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Archive for the ‘sex’ Category
Sadie Says … Test
I know better than to make rules for myself, rules such as: No more men for a while, Sadie, while you figure out not only what you have to give, but what you need in return.
I know better than to create such restrictions. Why? Because doing so only invites a test.
And I suck at tests.
It wasn’t an hour, perhaps two at the most, that I had agreed to commit to this No More Men resolution before such a test had indeed presented itself. The test subject was cute in that approachable way, although I likely would not have even noticed him had he not noticed me. I had quietly erected blinders in order to keep any possibility at bay – effectively cock-blocking my own self. My mind had decided on going on this man-diet and my body was following dutifully along. But wouldn’t you know? It was only moments before I had begun the ardent task of removing them. All it took was a smiling voice from behind me, asking what I was drinking.
See? I really suck at tests.
But how could I resist his interest, especially given the timing? How could I resist the enthusiasm of a sweet stranger wanting to know the stories of me? How could I resist quiet contemplation? What about compliments and long stares and shared philosophies? How could I resist a lack of pretense and an eager curiosity? Or the beautiful vulnerability of really being heard?
Being seen?
Being understood?
I could not resist. So I did not resist, even though I tried. Okay, I lied. I did not try very hard; just enough to assuage any future guilt. Just enough to reconcile my desire against my need to be true to my own word.
But, ultimately I failed the test.
Two naked bodies, one bed and zero expectations. We failed that test together, happily. Easily. Without care of the outcome. We were two people, strangers no more, pursuing the simple pleasures of the self while soothing the crooked, jagged lines of loneliness.
And since I was capable of giving that to him, and he to me, needs were met… all the way around.
Which means that maybe I passed the test after all.
Sadie Says … A-Train, A-Play.
Sometimes I glimpse my mother inside of myself; I might see her face in mine when I round the corner into the bathroom, my lips fixed just so. Sometimes I’ll hear her in my voice, inside the very timbre of my words, and marvel at how they echo the sentiments I once considered fatalistic – those cars are driving way too fast down this street, the music is awfully aggressive, isn’t it? do you really want to wear that out to dinner, honey?
Mothers have a way of turning into their mothers in at least one way, if not another.
My mother might offer advice to strangers, even; if she happens to have first-hand knowledge of a sort that they appear to lack. Mothers enjoy being helpful after all. It’s one of the things they do best. Nurturing spirits long not only to provide care.. but to educate.
But my mother would not have poked her nose into the business of four teenage girls riding the Express A train from Brooklyn to Manhattan. At least not the four teenage girls that this mother (that would be me) encountered last week. No, I am pretty sure Mom would have been a tad bit mortified by their conversation, or at the very least bemused. And surely she’d have kept her mouth shut (if it weren’t hanging wide open, that is) — the certainty with which I say this has its basis in the assumption that their conversation’s topic is not in her area of expertise.
But it is in mine.
I couldn’t help but listen in. Two of them were sitting right next to me on the bench so the access was easy, the other two sitting across on the other side, legs draping the floor of the train. They were all wearing skinny jeans, tight tees and low-top Converse, and carrying little purses, the contents of which I could probably guess – lipgloss, money, metro card, gum, cell phone, condoms. The short-haired girl sitting on the other side of the one sitting next to me was up in arms about some boy she liked, or at least did like, until she decided he must be gay…
“Do you know what he told me?” she hissed at the girl sitting just beside me, “He said that Molly stuck a finger in his ass and it made him laugh! Can you believe that? I mean, he just let her do that and he thought it was funny?”
I looked over at her and I swear I saw fire flames dancing inside her pupils. Her friend responded, “What’s the problem exactly?”
“The problem? The problem is that that means he’s gay! Any dude who lets anyone put a finger or anything else in his ass MUST be gay!”
Her friend, the one sitting next to me, just shrugged. I looked toward the other two girls across the width of the train and their glassy-eyed, teenaged stares pulled me backwards in time – the faces of friends who either have no opinion or have no inclination to offer it. These other girls know their place in the hierarchy, I thought; the short-haired girl is obviously the righteous ruler in this particular pecking order.
“God, I can’t believe it, I mean, can you believe it? I can’t believe he’s gay, I like really liked him, ya know?”
This is where I interrupted. And I interrupted her not in order to save this poor boy from being unduly railroaded in the middle of a westbound train, but more to save her poor little friends from having to endure any more of her insistent whining, whining which had no foundation in fact.
Plus, I have been known to offer advice to strangers. You know, whenever I have first-hand knowledge that they apparently lack…
“Um, excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation and I just wanted to say something. There are actually a lot of nerve endings in the anus and it’s because of this that the ass can be a great source of pleasure for men. Women too.” The short-haired girl just stared at me, but her friend piped up, “Yeah, I heard that!”
I continued, “Think about it, we have pussies, because we are girls, men have cocks, since they are guys, but we all have assholes. Why would only gay men’s assholes like to have fingers, or anything else, in them?” The short-haired girl cocked her head at me, squinted her eyes. I kept on speaking, “I personally know quite a few straight men who love to have their asses played with. Dildos, fingers, vibrators even!”
“Really?” she asked. I peered over at her friends across the way, both of whom were smiling. I suspected they knew all of this already. They probably had encountered a few ass-centric straight guys too.
“Yep, really! And I know a lot of chicks who like anal sex. And I also know gay men who don’t like it at all. So, ya see, just because this guy let someone go there doesn’t mean that he’s gay. It just means he might like having his ass played with.”
She had one more question, “But, but … I know straight guys who won’t let anyone get anything near their butts! They get really mad about it even, because they don’t want anyone thinkin’ they’re gay. So, if it’s fun and all, why are they getting mad?”
“Well, that’s simple, hon. That’s because of the very false assumption, the one that y’all were actually furthering with this conversation, that butt play makes a dude gay. But now you know that is not necessarily true, right?”
“Wow, yeah. Yeah, I do. Thanks.” Her friends heads nodded in unison, “Yeah, cool,” as the four of them walked off the train.
With that, my motherly duty had been done.
And I am certain that my own mother, had she been there sitting beside me that day, would have been able to conjure up some pride for me and my nurturing, sex-educational spirit… that is after she had picked her jaw up off the floor of the A train.
Sadie Says … I Need and I Want.
There is, sometimes, a subtle difference between want and need.
I don’t need to spend idle time fantasizing about an hours-long romp with the person I spend an hours-long romp with every couple of weeks or so. It’s just that I do sometimes harbor such singularly base, almost bestial thoughts about him. Or parts of him anyway. I don’t have any need to consider the placement of his body parts, body parts that I hadn’t otherwise given much thought to beyond their function, body parts that I’ve suddenly come to believe might fit perfectly and exquisitely inside my…. well, you get the idea. Toes, for instance. And elbows. Who wants to think of toes and elbows in such a way? I do, it seems. Want to, that is. I don’t need to.
I just … do.
One can’t control one’s dirty little mind sometimes, and perhaps one does not want to when one’s mind is having such fun designing decidedly delicious ideas to nosh on.
And while I don’t need to apprise him – this man who is the delightful focus of my mental machinations – no, I don’t need to apprise him of my fantasies, since delivering such insight might inadvertently appear manipulative, I often want to. And so, occasionally, I do. Only sometimes, mind you. And I don’t do so in the hopes of receiving similar words back, no. Nor do I alert him of my prurient visions in an attempt to provoke erotic reactions. Truly, I don’t. No, I have moved beyond simple strategy in this instance. Here … in this place I sit with thoughts of carnality (a place I am accustomed to, as you know… I am a lustful, libidinous lass, to be certain ) I want to, no, I need to say what I envision.
I need to say how badly I want for him to sneak silently into my bedroom where I lie sleeping peacefully, wake me up with a start and begin, quietly, then forcefully, to do dirty, disgracefully delectable things to me.
I need to iterate how the simple idea of tying his arms taut to the bed and insisting that he watch me play with myself gives me such intense gratification that I almost don’t need to do it. Thinking about such naughtiness is almost enough.
Almost.
No, I don’t need. No. I want.
I want.
I want.
I want.
Yes. That’s it. What I need is to say.
What I want to is to do.
Sadie Says … You can’t fix stupid, but I’d sure like to try
A couple of my last posts were stories about recent encounters I’ve had with men who were both, shall we say … stupid.
It’s okay to be stupid. We are all stupid sometimes. Yes, even me. Stupidity is Sadie’s surname on regular occasion but at least I will be the first to admit it. Okay the third. Fourth then. Well, I will admit it eventually.
I take issue, however, with stupidity that results in treating people poorly, or stupidity that manifests in manners of intolerance. The law student I met in San Francisco and ultimately hooked up with is stupid, 4.0 grade point average notwithstanding. He is stupid in the sense that he hasn’t learned how to treat people. Women especially. But I suspect he never will. Because he has instead discovered that, for whatever his debilitated reasons, he enjoys being manipulative and duplicitous. It has probably served him well. Perhaps it gives him a charge. Gets him off. I could, if I were generous, attribute his ignorance to his age (25) but I am not feeling quite so charitable this Sunday evening as I lie in my bed and ponder the sheer number of men I have allowed into my life and my bed who were so VERY undeserving of being there. Stupid, stupid me.
But back to the law student – Manipulation and pathological lying are not practices that are inherent to youth. There are plenty of young men who know how to respect women. What the law student exhibited are (in my view) maladaptive behaviors that were programmed in his childhood, to be certain, where he was likely taught that he wasn’t good enough so he has since spent his days exhausting his relationships attempting to prove otherwise by marginalizing the women involved. I suspect that the law student boy will grow into a deceitful and pompous old man. Which means he will probably make a fairly decent lawyer. One thing I did not mention in my story was that, when I questioned him about the fact he added me as a friend on Facebook the very day that I arrived in San Francisco – the very city in which he lives – he assured me that it was sheer coincidence.
Sadie’s stupidity showing – I believed him. Now I wonder how long he had been Facebook stalking me.
And then there was the fucker who referred to my friend Janet as a whore because she likes sex. Where to begin on that one?
Manipulation and lying are shitty behaviors. They are direct and derivative and are therefore worthy of reproach. But intolerance of such regard? Where one automatically ascribes a label to someone else, someone whom they don’t even know, about whom they have only ONE piece of identifying information no less, and that information is that the person LIKES SEX? And, the assumption is that, because this person is a WOMAN, and this woman LIKES SEX… the designation whore, delivered with utter disgust and incredulity, is deemed appropriate?
No. It’s not appropriate. It’s not any more appropriate than me calling him an asshole because he has an asshole. He isn’t an asshole (or maybe he is but I don’t have enough information to discern.) What I do know is that he is stupid. And that is simply because he, for whatever reason, was not given enough information about the concept of a woman’s enjoyment of sex. He was not told enough times (if at all) that it is perfectly acceptable for a woman to LOVE sex as much as men do.
In fact, it’s encouraged! Or, at least it should be. ALWAYS!
So what is a woman who likes sex? Umm… she is a woman who likes sex! She is not a whore. A woman who performs a sexual service for money is a sex worker (not a whore) and if she enjoys the sex that she has while on the job then she is one lucky and fulfilled woman. But this classification – sex worker- doesn’t carry much capacity for contempt, does it? This is why words like whore and slut have endured – they act as quick, convenient verbal transmitters of misogyny and hostility.
Misogyny and hostility. Stupid, huh?
Oh, and, unsurprisingly, before I Facebook Blocked the law student, I perused his Wall, wherein I found a plethora of similar misogynistic missives – mostly directed at the cheerleaders of his college team’s rival school. And while that, too, is stupid, I think can conjure up some generosity and say… this can be attributed to his youth.
However, you can’t always fix stupid… and not everyone grows up, do they?
Sadie Says… She’s a WHAT?
He was cute even though he had sort of a frantic demeanor, as if he had perpetually failed to remember where he’d put his keys.
So when he came over to our table, the one where the three of us ladies sat in the dimly-lit corner of the not-crowded-enough bar, we obliged, unable to predict that we would encounter the ensuing conversation ~
What’s up? he nodded upward as he spoke. Ugh. We should have known to say goodbye right then.
But no. We answered him. Nothing. What’s up with you? the three of us responded in tandem.
Nothing. I’m here with my dad, he pointed towards the pool table where an attractive man stood holding a cue.
Oh really, he’s your dad? No way! He’s pretty cute! And his dad certainly was. How old is he? Gen asked. He’s fifty, the dude responded.
Is he single? Gen asked inquisitively. No, he’s with that woman next to him. Why? the dude wanted to know.
Oh, I was just thinking maybe I could set him up with my friend, but never mind, Gen offered, bored with where the conversation was going.
But now my interest was piqued. Who? What friend? I wanted to know. Janet, she announced. Oooooh, Janet, yeah! I smiled broadly at the thought of our lovely friend Janet with the hot dad over at the pool table.
The dude wanted to know why I was smiling. Because Janet is fun! I told him. Now his interest piqued, Fun how? he asked. Well, fun meaning…. she likes sex.
And do you know what he said to this? He said…
Oh…
And then he continued.
So she’s a whore?!
wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?wtf?
I swallowed hard and managed to resist the urge to punch this little fucker in the throat.
Um. No. No. No, I spit. She is most definitely not a whore. She simply likes sex. Do you like sex, little man? I asked him.
Yes I do, he said, sniffing upward towards the ceiling.
So, does this enjoyment of sex, does that make you a whore? I peered at him through squinted eyes, my friends leaned into the table, prepared to pounce.
Well… I’m actually married. He seemed to be pleased with this answer.
Oh, how fantastic for you, I noted. Does your wife leave you a payment on the bedside table after you’ve fucked her, then?
Always, he said.
Goodbye, we said… nodding upward.
Goodbye.
Sadie Says… Ya Can’t Date That.
I have decided that I am un-dateable.
I mean, of course I am. I should have known. I had previously thought that dating after marriage wouldn’t really be all that different from dating while married. That’s a funny sentiment, isn’t it? How many people can say that?
Having an open marriage for six years meant that I had permission to date outside of it, so it wasn’t that I was unfamiliar with the dating scene, the climate, the process of meeting people, vetting them, getting to know them and perhaps becoming involved. I thought dating after being single would be a rather seamless procedure…. I’d have more free time to date! I wouldn’t be already romantically encumbered and therefore I’d be seen as someone who is more accessible! And hey! I have perfected the art of blow-job giving!
All paths, in my mind, appeared to lead to surethisisgonnaworkwithoutafuckinghitch.
Um, yeah. Notsomuch.
I failed to consider the emotional baggage I would be carrying around with me. I had no idea how much annoyance and disillusionment and the outright anger I was going to be strapped with as a result of my divorce. How could I have missed the fact that I am walking around with big, hulking, 20 pounds weights of this shit? But I see it now. Feel it now. And now that I get it, I get that I am hauling it all around – psychic underpinnings of my life as it exists now – and I can understand why no one would have any interest in contending with such a heavy load.
Personally, I don’t want to either, dammit. But I suppose this is my current station, might as well make the best of it, yeah? Maybe this is why I have lost so much weight recently, because of these pitiless, ponderous weights? Chocolate croissants! Donuts! Fried pickles! Cheeseburgers! Doesn’t matter, eat it all. I have a built-in calorie burner.
Actually, eating is often the very last thing on my mind, which probably explains the weight loss. “The Divorce Diet”, as FFG calls it.
But back to being un-dateable. I am un-dateable. It’s just the truth. And I have decided that this is okay. Because what I need right now is to determine how the next few years of my life is going to go. Enough of just taking life as it comes, I am on my own now and need a plan. So I am beginning work on what this plan will be and what living on my own (for the VERY first time EVER) is going to look like. How will I support myself? What other major changes besides un-hitching myself from my husband will I have to make in order for occasional contentedness and some semblance of emotional weightlessness to transpire? So far, there are a couple other big ones that will probably occur soon… so why in the hell would I want to tangle anyone up in a big ‘ol Texas-sized mess with me?
That would just be rude.
So, no dating for Sadie for a while.
You understand I said dating. I am still going to need sex, I always will, we just know this. But I am working on a plan for that. One that might pan out or it could fall to pieces. I am keeping expectations low on that front, while my expectations on getting my proverbial solo shit together will remain as high as the satellites in the sky. Since I am the one in control of that. For the most part anyway.
Being un-dateable is not a tragedy. But if I didn’t work diligently towards the goal of getting my (very own) life in order?
That surely would be.
Sadie Asks… Have you ever?
Have you ever…
Been in the San Francisco Bay area visiting old friends and you had a little time to kill so you went to see the Iron Lady, wherein you concurred with the widely held belief that Meryl Streep is most definitely genius incarnate, and afterward you pulled up Facebook on your iPhone to see what the members of your social network were up to and you discovered a complimentary and persuasive message sitting right there in your message box from a supercute, 25 year-old law student who just so happened to live in the area you were visiting and wanted nothing more than to occupy you for one evening, and so after a short text exchange and requisite expectation management, you set up a time to meet him later that night, and so you met him, and he met you, and even your friends met him, and together you all vetted him and deemed him ostensibly genuine, and worthy of your time and attention, and sweet in the way that young men can be, and yes indeed he was most definitely cute…
and so you and the law student decided together the following night he would procure a hotel room downtown, and so he picked you up the next night, where he appeared clearly nervous, and was therefore chatty and apologetic that he was late since his roommate’s dog needed to be rushed to the vet and he was the one elected to do so, and when you arrived at the hotel, the two of you wasted no time at all getting down to business, and the business you engaged in together was nice, it was tender yet rough and it was easy yet awkward – as first encounters with virtual strangers often are – and you repeated these sex sessions a few times, taking breaks in between your salacious interludes to talk (or actually, you mostly listened to him talk… and talk, and talk and talk some fucking more – so much so that you learned about his maladaptive relationship with his parents, his cum laude college graduate credentials, the tragic misadventures of his alcoholic sister, the fact that he had locked himself out of the house the night before, and more, much much more than you could have ever continued to feign interest in) and then…. just when you thought you might both drift off to sleep, this man – or boy rather – who had exhibited such neuroses during your brief time together as 1) a fear of city buses and 2) abject anxiety inside the hotel’s elevator…
this boy began to have an allergic reaction to the fucking sheets on the bed, allergies of such compulsive proportions (replete with coughing and supposedly swollen eyes, although it was dark and so you weren’t completely convinced of this particular symptom) that you offered the boy an OUT – why don’t you go home young law student… please don’t feel like you need to stay here all night, to which the student replied assuredly, no, no, no… I really want to stay, I will be fine, and so you rolled over thinking that sleep would greet you both very soon, but instead he announced loudly – much too loudly given the lack of light in the room and the fact that you were trying to sleep right next to him, not to mention the time (3:30 am) – oh, I totally forgot to check in on my roommate’s dog, how thoughtless of me, and so the law boy picked up his phone, sent a text, put the phone down and one minute later that phone rang, he answered it and you could just barely make out a voice on the other line that sounded fakely frantic and after a few seconds of back and forth this law student hung up the phone and tried, unsuccessfully – because after all he is NO Meryl Streep – to tell you that his roommate, the one with the sick dog, had locked himself out of the house…
and you didn’t buy it, not for one minute, and because you are who you are (someone who really dislikes bullshit of such childish proportions) you suggested directly that he was totally full of shit and had orchestrated the scenario so that he would have an excuse to leave (even though you had already given him the opportunity to take off) he had only this to say, “I really wish that I was that smart, to have come up with such a scheme” and you watched as he flailed around the room collecting his stuff in the darkness that wasn’t so dark that you couldn’t clearly discern the fact that he was very nervous, shaking in fact, shaking so hard that he could not get the zipper on his jacket engaged and so he left it open, and said goodbye, but not before first suggesting he’d come back to the dark room after he had rescued his roommate in order to prove that he wasn’t lying…
and of course you never heard from him again?
Has that ever happened to you?
Me too.
Sadie Says … Remember Santa Barbara
This is the story I read at BedPost Confessions tonight. It was well received, so I thought I’d post it here~
Photo by Steve Rogers
I hadn’t planned on fucking the fisherman… at least, I don’t think I did.
It’s all sort of a vague and hazy blur of stale Camel lights and an abundance of Belvedere Vodka. My friend Gen and I had been at a birthday party, it was one of those nightclub parties where the bottle service doesn’t ever stop and lots of the patrons are distorted caricatures – like reality television stars and Republican politicians – you know, where the bartenders and bouncers hate their jobs and everyone in there believes that just being hot transcends everything wrong with the world.
Then … at some point Gen and I were stumbling back to the hotel, drunk and wobbly. We were in Santa Barbara – beautiful, quaint Santa Barbara with its cobblestone streets and its gorgeous coastline and its research University, and its Spanish Missions and … Oprah.
And then, at some point on the walk we met a cute, 20-something fisherman who asked if he could bum a smoke. I said, drunkenly, Sure, and why don’t you walk with us down the road with us… to our hotel … you know, while you smoke with us?
The next thing I remember I was opening my eyes.
It was the following morning.
The room mimicked the haze that was the night before, and my eyes had trouble focusing through it. I’d smoked in the room even though I wasn’t supposed to, but I didn’t have an actual memory of that. It was my nose that narrated that part of the story for me – picked up a dry, pungent refrain from the thick re-circulated air while the scent of the sheets hummed a sultry, smoky back up. I rolled over onto my side and stretched a little and the covers shifted loosely over my totally bare skin. I yawned and blinked. And then … I saw it – a square, torn, gold foil wrapper staring at me like my cat does when it knows I’m awake and it wants its breakfast. I recognized the golden square because it had once been in my purse, but back when it was in my purse, it had a condom inside of it.
It appeared that the condom had found its way inside of something else.
I was perplexed. Okay, actually? I was freaked. I rolled over in the bed and squinted toward a sleeping Gen. My heart raced and my head swirled ‘round with thoughts of what she and I might have done with and to the guy who had reason to open up that condom wrapper. It seemed the guy was gone but that wrapper was still looking at me from the bedside table. I would have laughed if my head didn’t hurt so badly from the vodka and if my throat didn’t feel like I’d just blown a major league baseball team (from the cigarettes). I might have mustered a slight giggle if I could’ve just remembered one small piece of the previous night’s puzzle from the walk home onward…but I couldn’t. I was going to need Gen’s help in solving this one.
And then I noticed that she was wearing her pajamas. I was the only naked person in that bed.
I shook her awake. What the fuck happened last night? And a groggy Gen rolled over while peering at me through one eye, and after a moment she heaved a frustrated, disconcerted sigh, a sigh that was a lot like the sigh my mom sighed at me back when I was 14 and she’d found out that I’d been sneaking her car out in the middle of the night while she was asleep… and driving around the neighborhood with my little sister in the back seat, a bottle of Boone’s Farm rolling around on the floorboard and the emergency brake on.
sigh
Sadie, you don’t remember? You fucked the fisherman while I waited in the bathroom…. It was not a huge deal, although I felt a little weird.
Umm….A little weird? Gen?
Okay, a lot weird. Yeah, it was a lot weird.
And yeah, it was weird. Now… it wasn’t all that weird that I might have had sex with someone I’d just met. Unfortunately. My then-husband and I had recently opened our marriage, and so having sex with someone else fell inside the boundaries of what I could do when I was drunk and in Santa Barbara. But what was weird was that I would banish my friend to the bathroom so that I could have sex with that stranger. And that I had gotten so drunk that I didn’t even REMEMBER any of it. Not a single piece of it. Nothing. Not even when Gen elaborated for me. None of it rang a bell.
As Gen was telling me how it all shook down, I got out of the bed and shuffled through the trashcan, in search of the condom. I had to know conclusively that we’d been “safe”. As “safe” as we could have been in that scenario. I found it wrapped in toilet paper – enshrouded evidence of our mysterious debauchery. It was then my turn to sigh. This sigh was definitely one of relief but it was also tinged with a deep, internal remorse – a nebulous, shame-filled vapor of regret.
After I got home, I quit drinking for exactly 3 months.
In the 3 months that I was alcohol-free, I didn’t have a whole lot of sex. I had sex with my husband, yes, but I was feeling sort of twitchy during that time… like I had lost my edge – and I guess in a way I had. I didn’t have alcohol to prop me up, so I didn’t go out much at all. But what I did do during that short stint of sobriety was use that time to reflect on my drinking and what its role was in my sex life. I discovered that it lived pretty front and center.
Since alcohol un-inhibits us, it increases the likelihood that we will do things we wouldn’t normally do. Add sex to the equation and it can get messy. And I mean literally… messy – how many stories have you heard of people puking during a sexual encounter? Right. Those people were not sober. But, hey! Booze loosens us up! Makes us feel sexay!
And yes, booze can also encourage us, give us just the nudge we need to be open to trying those things we might really want to try but are maybe a little afraid to. Like wear a crotchless rubber chicken suit and roll around in baby oil, or penetrate a consenting partner with an umbrella handle…. or something.
For me, enough drinks in my system and I was totally cool with the idea of having a threesome with my husband and my next door neighbor’s daughter (she was 24!). Booze helped me say to my good friend, Sure, I’ll swap husbands with you for the night while all of our kids are sleeping downstairs…. Why not? Booze accompanied me to swingers clubs and sex parties and made sure that I was totally comfortable and at ease in those situations. At least mostly. I knew I was using it as a tool. And it worked well as a sexual assistant. But eventually, it became more than just a tool; it became a crutch. A problem.
You know that switch in the brain that says, Okay, you’ve had enough. It’s time to stop drinking now! The one that sometimes you listen to and a whole lot of other times you don’t? Maybe you ignore, say to it, “fuck off, I’m gonna do what I want, and what I want to do… is a shot of Jagermeister with this super cute Sign Language Interpreter that’s been flirting with me.”
You know that switch?
I don’t have one.
Nope. This particular model, the Sadie Smythe1.9.6.8 did not come with a switch!
I got fucking ripped off.
But, that’s just how I was designed, and so this meant that developing a problem with booze was bound to happen. I never really knew when I was going too far and drinking too much, since there was no switch for me to ignore and therefore no frame of reference. And so I went too far …most of the time.
And blacking out became a regular occurrence for me. So if I had a sexual experience with, say, the super cute Sign Language Interpreter, I wouldn’t always know whether it was awesome or not because the chances of it becoming a big, boozey blur were very high.
Even so, after my 3 months of sobriety, I easily convinced myself that I could start drinking again. In moderation. I decided that since I didn’t have a switch, maybe I could install one myself.
I envisioned a plugin like the ones I download for increased functionality on my website, but this one was for my brain – it was a Sadie will stop drinking after 2 drinks plugin. But, of course, what would happen was, I’d finish my 2 drinks and I’d manually override my well-intentioned psychological software with – I am fine! I’ll just push it to over to 3 drinks… okay 4. I could totally do 5 and be fine… and then all of a sudden I’ve forgotten how to count and the plugin short circuits and I am totally fucked up….
And naked.
This happened A LOT.
And when this didn’t happen, the perhaps 5% of the time when I actually managed to keep it to two or three drinks (which, incidentally, always coincided with evenings that I was already very tired or there was not much going on) on these nights I was sooo proud of myself. I’d be like, Yay, Sadie! Nice job tonight. You didn’t get too drunk and try to make out with your co-worker’s wife, and, lookie here…. You kept your panties on ALL night long!
And I’d hold on tightly to the success of that… like a throbbing cock.
I didn’t want to let it go.
And sometimes it was fun being the party girl, truly. But often it was rather pointless. Like the time I was in the middle of this orgiastic scene – there were 5 of us naked and splayed out on my living room floor and I realized I would probably not be in this position, my legs spread and some chick’s face that I don’t even recognize right there, looking up at me to see how I’m doing. And while she’s down there, there’s this guy who is sucking at my eyelids and pawing at my breasts and I’ve got his cock in my hand– and I realize that I would not have been there if I hadn’t begun the night with a vodka tonic … that had somehow turned into 12 vodka tonics. I looked around and I started thinking, I don’t even know if I like these people… and I’m looking at all of their faces and they, like me, are so drunk that none of us can even feel anything, we’re just pushing ourselves into each other like a pack of wasted wolves in heat.
Yes, I had started to take note of my behavior and was beginning to see that while I certainly felt more free-spirited, less self-conscious, and more courageous, that it was really only an illusion.
Because when I drank, I wasn’t in control any longer, it was. And maybe it seemed like it was confidence that put me in an interesting and perhaps notable sexual situation, it wasn’t really. Because ultimately, if it wasn’t a situation that I would have chosen to explore while I was sober, then it wasn’t courage that opened that door for me, it was exactly the opposite. It was actually cowardly because I wasn’t being true to who I was. I was trying to be someone else.
And, luckily, I know that now.
But, that’s what we do. We figure out who we are along the way, and some of us do that by fucking up and actin’ all crazy. And I did. I acted all kinds of crazy for a couple more years even. I kept on drinking and finding myself in sexual situations where I would be blacked out but still functioning, just not aware of it, and then I’d wake up, come to, in the middle of it … of having sex with someone … and not know where I was or how I got there.
Hey, dude… whatever your name is again, Henry? Oh… it’s Bert? You put a condom on, right? Show me? Okay cool. Thanks… proceed.
Yeah. Can you say hot mess? Yes. I was a hot mess. It was not pretty.
But eventually I had one of those aha moments; the kind that those of us who are lucky might have after we’ve stepped just a smidgen out the safety and warmth of our comfortable denial. And I figured out that I couldn’t be that person any longer. And I eventually I was able to access some real, confidence and courage … and I quit drinking. For more than three months this time.
In fact, as of TODAY…. it’s been three years.
Now when I have sex, I do so on my terms! And it is lovely. Gone are the days where I am driven by my blood alcohol levels to create manufactured, booze-driven, unconscious interludes. These days I am completely aware of what I am doing and who I am doing it with, and I can always recall the details the next day. And I enjoy it! And that’s because I can feel it. And you know what I discovered? Because I can feel it, and because it feels so fucking good that I want more and more and more and more…. I become totally uninhibited. Naturally.
Sober sex has, for me, been the most authentic, erotic, exhilarating and most importantly, liberating, experience of my life.
And my orgasms are INSANE.
And while I didn’t plan on fucking the fisherman, the fact is that I did fuck the fisherman. I still have absolutely no memory of it, but that doesn’t concern me much any longer. I now view that particular event as a gift – a symbolic souvenir that will forever serve as a purposeful reminder. Because if I ever think to myself – God, I wish I’d been made with one of those switches in my brain so that I could have a couple of drinks. Just a couple.
All I have to do is remember Santa Barbara.