Research & ruts

My man and I were doing our usual post-coital chit chat—”I liked that.” “I loved that.” “How many times?” “Where’s the dog?” My man loves talking. It’s one of my favorite things about him. He has stories galore and an imagination gone wild. But what’s even greater than my man’s talent of talking is his incredible talent of listening.

He listens sooo good. Especially when it comes to me. He wants to hear why I liked that, why I loved that, why it was 2 times and not 3. He listens to my stories and my body so he can, as he puts it, “understand what she [Carolyn] needs and why she [Carolyn] needs it.”

It feels like he sees me as one of those intricate paint by numbers. But instead of diving in and coloring, he’s taking his time, collecting his paints, deciding on the best order, researching the artist, until he slowly and carefully starts filling in the empty spaces with color. He paints the picture of Carolyn with purpose.

His inherent thirst for knowledge of me and my body are impressive. But that ‘thirst’ was there before me. He told me during our post-coital chat that he credits something he read in a book years ago to one of his ‘sexniques’ in the bedroom. Now I know nothing about Tim Ferriss and his 4-hour body and what knowledge he bestowed upon my man. A quick Google search revealed Tim’s got a thing for Brazil nuts but when I peeped in my man’s cabinets he only had baking pecans, so who knows. But I am impressed that he found a piece of knowledge that works for him after all these years.

As I find myself in my own sort of life-rut, I’m in admiration of how much patience my man has given himself over the years towards carving out space for his happiness. I’m the opposite of patience. When I’m unhappy I want a quick fix. Some amazing piece of advice or article or 8-10 minute YouTube video to explain away my unhappiness and tell me how to fix it. If I can watch a video on how to give the perfect blow job, can’t I watch one on how I shouldn’t compare myself to others? But even the best videos on how to simplify life and strive for happiness, not success, end with some plea to purchase. So what is it? Detox or add to cart?

My man has showed me what it means to listen and learn. I’ve never been with someone who is this interested in doing that for me. It’s great but I also catch myself relying on his research to understand what I need and why I need it. “That’s not fair, Carolyn!” I know. It’s not his painting and it’s definitely not his to finish. Time to dig up my own paints.

The Trudge

I trudged through the snow on my way to Prospect Park. It had snowed a lot and was snowing still. A brief rain shower earlier left the sidewalk extra slippery leaving me, a person who lives in constant fear of falling on her ass, extra cautious. My eyes were peeled to the ground looking for spots of safety as I performed what can only be described as my ‘Patient Recovering from a Knee Replacement Surgery’-shuffle. 

Adding to the stressful walk was a couple walking in front of me holding hands. Any other day this would’ve been fine but today it was frustrating. Because the couple wasn’t trudging like I was. No, they were strolling. And unless I wanted to risk stepping and slipping into a pile of wet snow, it was impossible to pass.

I hated the hand holders. 

I left my apartment in a wild blizzard to post sarcastic videos of sledders on my Instagram, not to partake in a precarious walk behind the goddamn happiest couple in Brooklyn. My journey was causing me to use way more concentration than I expected. I questioned my journey as I steadied myself with my imaginary IV pole. 

As I was granted more walking freedom further down the street, I made it through the Endale Arch and even though I was still nervous about falling, I wanted to appreciate the Arch’s restored beauty. In quick, panicked bursts I took her in.

I whipped my head up: “Beautiful wood!” 
I whipped my head down: “Balance, bitch, balance!”

It wasn’t until I made it to the great lawn, that I could finally pause, breathe and fully take my surroundings in. I made it. Not only that, I didn’t slip or fall. The ‘treacherous trudge’ had become immediately worth it. 

I’m not usually a timid person. I don’t stop myself from trying new things, riding roller coasters and doing things that scare me. I’m the first one to suggest making that random left off the road or riding the subway out of my way just because. I’m 100% horny for infrastructure and the various ways our bodies travel to and arrive at different locations. But when it comes to emotionally getting somewhere; the planning, the timing, the ‘treacherous trudge’ of moving from point A to point B, I often feel helpless. 

Transitions are hard. Leaving is hard. I’m lucky to be someone who adapts quickly when traveling but it makes coming home super depressing. It sometimes takes me days to recover. Not just from different time zones, but from everything. Returning home often feels heavy when anywhere I go feels familiar in a matter of days, sometimes hours. Even returning from work trips with a fried brain, two-day hangover, and a new Patagonia jacket I somehow won in a dance off leave me emotionally depleted. Like I’m starting over. 

But this time I really was starting over.

I recently packed up my first 1-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn to move to my first 1-bedroom apartment in the suburbs. For the two weeks leading up to the move, I felt like I was in a constant state of trudge. Permanently trapped behind the happy, hand-holding couple, unable to move freely, watching everyone else go about their lives and routines as I was upending mine. Everything felt wrong. Everything felt sad and I most certainly didn’t feel like myself. Putting your life in boxes sucks. There’s no fun way to take magnets and pictures off your fridge without feeling some feelings. 

I could see the arrival, I wanted the arrival, and yet my feet refused to move. My eyes would close. I‘d take a nap. I wanted to do anything but the thing I knew would make me grow. Sure, I’m a master procrastinator but this was different.

People ask "If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" but what about “If you move to the suburbs, did your life in Brooklyn even happen?” Did I leave a mark in Crown Heights? Did my 7ish years trying to impress audiences, gatekeepers and snarky bartenders prove anything? Will my lovers remember me? Will the laundry guy wonder where the girl with the “Whose Jizz Is This?” tank went? 

All those thoughts raced in my head because I knew once I moved I would be busy moving forward. Adapting as quickly as I do in expensed Marriots in Chicago or friends' couches in Austin.

And I did. Or am. I’m not fully adapted yet but it’s happening. The snow and trudge has melted and I’m close to strolling with no fear of falling.

Oh wait. I keep forgetting I live in the suburbs now. I’m driving with no fear of falling.

Forget everything you ever knew about Basic Instinct

Last year you may remember I lost control over both the book and the movie, 9 1⁄2 Weeks. I became obsessed with Elizabeth’s intense, sexual surrender and Mickey Rourke’s smile. I couldn’t believe this 1986 movie had just been sitting there my whole sexual awakening unwatched by me. I was ready to feel that again. 

So I developed a new tradition called “Carolyn watches notable, hot, erotic thrillers of the past in the dead of winter” and this year I chose Basic Instinct. 

Described as a neo-noir erotic thriller and starring Sharon Stone and Michael Douglas, I didn’t know much of anything about the movie except for, well, ::wink wink, nudge nudge::, you know. I never witnessed the infamous scene, and yet, I had seen it parodied in just about every way possible. I was excited to check this off my list.

But as I write about this movie a week later, it’s not that scene I’m thinking about. And it’s certainly not Sharon Stone’s character, author Catherine Tramell, either. The scene (which comes in around minute 27) is interesting, sure, but it’s also muddled by cheesy detective dialogue, the gurgle of a water cooler and the face of Wayne Knight aka Newman. It’s also pretty embarrassing how ‘shocking’ the detectives find Catherine’s carAAAzy habit of stripping emotion out of her sexual relationships.

That scene from Basic Instinct may be iconic but, for me, it takes a backseat to the other icon whose screen time exceeds that of Sharon Stone’s flesh. The icon that actually made me pause, rewind, and ask myself, “Did I really just see that? Did I really just see...a Bart Simpson keychain?”

Wait up.

Basic Instinct was released March 20, 1992. Six days later, only in it’s 3rd season, the 55th episode of The Simpsons, “Colonel Homer” aired. An episode with it’s own themes of seduction as the character of country singer, Lurleen Lumpkin, attempts to seduce Homer. But I’m not here to make symbolic Simpsons episodes connections between Basic Instinct (even if they do exist).

I’m obsessed with people who look and play the part of a quintessential ‘adult’ and, to me, Dr. Beth Garner, the character holding the keychain, is that. She’s involved in an intense sexual relationship with her client/colleague, she wears thigh highs and shoulder pads, she’s a freaking police psychologist and she storms into bars and tells her colleagues to “Fuck off!”

My adult experience has been that no matter how many bills I pay, no matter how much of a woman I become in the bedroom, no matter how many times I see the proof that I really am an adult, I’ll never look the part of a Dr. Beth. I constantly feel like the little girl who feels like she knows nothing, can’t sew a button, doesn’t understand the stock market (especially these days) and is easily intimidated by grown ups with families or a Master’s in Psychology.

But when Dr. Beth revealed to me that she kept her keys on a keychain with one of the most childish icons of my time, Bart freaking Simpson, it was the ‘Don’t have a cow’ moment I needed.

Like Dr. Beth Garner, my keys are also kept on my own silly piece of iconic, pop culture; a Pussy Wagon keychain. But I also own thigh highs, I’ve slept with with a colleague, and I think there’s a time and a place for shoulder pads. I don’t have a Master’s in Psychology but I pride myself on my communication skills that have led to some great conversations and, god dammit, I have a minor in Art!

The Beth and Bart sides that live in me are constantly battling for first place. Depending on what I’m trying to accomplish or who I’m talking to, they’re both always fighting to be understood and I’m pretty sure that’s just always how it’s going to go. My Beth side may never be as bright as my Bart side, but I know they’re both in me. And the less time I spend proving that to myself, the less exhausted I’ll be trying to prove myself to the world.

Uh, so yeah, Basic Instinct was a pretty okay movie.

Me, myself and a can of cranberry sauce

As the idea of a Thanksgiving mostly alone in my Brooklyn apartment started to become more of a reality, I wondered what it might look like. 

Eating alone is nothing new for me. Living solo for almost three years now, I’m used to being alone in the kitchen. I’m grateful I only have to grocery shop for one and only have myself to blame when the cheddar/grape/salted almond trifecta runs dry. But of course I’m a little apprehensive of the holiday season alone.

I imagined the moment when I opened a can of jellied cranberry sauce, loosened the mold with the swirl of a knife around the can’s perimeter, and finally, plopped it onto one of my hand-me-down plates next to my Tofurky, would look positively pathetic. 

I get it. The ‘optics’ of a can of cranberry sauce are questionable. It slides out in a slurp. It’s shaped like the industrial can it comes in. It jiggles. But admittedly I’m a huge fan of the stuff and as I prepare my meal for one at the end of an unstable year, I’m looking forward to it’s reliable taste and shape.

I’m grateful for my independence, my cozy apartment, my health, and most importantly, my cranberry sauce, but I know Thursday will be one of those ‘Talking Heads nights’ that leave me wondering “How did I get here?” An existential crisis over stuffing. How come I’m not the beautiful wife in the beautiful house?

Those moments for me always seem to take place in the kitchen. Doing some mundane task like standing over a pot of boiling water or frying an egg, my wet head most likely wrapped up in a Turbie Twist. The lights flicker. I accidentally break the yolk. 

My somber, kitchen moments used to leave me wondering if I was in the early stages of becoming Martha. Remember poor Martha from The Americans? 

**The Americans spoiler alerts ahead**

I hated and loved Martha. She was unapologetically sexual, had a pretty cool job, but god, she was alone. Always confined to her apartment waiting for her sham of a husband Clark to make his rare appearance, fuck the shit out of her, and then leave to return to his ‘real’ wife and life. Ugh. Been there, done that, sister.

Also, she was obsessed with Clark. An obsession that eventually shipped her off to Russia leaving her to grocery shop for one, and oh god, eat dinner alone under poor lighting.

Okay, it’s not so much the baked potatoes and cheap apartment fixtures I worry about but I do worry about my own obsessive qualities. 

I’m very good at becoming obsessive. Especially when I fall for someone. But admitting that isn’t always easy. Being labeled ‘obsessed’ rarely sounds positive and as you may have realized reading a blog about me, I'm also pretty busy being obsessed with myself. 

But similar to the can of cranberry sauce, even though obsessions don’t necessarily look good from the outside, I don’t think we should write them off completely. There are benefits to a healthy obsession. Obsessions come with motivation, learning, a blind excitement towards something you’re always ready to talk about. Obsessions are work in addition to the work you already do. 

My obsession with myself has provided a new and improved relationship with myself. Sure I have my sad, somber kitchen moments, but I know how to build myself back up. I know how to appreciate who I am and what I do have. I’m not the beautiful wife in the beautiful house but I’m also definitely not the metaphorical Martha being exiled to the Motherland. 

I think we would all have better outcomes if we didn’t trade in an obsession for ourselves for an obsession for someone else. Let’s instead demand both. Because finding someone who worships us as much as we worship ourselves (and our cans of cranberry sauce), is truly something to be thankful about.

My birth day

A few months back when I was living at home with my parents, I gave my mom the ultimate Mother’s Day gift. I interviewed her about the experience of giving birth to me. Who needs a restaurant gift card when you have memories of Carolyn bursting through your vaginal canal to share?

While to some my gift may have seemed ‘lazy’ or ‘cheap’, let me be the first to tell you that, yes. Yes it was. But with it being the middle of a pandemic and my Dad having already agreed to make a nice dinner of risotto and asparagus, it was the best I could do.

The idea came from an email I received from one of my favorite sites, Allbodies. In it they suggested, if possible, interviewing the person who gave birth to you and even provided starting questions for having a conversation about that glorious day. Since I also had the added benefit of having my dad on standby for those random, additional details he’s so greatly known for, I decided to go for it.

CAROLYN: Was October 29th my due date?

MOM: Oh my god, Carolyn. I don’t know if it was before your due date. Or after your due date. 

DAD: It was close enough.

CAROLYN: Do you remember what time I was born?

DAD: I don’t know. Your sister was 10:06 in the morning.

MOM: You don’t remember these things 34 years later.

CAROLYN: I remember dad changing my diaper!

DAD: I don’t think so.

CAROLYN: I remember two instances.

MOM: My god.

CAROLYN: I need more wine. 

MOM: Me too.

CAROLYN: Did you have an epidural?

MOM: Yes, Oh my god. Are you kidding me, I wouldn’t have survived without it. 

CAROLYN: Were you in a room by yourself?

DAD: It was a private room and private delivery.

MOM: A lot of people were there for the delivery. They were all watching, it was like a sideshow.

CAROLYN: Sideshow, got it.

DAD: This was before medicine became a corporation, Carolyn. 

CAROLYN: What did it feel like to hold me for the first time?

MOM: Oh, it was wonderful, it was euphoric.

CAROLYN: Mom, I’m being serious. 

MOM: I’m being serious too!

CAROLYN: I thought you were being sarcastic.

MOM: No, it's a wonderful feeling. To know that you and your husband produced that, it’s a beautiful feeling.

DAD: [to my dog] What’s up doggy? 

CAROLYN: Did you breastfeed?

MOM: No, I didn’t breastfeed. It just wasn’t my bag. Or my boob. [laughter]

CAROLYN: Someone else’s boob then?

MOM: No! You ate like a pig though. I can remember after you were born, they came with the formula in the bottle to give you. So I gave it to you and the nurse came back and she looked at the bottle and said, “I didn't expect you to give her that much!”

CAROLYN: I was just saying how I’m such a fast eater!

MOM: Well, there you go.

CAROLYN: Going back in time, what advice would you give yourself? 

MOM: I don’t know. I guess, “Don’t sweat the small stuff”.

CAROLYN: Oh come on, you can’t quote dumb cliche books.

MOM: Well it’s the truth through. 

CAROLYN: Why? What ‘small stuff’ were you sweating?

MOM: I don’t know, you just wanna make sure you do everything right and according to protocol…

CAROLYN: Well, what books did you read?

MOM: I didn’t read another book then.

CAROLYN: But did you with [my sister]?

MOM: Yeah.

CAROLYN: Which book?

MOM: I don’t know. One of those ‘everything-you-always-wanted-to-know-about-having-a-baby’ books. 

DAD: Doctor Spock was out of style by then, Carolyn.

CAROLYN: What’s that mean?

DAD: Dr. Benjamin Spock of the 1940’s, 50s, and 60s was the absolute authority of childbirth.

MOM: I probably read that for [my sister] then I bet.

DAD: No. By 1980 he was out style. 

CAROLYN: ‘Dr. Spock out of style.’ Got it. Okay, did you climax while giving birth?

MOM: No!

CAROLYN: Some people do! 

MOM: Oh my god.

CAROLYN: What did transitioning into parenthood teach you?

MOM: Oh god, after I’ve had wine. Uh, don’t leave anything lying around that’s too little that kids are gonna put in their mouth?

CAROLYN: Oh my god, Mom, something real. 

MOM: Okay. It taught me that you’re gonna have a lot less time for yourself but you don’t mind it cause you love the kids so much and you’d do anything for your kids. You put your kids ahead of yourself. Instead of you first, it’s them first.

DAD: Except when you puke in the car.

CAROLYN: Is there anything about how I was born or how I was as a newborn that is representative of what you see in me today? Like was I funny? [snorts]

DAD: You just laid around and made funny noises. 

MOM: You liked being with other kids and playing with them. You wanted to play with everybody.

CAROLYN: Okay, now tell me about the poop. 

[I had recently been made aware that I pooped as I was being born and obviously needed to know more]

MOM: The nurse came back and said you had meconium staining. That you had a bowel movement while you were inside me and still in labor.

CAROLYN: Did you make any poop jokes?

MOM: What?

CAROLYN: Like after I was born, were you like ‘Haha, poop.’

MOM:  No! It could’ve been very serious. You could’ve choked on it. 

CAROLYN: [Laughs]

MOM: [Takes a bite of the dessert crepe my sister sent to the house earlier cause she’s a very good daughter] Steve, you want some of this? It’s really good. Nutella, strawberries, oh god. 

DAD: The day before you came home from the hospital they hosted a dinner for all the mothers in the hospital.

CAROLYN: That seems like something they don’t do anymore, huh?

DAD: This was before medicine was a corporation!

MOM: They didn’t give us wheelchairs. We were all so exhausted by the time we got there.

CAROLYN: That’s still nice though.

DAD: Yes, it was a very good meal. I believe it was filet mignon. 

CAROLYN: Where did the name Carolyn come from?

MOM: We just liked the name. I tried to find a name that would flow well with Busa. I wanted 3-syllables. 

CAROLYN: Any final words about this ‘shitty’ birth?

MOM: Nowadays I think they encourage you to have the baby stay with you in the room but then it was they took them back to the nursery. 

CAROLYN: Overnight?

MOM: Yeah.

CAROLYN: No wonder why I couldn’t sleep for years. 

MOM: You couldn't sleep in the crib. You didn't want to be by yourself when you went to bed. You always liked having people around. I would sit in the chair in the tv room and you would fall asleep in my arms and it was a wonderful feeling having you fall asleep there.

CAROLYN: Did you want to do that tonight?

MOM: No. But it really was a nice feeling.

Thanks, Mom. Happy birth day.

Slowing down desire

I found my first grey hair about a year ago. I always wondered where I would be when the inevitable happened. Turns out it was in the bathroom of my office. I felt betrayed by the mirror. This mirror is one of those ​perfect ​mirrors that sits under the perfect​ light, at the ​perfect​ angle, providing the p​erfect ​selfie. And even though you have to maintain a level of preparedness in case anyone comes in or out, it’s always worth it.

I loved the way I look in this mirror. Rarely could I just go right back to my desk after seeing my reflection. I was too turned on. I’d have to sulk around the office in search of someone to flirt with (which was easy since I always had a minimum of 3 crushes around me). The mirror gave me a source of power. Every day it whispered, “You’re perfect, baby.” 

Until that day. 

When my mirror revealed to me that my body was out of my control and indeed aging, I wondered if there would be a time when my reflection turned me off instead of on. A time when my sex drive...stopped.

The idea of losing my sex drive scares me more than an entire head of grey hairs. From my late twenties until now, my comedy, my writing, how I ​walk​ has been designed around my desire. I’m naturally aroused, naturally wet, and very accustomed to that being ​me.​ Like the grey hair, I wonder, Where will I be when ​that ​goes away? ​Who​ will I be?

The past year living in lockdown, quarantined, social distancing—however you choose to describe it—have felt somewhat like a preview of the above scenario, a weird game I wasn’t quite prepared to play. I’m confronting this fear, or at least a version of it, faster than I thought. No, my sex drive may not be gone, but my sex life as I knew it is.

It’s a hard pill to swallow. Ah, swallowing! I’ve done a lot work on my sex drive and sex life these past few years. Many of us did! The amount of books and articles and entertainment that have finally started talking about personal pleasure more honestly are way easier to find. Sites like omgyes.com​ even offer a ‘toolbox’ of research that “take[s] a clear-headed look at the many nuances of women’s sexual pleasure.” The taboo of women’s pleasure is shifting in a forward and positive direction. But what happens when the direction goes the opposite way, or stops altogether?

I don’t know much about menopause and, besides Grace and Frankie, I don’t know many women experiencing it. The change continues to be shrouded in mystery and scares me. Dry. Hot flashes out of nowhere. Not easily aroused. I want to fuck when I’m sick. When I’m bleeding. When I’m sad. When I’m ​fucking​. Ugh. Can I start ​Hormone Replacement Therapy​ ​now?​ I wonder what I’ll think of myself but I also wonder what the world will think of me. 

Around the same time I found my grey hair, I went to a ‘town hall’ about sex. It was one of those town halls where there were too many pillows and not enough chairs. I was uncomfortable sitting cross-legged on the floor. My discomfort grew when an older male in the crowd who went by ‘Coach’, started talking about his wife. They had been married for 40 years and now in their 60s, he was challenged by his wife’s changing, menopausal body. I braced myself for his disappointment, his disgust with her now overheated body. “Asshole!” I thought as he spoke. 

But instead of belittling his wife and their relationship, Coach shared the secret to their still satisfying sex life: slowing down. 

So often to me, slowing down feels like I’m giving up or not doing enough. I get FOMO, I get sad, I get antsy, I get disappointed in myself.  But people are forced to slow down all the time. And not always due to age. Disability, injury, even a pregnancy, disrupt sex lives. What can I learn about how people work around those roadblocks? And what can I, the actual asshole, be grateful for? Perhaps Coach’s advice of slowing down was the something to consider now. Instead of bracing for a screeching halt, I could anticipate the cars in front of me. Afterall, I didn’t look in the mirror and find a full head of grey. I only found one.

In ​Work Clean,​ ​Dan Charnas speaks of the pace chefs move for a calm mind, body and better food. When we are tempted by procrastination or resistance, he recommends not disengaging completely, but slowing down to speed up. Instead of freaking out and shutting down, one can be mindful of each action. If slowing down can lead to better food, then can it also lead to a better appreciation of myself?

Since I’ve stopped going to in-person dance classes, I’ve made an attempt to dance on my own every week. And even though I’m dancing alone now, I still look forward to the parts in the songs where the music becomes fast, loud and chaotic. I gyrate to the point of ridiculousness, drool from pleasure, feel electric. In the moment, I never want to give it up, yet, inevitably, I always do. Because what comes after the chaos is the physical and mental memory of it coursing through my body. In her book ​Maps to Ecstasy, G​abrielle Roth, founder of the 5Rhythms movement I will hopefully one day participate in again, recognizes this moment as “Pure energy, constant dance, totally connected to the life force that vibrates through you.” From an onlooker I’m standing still. Inside I’m buzzing.

I haven’t completely given up on ‘fast’ but I am finding more ways to embrace slow. Slow in all her forms. Slower steps and bites, yes, but also slowing down what were once my bursts of arousal. When I break down what turns me on into smaller parts, I can start to see those parts everywhere in life, and they’re not always sexual. So, like a charging battery, I have started to collect them. Because when the more obvious and physical become too hard, or even impossible, I’ll have them (and my greys) keeping me buzzing.

Embracing my inner spotted lanternfly

Have you heard about the invasion of the spotted lanternfly?

The first time I saw a spotted lanternfly, I didn’t know what I was looking at. I was sucking on an iced coffee in my hometown of Collingswood, NJ. It was both my first purchased and iced coffee since the beginning of the pandemic when I came home to my parent’s house, so, yeah. I was feeling good. Sunshine, espresso, commerce. In the words of Austin Powers, “Yeah, baby!”

I was admiring the signs of peace and love and Black Lives Matter that proudly covered the gates of the Collingswood Presbyterian Church when I spotted a bug just as proud. I had never seen a bug like this before. She was trotting along outside the church in her Sunday best (which truthfully it was a Saturday but let me have this). 

Despite the one summer I captured, kept and ultimately (accidentally) killed lightning bugs—along with the years I spent cohabitating with mealworms I fed to my leopard gecko, Leo— I’m not a fan of bugs. Especially big ones. And this was no little lady. Had she been a spider or some sort of beetle, I would’ve definitely peed my pants. But I was urine-free and mesmerized. 

This bug was beautiful! Her wings were as catchy as Carole Radziwill’s closet. Her confidence was as intimidating as a Bethenny Frankel insult. I half-expected her to do a sassy spin and tell me “Even though I’m a bug, I always dress to impress!”

I started filming her on my phone. I overlaid the dirty beat of Radio Slave’s “Another Club” and bam! I posted that hot bitch to my Instagram story. “People are gonna love this!” I thought. Not quite.

“Kill it!”

“Die, bug, die!”

“Murder that bitch!”

It turned out my beautiful bug was the notorious spotted lanternfly that up until then I had only heard rumors about. You see, the spotted lanternfly, while native to Asia, is an invasive planthopper bug that had recently made its way to the Northeast. And the reason everyone had their murder pants on about her was due to her nasty habit of destroying crops and trees. The spotted lanternfly was technically a pain in the ass. But all I saw was a hot piece of ass. 

It didn’t matter what I saw though. The people wanted her out. In fact, it’s been recommended to kill any and all spotted lanternflies you, um, spot. Set-up traps, destroy the eggs, squish, splat, that’s a wrap on their ass. I couldn’t understand how we were split about masks, climate change, Black Lives Matter but miraculously bipartisan on the decision to Kill! That! Bug! What kind of world is this!?

I didn’t immediately share the popular, unpopular opinion of the spotted lanternfly. Instead, I sympathized with the bugs. Heck, I related to them. Spotted lanternflies and displaced thirty-somethings are really not that different.

Both of us suddenly found ourselves living somewhere we didn’t belong. We were taken out of the comfort of our homes either by Hertz or an overseas shipping freight and plopped into the suburbs of New Jersey. We were outsiders. But we were outsiders who had no interest in blending in. We didn’t want to sit in our discomfort and we certainly didn’t want to show it. No, we grabbed it by the balls. We reversed it and we owned it. 

When you’re a thirty-something suddenly living in the town you grew up in, there’s no other way to approach the situation except with an obnoxious confidence you can’t control. We roll our fears of running into our exes, our disappointments with our career paths, our sudden loss of being able to masturbate to abandon into a giant ball of “I could give AF.” I wasn’t sucking the sap out of trees, but I was sucking the life out of my parents.

My obnoxious confidence was my defense system. I didn’t have my normal life and routine but I still had me. And like the spotted lanternfly, me was one sexy creature. I understood their need to show off. To strut. Every walk I took around town was an opportunity to be seen. “Air pods? Check. French Bulldog? Check. Way too sexy of an outfit for a Tuesday night? Check. Pheromones? Check, check!” Some of us want to destroy trees, some of us want to destroy our exes.

How could I get mad at the spotted lanternfly for their invasive nature when I spent every day posting selfies and videos to my Instagram story in an invasive attempt to not be forgotten? “Hiii! I’m still here! Look, I’m eating breakfast! Now I’m dancing in my backyard! Like! Fave! Retweet!” So yeah. If I had the power to cover a tree in a bunch of me, of course I’d do it. 

But like any good home invasion, mine was short lived. I’m back in my comfort zone, in my apartment, in my city. I’m no longer an outsider and I’m no longer dressing to impress anyone but Ricky on the stoop. My confidence is back at its normal levels (somewhere between Barely Give AF and Give AF). 

I’m glad I left South Jersey before having to kill a spotted lanternfly (and before being killed). I wish my bugs were able to do the same. I wish my bugs were able to realize that while it’s important to make the best out of a bad situation, it’s equally as important to know when to leave. Make a scene, turn heads and then GTFO. Obnoxious confidence only works so long. Use it sparingly, use it wisely and most importantly, use it before your ex turns your dead body into earrings.

Hard, loud, important conversations

On Sunday I went to bed in the childhood bedroom of my parent’s house. It was quiet. It’s always quiet in the suburbs of New Jersey. But the silence felt that night wasn’t calming. Because right across the river in Philadelphia—and across the river in every city—angry, sad, confused, terrified protestors were screaming, crying, and fighting for the silenced voices of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery and countless other Black Lives that Matter. 

Silence is alluring and easy and far too often perceived as the ‘right thing to do.’ Silence has been my go to answer to hard topics (race), hard conversations (race) and hard realizations about myself (white privilege). 

I’ve convinced myself the topic of race and my white privilege is something to not only skip speaking about, but something to skip learning about. Yet I desperately want people to read my musings on ‘sex, love and life’ as if race and white privilege don’t factor into those topics. They do. They factor into everything. If I continue to be someone who only thinks about race and Black Lives Matter and police brutality and equality when it gets big and loud like across the river, who am I to share my opinion about anything? 

---

I woke up on Monday to the sounds of the neighbor’s getting their backyard dug up for a pool. I wondered what they’d find. I wondered what was harder—digging up the dirt or hauling it away? I know sooner or later I won’t wake up to the sound of protests or symbolic reminders of my own dirt that needs hauling away. But even though the noise may be temporary, the work is not. There’s a lot to undo, a lot to learn and a lot of uncomfortable conversations to have with myself and others. I’m embracing the voices and knowledge of the black community who have gone far too long being treated as second class citizens in this country and hope we can all find ways to do the same.

 There’s so much more but a few items worth reading/watching: 

These 9 phrases will help you identify and call out racism
The Combahee River Collective Statement
Race, Gender + American Gynecology

Organizations to donate:
Color of Change
NAACP
Nationwide Bail Fund

Also, highly recommend spending some time on Anguish and Action, as part of the Obama Foundation.

Wet Monday

On Easter Eve I got a message from one of my Polish relatives over in Poland. I translated it:

On the occasion of Easter, I wish you many smiles at the Easter table. Many friends, a lot in the wallet, wet Dyngus and joyful time.

I was drunk so I assumed I misread this whole ‘Dyngus’ thing or maybe I spelled something wrong in Google Translate. I entered it again. Nope. Wet. Dyngus. 

I only met this woman once but I’m pretty certain that when we chatted at her family’s village house in Poland over carrot slaw and cheese, I was very careful with my words. Besides I only know about a half dozen words in Polish, none of which are variations of ‘wet’ or ‘dyngus’ (although I do know ‘majtki’ is underwear). I wondered if since meeting her maybe she read some of my more ‘explicit’ work or watched some of my comedy and this was some sort of weird attempt at bonding with me.

I turned back to Google for help.

Now even though I had always known I was Polish, I can’t say with confidence that I always felt it. But when I typed ‘Wet Dyngus’ into Google (Incognito mode turned on just in case) and read the results, every Polish cell in my body turned on.  

Dyngus Day is a Polish Holiday celebrated on the Monday after Easter and how I went all these sexually peaking years without knowing anything about this special Polish tradition is baffling. Why? Because Dyngus Day is a whole day dedicated to getting women WET. So much so that it’s also referred to as Wet Monday. 

The purpose of Dyngus Day is to celebrate the end of Lent and while there are the usual parades and parties, there’s also the questionably fun tradition of single boys splashing water on single girls. Yep, boys chase girls around with squirt guns, buckets, or other containers as an ‘expression of interest’ and if that isn’t enough for you, sometimes the boys even spank the girls with [beat drop] pussy willows. 

Dang, Dyngus! 

This tradition is said to have evolved from the baptism of Prince Mieszko I on Easter Monday in 966 A.D. So add that to the list of weird things the church eventually brings out in people. Similar to religion, I can’t say I approve of the aggressive, male-dominated hetero makeup of Wet Monday. Even though I should point out that while in the past women got their revenge on the Tuesday after, it has become increasingly popular for them to get their revenge on the actual Dyngus Day.  Thank goodness. 

But as much as the whole boys chasing girls thing is outdated, I gotta admit, I’m obsessed with this holiday. Even though Dyngus Day is one of the horniest things I ever read about, to the Polish people it’s just a silly way to make each other smile and laugh and feel connected to their history. A talent they proved to me last November when I visited them and was warmed with smiles, laughter and charming family stories, despite being a complete stranger.  Since waking up today, I’ve received multiple water gifs from my Polish relatives that have put a giant smile on my face. Even better, they were both from women! The times they are a changin’! 

I’m sure we all have a lot of people we’d love to be ‘splashing’ with today, to be laughing with today, to be smiling with today. I know I do. But since we all remain safely separate, I think I’ll shoot them a text instead and start sharpening my skills for next year’s Dyngus Day. Next year’s consensual Dyngus Day where (fingers crossed) I get spanked by something a little harder than a pussy willow, proszę.

To touch or not to touch

As I sit from couch to bed to chair to couch during this Twilight Zone quarantine, I wonder who I’ll be when I and the rest of the world hopefully crawl out of it. Until now, I’ve written about the connections my sex life brings to my real life, a concept I won’t be doing much of for the foreseeable future.

But multiple friends have already pointed out to me the idea of this being a great time to partake in an activity I relish and often joke about - the activity of self-love. Even the NYC Health Department has rated masturbation 10 out of 10 Hitachis when it comes to safe sex in a COVID-19 world. Most of you know, when my libido is functioning at a normal pace, it’s high. I hear her in the back of my head silently celebrating the health department’s decision, like, “Bitch, strap in. This is what I’m made for!”

I am 100% behind NYC Health Department’s suggestion but I don’t know if I’m there yet. Especially with each passing day I wake up in my childhood bedroom. Yes, I chose to spend this quarantine with my parents. Of all the scenarios that could bring me back here, I would’ve rated nasty divorce way above nasty virus. But here we are. My independence traded in for a backyard and some human contact with those that made me.

I’m not complaining (that much). There is no perfect scenario for this time. I feel grateful I’m afforded the option to escape to somewhere I ultimately knew was better for me. Buuuuuttttt. Of course I’m jealous of those who have someone with them they can get down and dirty with. I’d like to believe my shacked up lovers are raw with panic fucking. 

Ultimately, I admire the NYC Health Department’s horny advice but I understand if some of us aren’t quite ready to get down and dirty with ourselves. These are stressful times and perhaps you’re choosing to focus instead on perfecting your sourdough starter or in one friend’s case, learning how to cook rice. Please, please, please for the love of Moira Rose, do what you need to do to stay safe, sane and healthy these days. But when you are ready, myself included, be sure to follow those same instructions you did when cooking that rice - give yourself a good rinse. You don’t need that excess stickiness.

Pseudo-sex parties are weird

I’ve never been to a sex party. I’ve been to parties on their way to becoming sex parties. But since I’ve never been to an actual sex party, I can’t speak on what scenario would make me more uncomfortable, however, I can say for certain, pseudo-sex parties are way up there.

Because instead of just being the party it’s trying to be, it’s costumed in certain elements that somewhere along the way got mixed up with representing ‘sex’. 

These parties all seem to share similar Groupon-like activities and qualities: Secret location (duh), costumes of some sort (think bathrobes, Alice in Wonderland-type gear), drinks disguised as ‘elixirs’, a Himalayan salted crystal tip jar thingamajig, um, foliage on the dance floor that continues to get caught in your hair, oh and, how could I forget, a cacao ceremony. No pseudo-sex party is complete without a cacao ceremony! 

The names of the parties always sound like resorts off of Highway 307 in Cancun - Dreams, Breathe, Secrets of the Moon or some shit - everything is ‘lush’ and your ticket price includes as much or as little ‘social wellness’ as you desire (Desire. Another great party name. Desires of the Desert, Secret Desires, Deepest Desires, you get it). 

At the party I went to last week within 20 minutes I had participated in some sort of chakra breathing ceremony led by a dude and his synthesizer before sitting in a bathtub filled with rose petals and two strangers. Because of the sentence before this, I kept laughing, but the strangers in the tub with me were very seriously admiring their petal-covered skin as sweet little ‘this is normal’ moans left their mouths. The woman next to me (who claimed that this was her third petal bath of the month) showered me in petals over my head when I told her it was my first. Sure, it felt nice but I wasn’t sure if her baptism was some signal or ritual that meant ‘something else’. 

That’s the problem with these pseudo-sex parties. Everything seems like it’s on the verge of being something else. I tiptoe carefully around each corner and conversation unsure of intentions. I know these are my own insecurities and hang-ups to work through but I would much prefer a pseudo-sex party for people like me, people who will always have some (if not all) of their guard up. 

To stick with the theme of trippy party names, it could be called something like Guarded Hearts and Minds, Avoiding (Third) Eye Contact, or Just Because I Hate Costumes Doesn’t Mean I’m Not Down to Fuck. Instead of chakra breathing ceremonies, every 45 minutes all the lights would come up, the music would stop and everyone would yell “This is not normal!” before going back to their business. Massages would not be permitted on the dance floor unless three or more people and a conga line were involved. All the bartenders would be fully clothed, former diner waiters from South Jersey with absolutely no time for your CBD BS and at the end of the night instead of being sprayed by rose water there would be complimentary urine sample cups for you to immediately drop off for testing. Oh, and cacao ceremonies would be replaced by a roundtable discussion on the best Girl Scout Cookies. 

Ok fine. A naked roundtable discussion on the best Girl Scout Cookies.

Trading in the erotic city for the erotic jungle

I figured my vacation to Mexico would prove mildly erotic. Heat, beaches, sun, frozen banana drinks. Who wouldn’t be turned on by such delights in the middle of winter?

But it turned out the biggest turn on from my first trip to Mexico wasn’t any of the above. It was the Jungle Maya Native Park Tour.

I’m not that surprised by my new very, very specific kink. My sexuality always creeps in through mysterious ways. A friend recently said to me, “I would love to see life through your lens one day.” Whether he meant it as a compliment or confusion, I’m hoping this unique ‘review’ gives him and you that insight. Because while it may seem the whole of my turn-ons are odd or laughable, when they are broken down, I think you’ll find you recognize them in yourself too:

Jungle Maya Native Park Tour
5 out of 5 Stars (Highly Recommend) 
My day at the park began with a bouncy truck ride into the jungle. The lack of seatbelts and windows made it a very precarious journey but the barely 8-minute drive didn’t disappoint. My body was forced into an up and down, ‘hold on to your butts’ gyration that left my rears moved. Limbs from the trees teased me with their weak attempts to smack my shoulders, tricking me into thinking me, not the jungle, was in control.

But when I arrived in the jungle, the me I thought I was, the me who thought she was simply having an exciting adventure day outside the resort was shed. After being led Inside a candle lit cave, a shaman priest waited for us, blessed us, prayed for us, covered us in his cloud of incense. Dios bo'otik. His ritual let us know we were ready and it was time. Time to go deeper into ourselves and into the earth.

Because what was next on our journey was a 30-foot descent into a cenote. Not by stairs, no. By ropes, chains, human hands, and the force of my own repelling body. Certainly not the longest journey down into the cave but just long enough to require a sacred trust. A trust that required eye contact, communication, and calm. A trust in those above and below me. A trust in gravity, a trust in letting go. 

Greeting me at the end of my descent was a swim in a cave of wonders. The cool waters of the cenote immediately healed the heat of my body that worked so hard towards this reward. My original fear was transformed into bouts of laughter that echoed. How did I get here? How is this real? I was as dizzy as the bats that circled above me. 

But before I completely melted away into the waters, I had to leave my magic bath to suit up for ziplining. The ropes and chains meant to protect me were once again carefully tightened onto my body by hands that weren’t mine. My only job was to let it happen, confirm my comfort by a ‘Si’ or a nod of my now swimming head. The ropes and chains made me feel something other than human. With each step they clanged and clashed and reminded me that a part of myself had indeed lost control.

When it was my turn to fly in the trees, some words of caution were passed before I was chained to the wires I now had no choice but to trust. Three, two, one, tres, dos, uno, adios and I was off. As I flew, I realized, it was the first time since beginning my adventure I was alone. But before my mind spun into a place of worry, my body was jerked. The ropes decided it was time to land. In a blur, I was unhooked, freed, and rushed away as someone else sped in. I watched them from a few feet away. I grew jealous. I wanted more.

And the jungle was ready to give me more. Not from high above in the trees, from inside another sacred cave of wonders. I never snorkeled before and I certainly never snorkeled in a cenote. My nerves were settled, though, as our leader promised to stay in front with a guiding flashlight. 

These waters were as cool, welcoming and beautiful as the last, but this cave was more confining than vast. At least from above. From below was all the vastness in the world. My first look down startled my floating body. I screamed. We all did. But with our mouths now filled by our masks, our screams sounded like muffled moans of pleasure. I was both comforted and horrified by the light of our leader. It’s appearance confirmed how small my body was in this space. Tears sprung from my eyes when the new experience finally sunk into reality. I shivered in fear, I laughed in amazement, I wanted out, I didn’t want it to end. 

But when the light of our leader disappeared into the light of the cave’s exit, I knew it was over. All of it. The tour of a lifetime had ended and it was time to towel off. Our original skins were handed back to us along with picture packages and souvenirs. Adios amigos. They asked us to return. I said I would and I will. Not in the way they requested, no. But I will return every time I let go. Every time my body is moved. Every time my limits pushed. Every time I lose control.

Oh yeah. The lunch was good too.

Modern Role Models

Friends ended in 2004 but in 2019 there has been a Friends renaissance. A Friendsaissance, if you will (Copyright. Trademark. I came up with that shit.). Pop-up events, anniversaries, Netflix, Jennifer Aniston joining Instagram, whether you want em’ or not. Friends is baaack. 

When I was younger, Phoebe was always the ‘friend’ I related to most. She was goofy, a loner, she was creative, and she loved attention. But as I rewatched the show as an adult, it wasn’t her goofiness I related to, it was her sexual independence. Phoebe was by far the most sexually liberated friend despite what ‘How you doin’?’ Joey would have you believe. Phoebe-smelly-cat-singing-Regina Phalange-gave-birth-to-her-brother’s-triplets-Buffay was always in search of satisfaction. And not in the ways we were used to seeing. She was rarely in relationships that lasted more than a few episodes. She dated scientists, firemen, musicians, cops, therapists, cooks, international politicians, stalkers. She enjoyed casual sex and like me, she rarely let a crush simmer before diving in:

Rachel: Phoebe, you had a date three days ago.
Phoebe: That wasn’t a date! That was, that was just friends getting together…having sex.

All of this made Phoebe Buffay’s eventual marriage to Mike (Paul ‘Ugh’ Rudd) extremely disappointing. Not only was it a rushed story line, it didn’t line up to the Phoebe I looked up to. The Phoebe that made my own hunt for independence and sexuality feel normal. 

Fictional figures in popular culture end up being there for us when, perhaps, we don’t have anywhere else to turn. Look at Cathy. From 1976-2010 Cathy Guisewite made a wildly popular comic strip for women entering those “transitional years of American feminism”; when Betty Crocker and Betty Friedan were clashing. The always ‘AACK!’-ing Cathy was a role model for women who were realizing even if they couldn’t always fit into their jeans, they still deserved great things in life. As I question my own great things, my changing definitions of love, intimacy, sex and independence, I’d love to get insight from ‘someone who’s been there.’ But with no Phoebe or comic strip to turn to, finding role models representative of the less conventional love life I am seeking, real or fiction, isn’t always easy. But! They’re out there. 

At the beginning of the year I came across an article about the recently deceased Vogue Fashion Editor Babs Simpson. Not only was I impressed with the longevity of her life, I was impressed with the longevity of her unconventional, 35-year relationship to art collector and writer, Paul Magriel. Instead of moving in together, the two kept their separate apartments in the same building in Manhattan and spent weekends together in Amagansett, New York. She shared that their flawless relationship would’ve been ruined if they lived together. “I didn’t want to be making meals all the time, and that sort of thing. Paul was a very free spirit, and I didn’t want to be pinned down any more than he did. It couldn’t have worked better.” she said. 

Considering the time Babs lived in, I wondered if her arrangement was known to all or kept secret or if that even mattered. Because even if it was a secret, even if she had no one to turn to for advice or support, the end result was her happiness. Hearing stories like Babs’ is important. It’s those real experiences that hopefully influence the experiences of future, fictional Phoebe’s. Or Abbi’s. 

[Girlfriend’s Guide to Divorce spoiler alert!] 

Leading up to the series finale of Bravo’s Girlfriend’s Guide to Divorce, protagonist Abbi and her boyfriend Mike (What’s with Mikes?) started living together. Suddenly their sexy, loving relationship stopped working. Did they break up? No! In fact, not only did they get married, Abbi and Mike decided to live in separate houses! I was thrilled to see tradition take a backseat to something different that worked for these characters.

It’s storylines like this that can bring lesser accepted concepts to our mainstream conversations. So when I and others want to share our own ‘new’ ideas about romance, we don’t have to first prove ourselves as reliable sources. When recently a friend shared with me that he and his wife have been living in separate houses for years, he confessed it wasn’t a fact always easy to share. Early on it made them nervous to tell people. But the nerves that came along with sharing didn’t matter once the success of it was realized. Their living arrangement, while foreign to most, allowed their relationship to thrive. They had date nights, they were excited to see each other and they remained the individuals that each of them fell for in the first place. 

Having a friend or character or comic strip ‘who’s been there’ is helpful. Hearing someone else’s experience can help guide our own. If stories like the above continue to be told, continue to be accepted and continue to get louder, soon everyone will have a pre-Mike Phoebe or a Cathy or a Babs to look up to. Maybe you already are the Babs! If that’s the case, grab a pen, grab a paintbrush, grab a person, grab whatever it is that will amplify your story.  Believe me, someone needs to hear it. 

I want to be fucked like latte art

When a barista passes you a latte with latte art, the handoff is purposeful. The barista may pause, slowly slide the drink over, make a point to witness your first glance, perhaps direct your eyes to whatever illustration they’ve created out of foam. It’s not enough for them to simply make the latte art, they need to see you receive it. It’s a shared moment. 

Receiving a latte is a gift. The moment when milk and espresso come together is beautiful, sexy and satisfying on its own. But when you’re given a latte with latte art, you’re given a gift within a gift. Suddenly that nameless barista touches a special place in your heart. They care just a little more than you expected. You sigh. You feel good. You are touched.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a flower, a heart, the first letter of your name, a bird, a smiley face, a Van Gogh portrait, a foamed ‘Warren 2020’; it’s not the skill level of the latte art that takes your breath away, it’s the fact they did it at all. 

You don’t ask a barista for latte art. It’s not a talent every barista possesses, nor is it a talent every barista cares to express. It has to come from within them. They need to want to create the latte art for no other reason than to please. 

I need to be fucked by someone who has the intuitive passion for going even just the smallest step beyond what is required. Someone who, yes, is satisfied by making me come, but even more satisfied by sharing the moment, digging deeper, taking pause, finding purpose in their movements, sipping slowly, cooling slowly, someone who doesn’t feel the need to put the lid on right away. 

So many times sex becomes tit for tat. You then me. Instead of a directionless adventure, it becomes a GPS of orgasms. I’m no longer satisfied by just ‘getting there’, by just ‘receiving the latte’. I didn’t choose the drive through for a reason. If you don’t want to talk to me about the origin of your beans, the temperature of my drink or what makes almond milk trickier than whole, you’re not a barista I care to get to know.

Doggystyle

I thought living on my own would be a non-stop fuck fest. For the first time in my life I could finally be as loud as I want while simultaneously being as naked as I want. The ultimate dream. But I learned quickly that just because I no longer had human roommates, did not excuse me from disturbing my other roommate, my 9-year old, French Bulldog, Remy. 

Remy does not make it easy to bring people back to the apartment. As soon as a tongue goes in a mouth, as soon as a stare lingers just a little too long, you can count on Remy to get in the way. He immediately acts out. He demands attention. He’ll decide an ant trap that has sat untouched for months is his new favorite toy. He’ll thrash his bed around at your feet, tearing his own precious pillow to pieces until taken away and hidden from him. I live in a society where paying for sex is illegal, yet I’ve been paying for it in the form of doggy beds for years. Go ahead, arrest me. 

From an outsider, Remy seems like a hot, jealous mess that needs to be locked in a crate and dog whispered. But I’ve known this puppy for 7 years. I know why he does what he does and why I forgive him every time. Remy makes it hard for me to fuck because, well, I fucked him up. 

I got Remy on Labor Day, 2012. I decided on my day off that instead of relaxing, I would get a dog. I never had a dog. Whenever I was sad as a little girl, I would want so badly to have a little puppy face come up to me and lick my tears. The lizards and hamsters I did have couldn’t do that and looking back, neither could the man I lived with at the time. At least not with an argument moments later. 

So, I had been emailing with Remy’s previous owners and decided Labor Day would be the day I meet (and possibly keep) their 2-year old Frenchie.

My boyfriend, who was supportive but less excited about this decision, drove with me to Brooklyn from South Jersey (Yes, my dog lived in Brooklyn before me!). I barely remember my first moments with Remy. I remember him being at the top of the steps super excited visitors were there. I remember playing with him for a little and I remember his owners tearing up when we left together. I remember looking back at Remy as he sat panting in the backseat of my red, Ford Focus. There was my new dog! I was super excited and with Remy’s adorable, smiling, panting face, I thought he was too.

However, despite Remy’s first night with me being wonderful (I accidentally dropped a huge stuffed mushroom from Wegmans), Remy’s first year with me was not easy. He was plopped into the middle of an unhealthy, dying relationship. Remember how awkward you felt when you overheard your parents argue? Now imagine that except you’re a dog with ears bigger than your face. Intuitive yet confused. Tuned in yet clueless. 

Remy and my ex quickly clashed. They had their loving moments but my ex was a big man with a noticeable anger problem. Remy was an anxious dog torn away from the only life he’s known. I felt stuck, unequipped to deal with the situation as productively and maturely as I would have liked. The one side of me was a woman trying trying to make it work with her lover, the other was a little girl who wanted to desperately bond with her dog. I wanted to give Remy all the love and attention but was demanded to give it to my failing relationship. One hour I’d be teaching Remy to leave visitors alone as they entered, the next hour I’d be escaping myself.

And finally I did escape. To Brooklyn. But Remy didn’t join me right away. Subletting and going on interviews wouldn’t be easy with a dog, so for almost three months, Remy remained in South Jersey with my parents. I know this was the right decision but I also know I, for the third time, shook up Remy’s life. Sure, he had a big backyard and ‘grandparents’ who would make him a scrambled egg every now and then, but I was not there. Seeing him on Facetime made me happy but provided nothing to him. What good’s a human without a scent?

I was excited when Remy could finally join me. Especially now that I had two male roommates who could provide an energetic aggression with Remy that was playful, not fearful. I was so lucky that despite Remy being a somewhat difficult dog, Greg and Aaron adored him.

Remy certainly still had his moments of being a hot mess (peeing inside, jumping up on visitors, hating the landlord), but we were finally creating a stable life and relationship with each other. The mom/pup bond was getting stronger. 

And then there was ‘the incident’. Oh yes. I thought since Remy and I were finally grooving, he should start grooving with his own species. In my one (and only) attempt to find Remy canine friends, Remy got himself into a scuffle with a neighbor’s dog. He walked away from it seemingly fine until the next night when he started making noises I had never heard in our time together. X-rays, MRIs, and a ruptured disc surgery later, my Remy now had the physical scars to match his emotional ones. 

Remy may have recovered just fine from his surgery (thank you doggy diazepam!), but I admittedly gave up on scheduling any more pup playdates. And frankly, so did Remy. To this day, any dog that wants to play, Remy either straight up ignores or wants to murder. I’ve seen dogs ‘puppy bow’ with the grace and dignity of a Buckingham Palace visitor only to be met with my avoidant, ‘couldn’t give less of a shit’, Mr. Bean-like Remy. 

Which brings me back to the start. I got Remy 7 years ago. The Ford Focus and boyfriend have come and gone, both ending terribly. One on Thanksgiving Day on the side of the road in Staten Island, the other over a 5-year time period sprinkled with intensity, anger, and name-calling. Guess who was there for both?

Remy doesn’t make it easy for me to bring guests home, just like I didn’t make life easy for Remy. His panting face in the backseat of my car 7 years ago may have looked cute, but I have grown to recognize that expression as anxiety. I believe my trauma, our trauma, still lives in Remy in a much different way than it lives in me. As I slowly healed through therapy and long talks with friends and sweaty dances, Remy remained a dog. Remy’s old owner once warned me that Remy was shook by the noise of a storefront gate being opened as a puppy and it is still a noise that gets him running.

So no, I don’t think it’s that Remy is anti fuck fest. I don’t think it’s that Remy senses bad vibes from certain lovers (that would be a blessing) and I don’t think it’s that Remy disapproves of my kinkier preferences (although I will say, it is very hard to be submissive while discipling your pet). Remy is doing the best he can. 

I hope Remy senses I’m not going anywhere, we’re not going anywhere. I would love for him to let some of his anxieties go, to let people into his world, ultimately letting them into my world. Because I know I struggle with that too. I love my cozy existence with Remy and often wonder if I love it too much, if I’m shutting myself out like the friend who disappears after they start dating someone new or in my case, the girl who’s settling into solo adulthood. In the meantime, I’m trying not to be too hard on myself or Remy. He’ll always be my number one, no matter what I scream in the bedroom. 

In fact, I think Remy’s distracting behavior may actually prove to be for my benefit. When Remy knocks the passion and spontaneity out of sexy moments, it forces me to ‘break character’ and simply be Carolyn. I have to bring a very real part of myself to a situation where I was maybe playing pretend. Perhaps this is Remy’s litmus test. If it doesn’t feel right to be vulnerable, be embarrassed, be myself with a person, what’s the point? Less bullshit, more regular shit.

I don't wanna hold your hand

“I’ve been out of love for so long that now when I see a couple holding hands I think ‘Oh cool. They must be filming a movie.’”

Okay, yes. I just quoted one of my jokes. But it’s true. The simple act of holding hands has become not only foreign to me but kinda scary. I think hand holding is one of the most intimate things you can do with someone. The interlocking fingers. The suction. The touching of webbing between our fingers. Gross.

In the few years I’ve committed to embracing my sexuality, I’ve simultaneously started rejecting hand holding. At this point I rather ask someone to spit in my mouth instead of touch their fingers. Every new person I’ve been involved with I make sure to tell them about my dislike of PDA. But I’m not a cold person. In fact, I’m a very touchy person. A tap on the arm here. A brush of the leg there. I love oxytocins. But the touch of someone’s hand feels less exhilarating and more loss of freedom. I’m attached to another person. Might as well put a ring on my ring finger and a bun in my oven. Okay, I’m being dramatic, but have you seen those couples who insist on holding hands even though they walk at different speeds? Is someone in trouble? Are you late? No thank you! I didn’t go to college to have to walk at a different pace than my own. 

I know my fear of hand holding is only going to get worse. My intimacy tolerance diminishes with each year I push it away. Ever have a drink with someone who hasn’t in awhile? It doesn’t take much for them to start giggling. Being a lightweight is great (and cost-effective) when it comes to drinking. Being a lightweight when it comes to intimacy is not as cute.

Dr. Tiffany Field, director of the Touch Research Institute, which is either the best or worst place in the world, said in a 2016 Huffington Post article, “When the fingers are interlaced and someone is holding your hand, they’re stimulating pressure receptors [that trigger] what’s called vagal activity.” And while vagal activity sounds like something vagina-related, be assured it is not. “When there’s pressure in the touch, the heart rate goes down, the blood pressure goes down, and you’re put in a relaxed state.” In other words, holding someone’s hand chills you the eff out. Well, WTF? I love chilling out!

Recently someone took my hand as we walked. He was well aware of my anti-PDA stance so when he went for it, I tensed up.

We both knew he was rebelling. He looked at me and smiled. “See? It’s not so bad.” I giggled nervously. He was right. It wasn’t so bad. And later on in the evening, when we became the couple at the bar making out in their booth, the couple I hate, the couple I point to and proclaim my usual, “I hate PDA.”, I had a revelation and pulled away to announce it: 

“I think I say I don’t like PDA to people...because I don’t like them.” 

The people who have been in and out of my life have been great. Okay, they’ve been fine. But in the back of my head I always knew they weren’t a fit for the version of me who does want to be intimate. The version of me who does want to go deeper. The version of me who is my ultimate true self. Maybe I do like PDA and hand holding and all the wonderful intimate things you can do with a person, as long as that person is someone I feel myself around. Someone I’m being both inwardly and outwardly honest.

I think I’m over wearing my fear of intimacy like a badge of honor. I’m ready for a new badge. Stella got her groove back, but, baby, I’m getting my hands back.  

Happy Meal for One Lovefool

My favorite song on The Cardigans’ First Band on the Moon album is not “Lovefool”.

For those of you still reading, thank you. Yes, “Lovefool” is a great song that livens any wedding or karaoke sesh but I’m sorry it’s not my fave. My favorite song is a less upbeat, shorter track that plays three songs earlier, “Happy Meal II”.

When I was 11 years old (holy shit I can’t believe I’ve been listening to this album for over 20 years), I liked it for the creepy organ; the slow, building drums; the part where Nina says ‘bubbles’. Sure, I still like the song for those reasons but I like it even more now that I understand the anticipation Nina is singing about.

Arrange my books in order
Make up some nice stories to amuse you
Make things look smart and easy
Shape up the place
Hungry for the meeting
The dinner we'll be eating
Wine that we'll be drinking
And kinky thoughts I'm thinking
All because of you

Nina is preparing her place for a visitor and it sounds like it will be a visitor of the ‘sex’ variety. She’s tidying up, thinking of what fun stories she’ll tell and getting lost in her imagination about where the night will go.

During my first and only year of living on my own, I’ve had similar moments like this. Getting my apartment ready for someone who I had I certain intentions with. Finding fun in anticipating our ‘dance’ around my apartment. No, I don’t take baths with bubbles (bathtub + old building + many tenants + no matter how hard I scrub it looks dirty = showers only for Carolyn) but I do relate to making things look smart and easy.

There’s a moment of excitement when someone sees my place. I love hearing them say things like, “Neat space!” or “Wow. Big kitchen.” or my favorite “Dang girl, you have 3 closets?” I love when I cook but the only evidence of this are the lingering smells and leftovers in the fridge. No crusty pots or pans or sauce-stained stove. No, my dishes are already drying in the rack. My countertops wiped. My place is shaped.

I watch them peer around out as my perfect playlist plays. I perch cooly on the edge of my couch pretending I always sit like a cat and purr:

Would you like a glass of water? Need a shower? Go for it. I have extra towels. Floss? Q-tips? Oh, that? That’s a photo from my trip to Germany last year. Yes, I’ve been to Europe. Let’s turn on the TV. I’ll grab the remote that’s not a game controller. What’s your poison? Hulu? Netflix? Prime? I got it all.*

But I've found that when my little show and tell ends, my excitement also ends. I no longer want to lead the next part of the night. My dominance quickly turning into Shows over, now what?

I’ve been trying to figure out what this means. Why the main reason I like bringing people home isn’t for making the kinky thoughts I’m thinking a reality, it’s for showing them my shit and how together it is. What type of person does this make me? What sort of things am I looking for? Why don’t I relate to the later lyrics of “Happy Meal II”?

And now I've found a partner
No one can be happier than I am
And now I've found a new friend
No one can be happier than me

Is this temporary? Am I just enjoying this new phase of adulting until the right, or better, person fits into the life I created? Or am I wired to find fulfillment in different ways? Am I nesting for the perfect partner or for the perfect me?

Whatever the answer is, I hope to embrace it fully. I don’t want to feel like I’m missing out. I don’t want to feel like I’m wrong. What I expected out of relationships, love, and sex is certainly not what I thought ten years ago and definitely not what I thought at 11 years old. I never expected my matches above the toilet or clean kitchen to be the things that get me off but right now they are. No, I haven’t found a partner but I’ve found a new friend in my home, a new friend in myself and right now that makes me very happy, Miss Nina.

*Okay, I admit. I don’t have HBO.

Rockets, Mountains and Empty Roads

As I prepare for a semi-cross country road trip with my sister (NJ - CO), I’m getting excited thinking about the possibility of running into some old flames. A businessman from a hotel? No. A cowboy in Texas? No. I’m talking about rockets, mountains and empty roads.

These flames are unlike any of my current or former lovers. I don’t need to impress, flirt, or stalk them on Instagram like other crushes. My obsession runs deeper than that. They can excite me, scare me, and leave me breathless without doing a single thing. They aren’t crushes, they are colossal.

It started with rockets. A few year back, I found myself in Huntsville, Alabama at the U.S. Space & Rocket Center. A space museum was something my dad would enjoy, not me. No, I ended up there because I was following a boy. A boy who, yes, I still credit for unlocking my sexuality but at that time I also thought he held the one and only key. It would take some time for me to discover that not only could this key be duplicated but it could take the shape of many people, places and soon-to-be things.

My feigned enthusiasm to impress my lover, soon turned into the real thing. I peered up the fuel-less skirts of missiles and rockets and felt a creepy, yet sensual, sensation come over me. I admired a Saturn 5 replica, read about the Explorer 1 detecting the Van Allen radiation belt (which my dad can tell you all about) and stood in awe of a gigantic Space Transportation System that while never actually having traveled to space, still left me dizzy.

The dizziness continued with the sight of the Apollo 16 command module that carried three men back to Earth in April of 1972. Right there in front of me was something that chilled in space, somewhere so far away from my own life, my own little body. I got goosebumps then, I get goosebumps now.

I wouldn’t experience a moment like that again until 3 years later on a work trip turned me trip. I extended time in Utah with a trip to Boise, Idaho to do...nothing. I had no intentions. I had nothing planned. I just wanted to drive.

As I started my journey to Idaho, I thought I made a mistake. I was hungover and not looking forward to a car ride. Thankfully my surroundings medicated all that. Out of my windows were very real, very big mountains. My headache disappeared as fits of laughter took over. Goosebumps. Smiles. I found myself singing (and enjoying) Kid Rock. Every song I would usually roll my eyes at suddenly seemed meaningful and perfectly-timed.

I was in a car commercial. I was in a video game. I was in a music video. I followed the sunset into the big sky where lonely hills (Or were they dunes? What is a dune?) led my way. I couldn’t stop taking pictures. I knew the feeling in my body I was trying to capture wouldn’t be visible, but I had to try. I loved this. I got to my Airbnb and pondered how I could continue whatever this was into the next day.

The following morning, not knowing what to expect, I started driving towards a nature reserve I barely researched. The GPS stopped providing directions and instead showed me a squiggly line to follow. Signs and civilization disappeared and I found myself in the emptiest place I've ever been. There was nothing but me, my Weezer playmix and my body pulsing as it experienced a new, very intense version of being alone. I was sad. I was turned on. I wanted to share it with everyone and yet I also wanted to keep it to myself. I allowed my brain to think of getting a flat tire or running out of gas and screamed. But I wasn’t scared.

A few days later when I was back in New York, sitting on a crowded subway train, I put on the same music I had listened to during my drives out West. I felt tears well my eyes as I thought about that empty, lonely place my body had been and where it was now. Again I became sad. Again I was turned on. I thought about those spaces like an ex-lover, wondering what they were doing now. Who were the mountains guiding today? I wondered if astronauts look up at the sky and thought the same of the stars.

It’s easy to think of being horny as this moment where we become mushy-brained, goofy idiots grinding on the nearest hard surface we can find. Sure, that happens. But there are also the moments like above. The larger than life reminders of how lucky we are to feel even an ounce of pleasure as we inhabit a world where we are so insignificant. We credit our lovers and our vibrators for what the world has provided.

I’ve been taking sneak peaks on Google Maps of the roads and sights my sister and I will be passing soon (I guess you can stalk a colossal crush). I wonder how my flames will reveal themselves to me, especially considering the lack of space museums planned. Will it be a mountain? A sunset? A gigantic corn field in Kansas? An unexpected rainstorm forcing us to pull over? Honestly, I hope it’s all four but I’ll leave it up to you, world. You’re the one in charge here.

Alone with a dirty window

Any cheaters here tonight?

I cheated.

I’m a cheater.

Do you hate me now?

I wouldn’t say I’m proud I cheated but...I certainly don’t regret it. If I was a character on one of your shows (‘stories’ for the more mature readers), you’d be tweeting, “She deserved it!”

I did deserve it.

But I’m not a character on your show and you don’t have the backstory or 4 seasons worth of episodes to look back on for context. So when it comes time to admit I cheated, the support is never as loud. I have jokes about cheating and as soon as I say the word ‘cheat’ on stage, the crowd tenses. The laughs subside. A random weirdo in the back woos.

I think it’s the word ‘cheat.’ That hard ‘t’ really sets people off. They think of all the other hard ‘t’ words: shit, hurt, cunt, slut, and the biggest offender of them all, moist.

::shudder::

I could switch it up. Maybe use the light and airy ‘affair’ but it wasn’t an affair (An affair is when you fly to have sex, right?).

So I don’t know. What do you call ‘having sex with someone else because you’re in an emotionally abusive relationship at the same time you’re beginning your sexual prime’?

The word that comes to mind is freedom.

One of the sessions a few weeks ago at the Southwest Love Fest started by sex educator Sara Connell asking us to think for a few moments about something that we used to believe about sex, relationships or intimacy that we don’t believe anymore. Many came to mind (sex equals immediately pregnant, casual sex will always lack intimacy, the concept of ‘losing ones virginity’) but a big one for me was that cheating makes you a terrible person. That cheating was the worst thing you can do.

I never imagined I’d be a cheater. Cheating was selfish. Cheating was something Carrie Bradshaw did not Carolyn Busa. So as I found myself moving closer and closer to becoming a cheater, I wondered if my decision to move into this new territory was simply for a cheap thrill. It’s taken me awhile to realize that, no, that decision of mine was so much more than just a lapse of judgement.

It’s impossible to give audiences the full rundown of what led to my cheating on my boyfriend of 4 years during my usual 8 minute sets. I have a lot of other things I want to talk about on stage (ie. my now healthy sex life). But I do wish people’s faces weren’t immediately soured by my admitting I cheated. No one knows the whole side of the story. For starters, he was a dj.

JK JK JK. I know djs aren’t bad people. Admittedly, I’d even like to be one! Why? Because djs are supposed to inspire you, make you want to dance, tease you with their bass not taunt you with their words. Words like those hard ‘t’ words above, some of which I went to bed hearing screamed at me. Or texted to me. I look at my pictures from that time and I can find an insult or unnecessary argument behind each one.

My 26th birthday. Not pictured: the annoyance expressed by my boyfriend for me wanting to stay out longer

A work trip in San Diego. Not pictured: the degrading texts accusing me of being a bad girlfriend by going out with new friends

My last show at my favorite comedy festival. Not pictured: the pissed off phone calls because I was too busy to talk

My favorite place in the world. Not pictured: the threats of my boyfriend abandoning me and going home early

Christmas Eve. Not pictured: the judgement received from my boyfriend for wanting to still see my friends even though he had to stay home with his sick son

The after party of a friend’s wedding. Not pictured: the argument after the after party about the attention I was giving my friends and not him

The day after a friend’s beach birthday. Not pictured: my exhaustion from being up all night as my boyfriend whispered insults in my ear

Like when I didn’t tell my boyfriend about a late night with an ex. At that point I was already quite familiar with my boyfriend’s temperament and didn’t want to wake the beast. I hadn’t seen my ex-boyfriend/friend in over a year. He never saw my act, he never met my dog. We caught up as we watched my dog tear up his bed. I told him about my shitty job. We said goodnight.

The night my boyfriend found out about this innocent reunion sits with me still today. My poor dog’s confusion at the yelling and stomping and Mommy curled up in a ball on the floor downstairs. The word ‘slut’ being screamed at me as he stood above. The panic that was inside me enough to call the police. It’s insane to think about. I can’t believe that was my life for even just a night.

I didn’t cheat on him until 6 months after that nightmare. That ‘t’ doesn’t seem so hard to me.

I have a couple that lives above me now. I know nothing about them except that they have a dog and they seem happy in the same way I seem happy in the photos above. But their floor is my ceiling. I hear the stomping, I hear the arguing, I hear the pitter patter of Marley likely running back and forth confused at who is right and who is wrong.

That will never be my life again.

So, one more time for those in the back: I cheated. I’m a cheater. And fuck yeah, I am free.

Returning from the Southwest Love Fest

On Monday I opened my mailbox to a new issue of New York Magazine, always an exciting moment. The cover story read: Marriage: An Investigation.

I scoffed at the images that depicted only 2 people in each bed. ‘Typical, normative representation of marriage!’ I thought. ‘Polyamory gets the shaft again!’

Side note: I’m not polyamorous. But I am fired up.

The night before I returned from the Southwest Love Fest, a conference on ethical non-monogamy that took place in Tucson, Arizona. I spent the weekend surrounded by folks who are kicking traditional relationship (and gender) lifestyles in the ass and embracing what works for them as their most authentic selves.  

One of the reasons I started My Sex Project was to figure out my most authentic self. I’ve spent the past 5 years as a fairly single woman and the past year living alone. During this time, I’ve really enjoyed the process of getting to know myself but I’ve also had to push past the negativity associated with being alone. ‘One is the loneliest number.’ ‘The cheese stands alone.’ For some, alone equals bad and sometimes even broken. But what they don’t tell you in “The Farmer in the Dell” (what is a dell?) is that while the cheese stands alone, the cheese does some serious contemplating about what kind of cheese she is, what it means to be cheese, what she loves and doesn’t love about her smells and holes and tastes and textures! The cheese does the hard work.

By being alone, I’ve actually found it easier to open myself up to many people and opportunities (not always sex) that complement the many versions of myself I took the time discovering. Sharing those versions of myself with only one person now overwhelms me.

Awhile back someone told me the origin story of meeting her husband. She knew she was in love with this person but she also wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the lovers she acquired. I feel the same when I open my closet and see all the different outfits and what each one brings out in me. I would never get rid of my favorite summer dress because I found a pair of jeans that fit my ass perfectly. I keep both.

But even this gets hard. Your closet and drawers become full. The jeans fall apart, get stained, shrink. If maintaining a wardrobe is hard, maintaining multiple relationships seems impossible. Clothes are not people, are not bodies, are not creatures with different emotions and needs and wants. And clothes are most definitely not jealous.

Ideas that once scared me about love and relationships, didn’t seem so scary while I was in Tucson. And while I returned inspired, I also returned alone, returned to life. Was it all a dream? The 84 degree weather? The cuddle tent? The hugging? Am I capable of what seems like a challenging lifestyle?

I have a lot to digest (and a lot more to share) about this event. My work isn’t done. My answers aren’t clear. But I am happy to at least have an idea of where to start and where I won’t look back. The world may not be a 24/7 non-monogamy fest but the conversations and thoughts are slowly happening. And maybe they’re happening quicker than I realize: The New York Magazine cover story I scoffed at ended up touching on some of those views, an ad depicting a throuple appears on my commute to work, a poly couple sat up front at my comedy show. Seems I’m not the only one fired up.