of the moment, he smirked that annoying little smirk that for a split-second, seconds ago, I had been blinded by the accessorized dimples. As he was leaning to retrieve my shoe and probably go back to the office calling himself a prince, I snatched it up before he had a second to think. Placing it back on my hosed-foot, I sharply looked into his eyes and said, “No, really. That’s okay.”

Maybe I’ve stopped looking for happily ever after and perhaps I’m not even sure what “after’ indicates, anyways. But when given the opportunity to be banker’s princess, instead of being crowned worthy for an afternoon of delight, I would have rather talked healthcare for the rest of my career than dignify anything he said, jokingly or not, with any sort of recognition.

Walking to meet my boss and dive into a discussion that was surprisingly engaging, I thought about how many times I had imagined that exact moment. How many times during college I had been criticized (in the newsroom, go figure) for believing in fairytales. How at one point, my ringtone was sadly and embarrassingly “Someday My Prince Would Come.” How much I had wondered if, with my love for high heels, and a dreamy population of men who look like my image of a prince, I would indeed, have a completely idealistic interaction just like that.

And then when it happened, when I could have been Cinderella, I didn’t want this so-called Charming to come in on his white ride, or with his bulky bank account and sweep me away to a penthouse on Wall Street looking over the river. Instead, I’d rather steal his horse and make a run for it – once I made sure he gave my shoe back, that is.

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The Biggest Love of All

I could pretend like I don’t care. I could say that it wouldn’t bother me if I never found it. I could claim that I believe I would be fine without it. I could entertain the notion that monogamy is unrealistic.

Or I could be honest. And the truth of the matter is yes, I want to have a big love.

You know – the one where the sparks just fly. Where inhibitions, caution, fears, and apprehensions are dispersed into the wind of yesteryear – and I just go full force ahead into the tomorrow that now seems so clear. Where each bone and every sensation gives the indication that this person, this man, could be that someone I’ve been dreaming of. Where when he looks my way, when his eyes peer into mine, instead of just seeing facial expressions – I see something that even I couldn’t put into words. Where things, for whatever reason and measured in whatever way we both see fit – just work. Intensely, magically, profoundly, and naturally. Where passion and intrigue are magnified, but when I spent endless time with this person, I find myself shocked thinking, “Wow, this just feels right. It’s so easy.”

Lately, I’ve been thinking about this big love and deciding if getting over the idea of having a beautiful story with a dramatic plot line and incredible ending, is a huge part of this journey. We all know the love people produce movies, write novels, and compose music about are unrealistic. And if we admit to desiring such things, our independence, our intelligence, our interest in academia and the world is questioned. I mean, why should we waste brain cells or thoughts or hours of our life, thinking about the big love? When that love – where it be full of ups and downs or smooth sailing – is maybe, just an illusion? One that’s created by Hollywood and Harper Collins.

But the fiction that’s portrayed on silver screens and between pages – it’s inspired by facts. By people with real experiences. By men and women who have felt that thing, whatever it is. Maybe those who have seen it come and go, watched it while it stayed and then as it left. By those who were critics before they were stung by a buzzing person they couldn’t shoo away – regardless of how hard they tried.

I’ve yet to decide if The Love – as we all indicate worthy of capital letters – is the relationship that’s simple and easy-going, without drama and messiness, or if it’s the one that amidst all of the problems, at the end of the day, or in the final act, you’d still chose this person over any other eligibility. Maybe I’m conflicted because the strongest and most withstanding pairs I know all have varying histories. My dad had to pursue my mother for eight months before she finally agreed to go on a date with him (they were married four months later, mind you). A reader once told me she and her husband, knew in a single instance, with one silly glance, that they had just met their match. One of my closest friends, A, met her now-boyfriend in the states, but it took until they were in China at the same time, for them to come together. Other couples I know had to break up a few times, get over one another’s past, and let go of their own baggage to move forward. But when they did, it went full-force ahead into the land of happily ever-together. The stories are all different, the levels of intertwining roads and the bumps that break up the pavement vary, but the love is the same. It is intense. It is powerful. It is based on a mutual understanding of mutuality. It’s that love – the big one. The doozy.

For the majority of my life, I’ve feared not finding this relationship. Not having a man who flat-out, no questions asked, adored me. Not experiencing that impossible connection that’s uninterrupted because it’s that incredibly strong. Not having that feeling that I could, in fact, spend the rest of my life with someone and it not seem terrifying.

But if I’m honest – each relationship has increasingly been better. I’ve learned more with every choice, each mistake, and all of the romantic exchanges. I’ve mastered the difficult task of trying to make good out of bad and believe heartbreaks are more about growth than about pain. And while I haven’t had a life-altering, ground-breaking, knock me off my feet love – I’ve experienced love that’s worthy of words. Worthy of the time, spirit, and heart invested, even if the return was sometimes small.

All of these little loves may eventually add up to one big love – but what I’ve always had and always will have is something more. And that’s the relationship I have with myself. It’s always remarkably more trying and yet more sincere than any romance I’ve curated with a man. It has its ups and its downs. It’s full of trials and yet, worth each and every single off-day, for even an hour of feeling my very best. It takes me every place I need to go and when no one else can say the right words, I can find them if I look hard enough. It allows other people into the picture, just to show me how powerful the union really is and test how loyal I am to myself. It’s taken decades of pursuing and wooing, wining and dining, to get to where I am now. It’s a daily struggle with a daily reward. It’s the single most important, most intriguing, most difficult – and yet, the easiest, relationship I’ve ever been in or will ever experience.

There may be The One and I may want to find a big love to love, and I may never let go of the desire for that partnership. But at least I can be reassured that I’ve already found The Love. And no matter how much drama I encounter or admiration I give and receive, at least I know love is possible. And it is worth each and every downfall, if at the end of my story – the love I’ve found in myself remains the biggest love of all.

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The Love Club

There are certain parts of New York – say the West Village, Soho, and even Williamsburg – that give the feel of a small town in a big city. The buildings are shorter, the streets are less crowded and frantic, and the people, seemingly calmer and happier. It’s reasonable to spend all day lounging in a cafe drinking coffee, that somehow, they don’t charge for refills – and still stay in business. There are more couples and families, and yet the singles still roam wild and free. You see less and less corporate and more and more locally owned and there’s this greater sense of community that can’t be found in Meatpacking, Chelsea, or even the Upper West/East sides.

To me, the characters of the villages seem like the ones who have found themselves established and secure, comfortable and at home in a place that entertains transplants, commuters, and tourists day-end-and-day-out. These residents of micro communities, usually dressed in black and boots, hair partially dried and unnamed bag in tow – have done what any NYC-wannabe aims to do: they’ve become New Yorkers. They’ve created little worlds inside of a huge ones, homes within the perimeter of industrial, and codes of conduct that don’t apply past West 4th or north of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Quite like the boroughs and the districts that divide and designate the many lands of Manhattan – something happens when two become one, when casual becomes serious, and when fear of commitment subsides to the need to just be. For whatever reason, in an unexplained manner to outsiders, being in a relationship does more than eliminate your single status, it creates an alternative universe of chemistry-specific coupleness.

Being in a relationship, in a lot of ways, is like being in a whole new world (mind the trite Aladdin reference here) – and if you’re lucky (or is it unlucky?), being in love turns your schedule and your life upside down in the most blissful of ways.

Yesterday, I spent a great deal of time navigating downtown, a hundred streets away from my apartment, observing the energy and the interactions of inhabitants. And what I discovered, beyond any reasonable doubt, is couples of every shape, form, age, race, or mood – blend into one another. Perhaps I mainly saw those who had been together for years or were just madly in love, but somehow, those I walked by, seemed as if they were happily lost away, out of the city, out of the village, and deeply engrossed in each other – in their own personal sphere.

They walked in sync, step-for-step. They discussed topics of no particular interest in an interesting fashion. They sipped coffee and laughed, held hands, and peered into each other’s eyes. They sat cuddled on the bench, in the corner booth, by the exit of the train. They sat side-by-side, across from one another, and shared sentiments I’d never be able to decipher. Glances were hidden but clear, touches were stolen but remembered, and thoughts were shared, but secret.

In the way that becoming a New Yorker means settling into a community, finding your way among thousands upon thousands of people, and being comfortable enough to really not give damn about how you look while fetching the morning paper- is the appeal of a relationship due to having a partner who gets you? Who you can be a little freak with, dispense those characteristics or mannerisms that others may not understand, and at the end of the day, be accepted just as you are?

Is being in a love a way to establish yourself? A way to prove to the strangers you pass, the fathers who continously ask for grandchildren, and all of those silly married friends who found love many moons ago – that yes, I’m not defected, I’m not unlovable. There is someone who wants me, someone who I can be myself around, and see life through not only my eyes, but their perspective too?

Is being a couple like being in a super-secret, difficult to be admitted into, only for the privileged, membership program? Is love like a club for two?

If so – for a long time, I was doing all that I could to be sent my acceptance letter to the School (or city) of Love.

Had I pranced around the streets, chasing the pigeons as I usually do, say, six months ago – as happy as the energy of the streets made me, I would have still felt sad. Passing double doses when I was a single serving, seemed to always rub me the wrong way. The simple reminder that others had found love, had found someone who wanted them, had this immeasurable power to instantly make me feel awful. To give me the impression and the sense that I wasn’t worth the love, that I wasn’t part of this unknown world I had rarely passed, that this highly desired title of taken, just wasn’t meant for me.

By judging myself against the women I wanted to be – those who were dazzling in the loveliness of love – I just didn’t measure up. My standards must had been too low or high, my scores on the girlfriend test had failed below average, and the uniform I was to wear as someone’s lady, just didn’t hug me in all the right places.

I had, in fact, been rejected from the very place I wanted to be. Access had been denied.

But now, with a little focus on self-love and a lot of patience with myself, I’ve arrived at the conclusion that love isn’t a microcosm or alternative universe left to be traveled. It isn’t just found on McDougall, Prince, or Park Slope. It isn’t an all-exclusive resort that few can afford and some can enjoy the lavish luxury of. It isn’t meant for those who are the best or for those who give and take love with the most ease.

Like the neighborhoods of New York – that many of us cycle through during our time on this island – being in love isn’t limited to our address or even our final destination – but it is found in each and every step. In whatever place we happen to find ourselves at. Because even when we do stumble upon a man who actually wants to be exclusive, a person who is worth rearranging our calendar for, or perhaps just someone who knows the best way to make us laugh – we still remain part of the world. The West Village is still part of New York, and being an an individual is still part of being a couple. No matter how much we escape from the bigger picture to focus on the smaller.

If there is a club of love – we should all rest assured that we’re all accepted. We’ve all passed the tests with flying colors and we’ve all failed miserably. And after all is said and done, after we move away from the relationship or away from the brownstone, we’re still part of the world. Part of the universe that forever, without question, will always let us back into the love club, time and time again.

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When Time Turns the Tables

After the serendipitous meeting with Mr. Fire a few weeks before I graduated, where he confirmed my existence actually did mean something to him, he told me he’d let me know when he was in New York. He knew I’d be there and if he could help it, so would he.

Several years later, it looks like he finally made the move. Or at least for a job interview, that is.

Though it has been quite some time since I’ve laid eyes on the dude and I’m not interested in sprouting any new chapters with him – as I headed toward sushi for two on Wednesday, my mind couldn’t help but race.

After all, this was an evening, a moment, an opportunity I had dreamt of since the day he ended things far quicker than I thought he would. Following the late-Spring breakup in our college’s commons, I collapsed into my bed, equal parts shocked and desperately sad. A few hours later, with my puffy face and tired eyes and spirit, my roommate tried to console me, and though I’m pretty sure we both knew there was no magic phrase or surprising sentence that could alleviate my tears, something she said inspired me to move forward with a little hope: “It doesn’t seem like you guys finished anything. There are all these questions – he’s gotta have them too. I promise you, years from now, you’ll get the answers and you’ll see him again. By then, you’ll probably be happy and won’t care.”

I disagreed in that moment – how could I ever care less than I did then? How would this feeling ever leave or lessen? But maybe, if we were meant to cross paths again – say on Park Avenue South – it’d all make sense. Perhaps he felt just as broken as I did.

Come to find out, we both coined each other as the “one who got away” or the guy/gal who we’ll always wonder what could have been or what we should have experienced, but were too young to take a shot at. Since the split, we’ve never managed to be single at the same time. There’s always been someone else in the mix, another component to complicate any prospect of attempting to finish what we started or give another round to cards we laid many years ago. And up until that night, a part of me, even if it was just the tiniest sliver of silver-lining I had– I thought maybe, we’d end up together. That while I can’t be convinced I believe in fate in its indefinite definition, I do have faith in time.

And my love, my darling, time can do a gal many wonderful splendors in terms of love.

Walking to meet Mr. Fire, heels and lace-mini prepared to stun – I thought how my roommate was right. Here I was, living in the place I knew I’d end up, strutting toward my past, and other than a few butterflies, I was calm. And while I think there will always be questions left unanswered, love left unfinished, and ends left untied – it didn’t matter too much.

Because time, in its unpredictable ways, took me from lusting after this idealistic notion that Mr. Fire and I were destined, to realizing I didn’t want him anymore. In the seasons that had cycled, the tides that turned, and the feet that landed me in this city – I had changed.

And he hadn’t.

Sitting across from him, listening to him ramble and flush a sweet color of pink – I remembered the facial expressions I had adored, the gestures, and the stories I had fallen for. I still found him incredibly attractive – but had he always had that deep Southern accent that I was lucky enough to escape (Thanks Dad, from New Jersey)? I still found myself laughing at his comics, but that intelligent, witty conversation that I value in a man – does he have that? And yes, he was tall, but that stagger, that thirst to drink more than necessary – will he ever outgrow those silly habits?

Perhaps time can divide lovers for years and then bring them back together in some sort of romantic-comedy approved manner – but it also can make you see how wrong someone is for you. How while you loved them – or at least the idea of what they could be – when people grow, either together or separated, they end up in different versions of destiny than what they originally hoped. And perhaps, that ending is better than the happy one we once planned for ourselves.

Even if he was – or maybe always will be – the one who slipped through my fingers and pushed away the love I was willing to give him. Maybe the ones who do leave before we expect them too, were always meant to walk before closure could be granted, before reasoning and discussions could be completed. In some sort of twisted hand of Father Time, they are the ones who make us realize down the road, that what we think will happen, what we hope will come to be, who the people we can’t imagine living without – aren’t always what’s best for us. Or at least the us we become in this continuous progression we call life.

Sometimes, time makes you see that you love the you you’ve become more than the man who was. Or the we that was supposed to be. That while minutes or hours or days or even years may pass by so slowly -all that was, all that is, and all that will be, will work itself out, somehow, someday, along the way.