Monday, July 27, 2009

EPIC FAIL, or, Please Do Not Bash the Gays

I love obscenities. In my homeland, New Jersey, they lace baby formula and juice boxes with liquid expletives, ensuring all Jersey-spawn are infused from the most tender of ages with the ability to fire curses like blow darts. This is not because people from New Jersey are classless or rude. Nay! It is a necessary (perhaps even evolutionary) defense mechanism which allows natives to survive the treacherous social flatlands of the Garden State. Consider foul language New Jersey’s personal arsenal, a collection of weapons which, when used properly, can shame our enemy back into the shadows of the night…or at least stun him/her long enough to get a fist into their orbital (always go for the eyes).

Cursing is also one of our most revered art forms, one that encourages personal expression the same way dance or painting does. I’ll never forget the joy, the sheer hope for the future, I experienced years ago when my best guy friend’s golden-haired sister, a seven-year-old with ice blue eyes and flushed, cupid-bowed mouth, delivered a veritable sonnet of verbal wrath upon him. “Fuck you, Bitchtitties!” she cried, one part Alvin the Chipmunk, one part Eddie-Murphy-before-he-started-sucking. "Fucking fuck!" I shed a single, silent tear of bliss that day, then started an 80s-movie style “slow clap” in the middle of their living room.

That being said, one of the items on my hitch list recently has been to curb my cursing. I will never abandon it entirely; there isn’t enough Jackie O./Miss Manners/Dear Abby anti-expletive propaganda in the world to make me forsake my birthright. But in the name of following up on self-improvement, I've tried to limit myself. Anyway, I was doing pretty well—no “fucks” during the morning meetings at work, no egging my wingmen on with “pussy” whenever they prepared to tap out before midnight, no describing of the office coffee as “fucking shit-piss.” I am, after all, a lady.

Everything was fine until the R train.

The R train incident was NOT my fault. Morning commutes, by land, sea or air, are ripe with cursing opportunities, and I’d been exceptionally good at not falling into the trap for about a week. As usual, I did what I always do: pick least crowded R transfer car, sit down, open book, read. On this morning, however, I made the error of (unknowingly) sitting near a homophobic jackoff. Which is where the trouble started. As I sat there, trying to meditate on the words of Richard Yates and the sounds of New York’s vibrant underground, all I could hear was this:

“Fucking faggots. Fucking dick-sucking fags can all burn in Hell. Yeah, you heard me, faggot, I don’t give a fuck. You’re gonna burn in Hell. And you can suck my dick, you little bitch.” I’m not making any of that up.

[Authors note: "And you can suck my dick?" Ahem. I will never cease to be surprised by how many “gay” statements homophobes make when they’re busy proving how un-gay they are.]

I looked up from my book to see that the Voice of Douche (no doubt attached to a truly, soul-crushingly tiny penis) belonged to a thirtysomething, thuggish Latino man, freshly lined-up from the barber shop and peacocking in enough gold to make Mr. T blush (way to live the stereotype, dude). His friend, a heavyset guy in a fresh new hoodie covered in rainbow dollar signs [again, gay allusions] sat terrier-like nearby.

Douche was delivering his monologue to an audience of one, a gorgeous, most-likely-gay hipster with James Dean hair and a purple summer scarf reading the collected works of Ginsberg. He was doing an awfully good job of keeping the book over his face, which I couldn’t help but admire—especially given that, had anyone been talking to me like that, I’d already be straddled across their chest like a jockey, jamming each page of Ginsberg’s “Howl” down the asshole's throat while simultaneously reciting each movement (you know, for dramatic emphasis).

I listened to this crap from 14th Street to 28th, trying to stay out of it. Douche was already making a fool of himself, I reasoned. I didn’t need to say anything. This wasn’t my fight. Besides, the guy was a huge Douche (meaning tall and wide), possibly mentally ill and potentially carrying a glock. [Note: I do not know what a glock is. But I know guys dressed like Douche and hailing from my section of Brooklyn frequently carry them.]

Then, right before 34th Street, something snapped.

I stood up in the moving car, teetered in my stilettos, and wobbled down the aisle toward Douche, Terrier-Man and James Dean, clutching the poles for support like a drunk stripper. I knew my biggest obstacle would be that petite white girls teetering in stilettos and carrying a brown paper lunch bag filled with tuna salad aren’t intimidating. So I did what any true Jersey girl does---I pulled a blow dart from my arsenal, loaded it and fired.

“Excuse me? Um, excuse me?” But Douche couldn’t hear me because he was too busy popping off at the mouth. “Hel-lo?!” Nothing.

“Hey, Papi?!” I finally tried. (Alex is first gen Puerto Rican. I learned half a decade ago that using your most coquettish voice while calling out “papi” is a surefire way to get a Latino man’s attention, regardless of whether you’re trying to bed him or just get him to shut the fuck up. If you think that's offensive, you haven't had the pleasure of a Latin man yet and need to get on that.) Douche finally turned toward me, giving me slick "macho ma-cho maaaan" grin.

“Papi, hi, I know it’s none of my business, but...seriously? If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to skull-fuck you so hard you’ll be begging to suck this kid’s cock by the time I’m done. 'kay?”

Douche opened his mouth to say something, but I was good and worked up, and cut him off with one of those militant hand-chops my grandpa used to do, where you slice your hand through the air violently. (It's a variation on "talk to the hand" that white girls carrying tuna salad can pull off, in a pinch.) "NO. SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.” Then I teetered back to my seat, ungracefully, and sat back down...and realized EVERYONE was staring a me.

Everyone, from the little Asian lady with her laundry to the business guy in the starched shirt sipping from a Starbucks cup. All eyes on me. As I sat, the middle-aged woman with the flower patterned blouse who had been sharing a row a seats with me got up and moved.

WTF? Douche and Terrier-Man can spurt-forth bigotry and hate at an innocent, scarf-wearing straphanger like a volcano, but I say I’m going to skull-fuck someone and
I’m the offensive one? Some days I don’t get this city.

Idiocy got off at the next stop with a single “bitch” hurled at me during his exit, glaring from the platform until my skin burned. (Terrier-Man, incidentally, thought the whole exchange was hilarious.) James Dean pulled the book down low enough for me to see his stunning green eyes as I got off at 42nd, but never said a word.

So, the point of this story: EPIC FAIL on the “curb my cursing” hitch list item. I’ll have to start from scratch next week.

I did learn, however, that the combination of black stilettos, a tuna salad sandwich and the word “skull-fuck” before 9:30am can, occasionally, be just the blow-dart you need to stun even the most wild bushmen of the subway.

Happy Monday.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Chronic Monogamy, or, "Hi, I'm Super Lame"

I've been getting a lot of questions (some emailed and some not so nice) about WHY I made a Hitch List, why I've put what are several "well, DUH" items on the list, why I left someone I loved to do it.

First off, I’m somewhat dismayed by the standard “if you could even picture kissing another human, you didn’t love him” default many people revert to. Love, as my longtime gay wingman pointed out recently, is not black and white, nor is it concrete, especially in the cases of people who have been together for half a decade or more. (PS: Limerence, the 1-2 year chemical love high kicked into action by the brain, feels concrete. But it’s not. I still see lots of people mistaking the two daily.) My 90-year-old grandmother confirmed this after I confessed I’d been taking abuse from snark-sharks who said that I couldn’t have been in love if I left, and that I had been taking the snark to heart. Grandma, who is very wise and very Catholic, said simply that “realistic love” is transient, and the people who can’t recognize that are the ones who become rigid and unlovable. She then berated me for caring what other people think. (Point taken, Grandma.)

Obviously something as personal as the reasons behind leaving and hitch listing will be different for everyone. I certainly don't expect anyone who's from a more traditional, white-picket-fence-mindset to even remotely understand the selfish, all-about-me nature of listing.

But for clarification’s sake, I can say FOR ME it is a much needed codependency treatment, one that will ideally cure me of a potentially fatal (socially and romantically) illness: Super Lameness, clinically known (in the clinic that is our halfway-house of an apartment) as Chronic Monogamy Syndrome.

Like generations of men, women and sitcom characters before me, I like the single life. It's sexy. It’s fun. You don't have to answer to anyone. You can pick up and go study the art of prayer flag making in Tibet. You can go on Puckish adventures into the outer-boroughs for anything you want--underground dances parties, thin-sliced pizza, bohemian guitar circles, green tea, make-out sessions with random lead singers of bands you accidentally picked up after even more random concerts (I'm looking at you, Red...). Anything's possible when you don’t have someone else to consider. Nights can end at 6am with your partner in crime at your side, both of you smelling like gin and lime and high off the heady violation of every cardinal rule of proper behavior. Or you can just sit alone contentedly blogging without being called antisocial. (Though I recommend debauchery. It all goes in a memoir someday, and if your memoir's too boring too read you’re wasting the precious gifts of life and genitals.)

But like everyone who’s ridden singledom already knows, eventually loneliness sets in...followed by self-doubt, social paranoia, the fear that if you die no one will come looking for you until the dog eats your face, and that gnawing, irrational need to be spooned by a warm body which holds you tightly. That warm body completely validates you: you’re pretty enough, smart enough, interesting enough, worthy enough for companionship, and you’ve got proof!

For Chronic Monogamers, this can become the relentless, insecure driving force behind jumps from long-term relationship to long-term relationship.

This is super lame.

Example: I have a background in wanting to be partnered so badly that I fall in love too easily, forgiving glaring personality flaws (long histories of womanizing, lack of direction in life, non-reciprocating oral sexers) en route to the next level of companionship. That eventually resulted in a failed engagement to a douche who was clearly a douche, and the purchase of 25 stone wedding centerpieces which are still sitting, like a bizarre graveyard, in my parent’s basement.

Far worse is that I blow off friends as soon as the signing bonus on new relationship goes through. I’m nesting. I’m sexing. I’m entwined with my lover, happily absorbing their nuances like a sponge, purring and lolling about in togetherness like an overweight cat in a featherbed. I become defined by the relationship, which leads to monophobia outside of the relationship.

This is all incredibly humiliating to have to admit, because it reveals just how insecure and cringe-inducingly awkward I am at my lowest. But I do know through countless conversations and shameless evesdropping that I’m not an isolated case. I’ve seen it: normally rational, fun, strong people fading into their chains of band-aid relationships, losing touch with themselves as they go. We’ve all watched enough disturbingly codependent relationships sink into the tar pits because at least one person can't admit to this, and it’s ugly enough to make me want to suck it up and deal with it now.

So, I left. Not because my lover was a douche (this one was and is a decided catch, loved and approved of by everyone from Grandma to our social circle’s bitchy-I-hate-everyone-Godfather-of-the-Gays) but because I might be...or might become one down the road if I didn’t take some time to sort out all the glaring flaws I’d never addressed because I haven’t been alone since I was 19.

By making a list, forcing myself to go independent, learning to have fun without a partner or date in tow and reconnecting with all the friends I abandoned when nesting (or failed to meet by not going out), I just might become the kind of person I want to marry.

I may end up something besides super lame.

And I think that's just swell.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Quarter-Life Crisis Management: Revisions, Analysis and Sufjan Stevens

So I’ve admittedly been delinquent in writing, posting, listing, etc. This is because of a sudden (but not entirely unexpected) surge in quarter-life-crisis-related panic that essentially frapped me in the face. And yes, I feel “frap” is the only adequate verb that can be used in instances of assault by your quarter-life crisis, especially given the vulgar nature of quarter life crises in general.

The only solution was some “Walden”-esque (minus the pond, minus the cabin, minus the musings on colonial sociology, plus one box of incense and entirely too much Sufjan Stevens) sequestering of myself and abstaining from outside influences, which included blogs, Facebook and any printed or digital periodicals save for the food section of New York magazine.

Reality is that after the dizzying, wide-eyed declaration of independence that was the original moving out on my own, I eventually had to, and will continue to have to, take stock of the aftermath, and no one should have to read through those details (they’re far less interesting than
breaking world records).

I also had to admit that the latest revision of
The Hitch List, though jam-packed with items ripe with episodic entertainment potential, were straying from the original purpose of reclaiming personal identity, learning to stand in solidarity and practicing to be the best lover/mate possible. Like tribal lower-back tattoos, the last shot of Jager or drunk-texting that dude who disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle after you finally went down on him, some things sound like a good idea when you’re being drunkenly egged on by a collection of intoxicated female wingmen and gay male roommates…until you wake up two days later.

So a little revising was in order. Yes, the hotly debated #25 will be adjusted (Ethnic Sexcapades Bingo will not, despite the fact that I am already losing miserably to two far-more competitive and apparently worldly friends).

The coming week will also bring adventures in wingmanning, interesting developments from pseudo-lover-almost-fiance-not-quite-sure-what-the-status-is-now
Alex’s Hitch List and a careful evaluation of some action over at 20-Nothings, where friend and uber-observant blogger Jessie Rosen is examining a subject which is the very basis of this blog (I agree with most, but not all of, her analysis, for very obvious reasons).
In the meantime, as Sufjan says, all things go.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

EMERGENCY UPDATE: File this under WTF??

Okay, this is going to be brief, but I literally had to drop everything and post this one.

Intrigued by the wide and varied feedback on sugar daddies and babies, which I'll report on later, I went to the Roman Coliseum of Bizarre Human Behavior to do some additional research...yes, craigslist.

THIS was one of the posts in the "Men Seeking Women" section. Ahem:

"Beautiful Latin, Russian, White, Asian, Eastern-European females, please respond:

///FrEe PReGNaNcY TeST - 27 (Chelsea)\\\

Reply to:


I work at a medical supplies company and scored a ton of urine pregnancy tests.. It'd be cool to try them out..I can "administer":o)

PS: i'm white & hot.

if you reply, i'll send my pic...

  • it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests"

**cue crickets chirping**

I'd just like to take this opportunity to say: WHAT. THE. FUCK??????

I've seen some wild, debauched, obscene stuff in my day. I've even offered to do some of that stuff. It's comforting to know that there is such variety in this world, but...

....REALLY DUDE? You're asking beautiful women to trek to Chelsea to PEE on a truly alarming collection of what may or may not be PREGNANCY TESTS that you just happened to come across, perhaps by robbing a maternity ward? And you believe that your being caucasian and "hot" A) is a bonus, or B) will push undecided pissers into the realms of comfort and interest, just in case your totally creepy offer was totally creeping people out, Mr. Creepy Creeperton?


On a related note, if any of you ladies are a little late in your cycle and strapped for cash, I know this place you can go for free pregnancy tests...

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Sugar Daddy: Sweet, or Just Sticky?

“Gurrrl, you on your own? You gotta try a Sugar Daddy on for size, for rrreal.” Then he dragged extra hard on a Marlboro know, for emphasis.

The Sugar Daddy Advocate was one of my new favorite archetypes, the Gay-Ghetto-Hipster, a mix of ‘hood attitude, BBW comedic line deliveries, neon American Apparel accessories and Alize. (No, I’m not being racist, he was really drinking Alize. The yellow kind.)

We were on the outdoor porch of a Bushburg (translation: the grundle of Brooklyn, a no-man's-land between the cock of Williamsburg and the anus of Bushwick) bar when he overheard a discussion I was having with one of my wingmen about leaving Alex, the desire to shake up my routine with some wild shit and the need for experiences which fall outside the boundaries of traditional monogamy. I was also bitching about how I couldn't afford shoes and was spending my days in seasonally-retarded suede boots as a result, which may be why Sugar Daddy Advocate (henceforth known as “Sugar”) bailed on the bizarrely mustachioed hipster hitting on him (seriously, what is with the mustaches? Has the Magnum PI look really worked for anyone besides Tom Selleck? I’m asking this seriously, responses welcome) and proceeded to give a drunk dissertation on:

  • why my fleeing to the ‘hoods of Brooklyn made me a “fierce bitch” and not just a bitch
  • why my need to leave was the result of a codependency overdose (totally accurate…more on that later)
  • why I needed a Sugar Daddy

One hundred years of women's rights activism and 25 years of self-respect aside, the idea of a Sugar Daddy isn't awful. In fact, it's kind of awesome: You get worshipped as a sex goddess and showered with gifts, including body treatments which keep you looking like a sex goddess (waxing, mani/pedi), meals, seasonally appropriate footwear and the occasional coverage of rent, utilities, etc. The downside is sexual acts with someone who might repulse you (but if you get, say, a Richard Gere or Andy Garcia type, then burn your Hitch List and marry him) and the occasional feeling you're a whore for money (because, well, you are).

According to Sugar, there's real life lessons to be learned by "Daddying." His theory suggests that being the "baby" enrolls you in a crash course on how to separate sex from love-making, while giving you an open forum to play any sexual role you've ever wanted but haven’t for fear of opening Pandora’s Box (ha, box) with a real potential mate. Aggressive power-bitch by day? Find a dominating daddy and go submissive. Total pushover? Strap on those PBC stilettos and track down a Wall Street blowhard looking to get walked over.

Sugar, an experienced Baby, also stressed (he was slurring his words, but lets not allow that to discredit his thesis entirely) that the arrangement puts you in a position of power, one where you can learn hands-on how to manipulate and not be manipulated--a valuable life skill, especially for cynics.

I'm not sure how appealing or true any of that is outside of drunken conversation on a Bushburg porch, but I'm intrigued.

Also, this is depression-era New York and I'm strangely (read: alarmingly) comfortable with the idea of being a whore for money from time to time.

The Hitch List was created to foster independence and kill codependency; relying on a Poppa to pay your way is probably the antithesis of standing on your own two feet.

At any rate, sugar-babying is now up for debate as a Hitch List item, because who am I to doubt the advice of a Gay Ghetto Hipster without a little analysis first?

PS: Has anyone out there ever BEEN a "Sugar Baby?" Or a Daddy for that matter? And how do these pairings even meet? doesn't have a "I'll Fuck You If You Buy Me Those Dior Shoes" section, does it?

Thursday, July 2, 2009

#31: Sex, Love and World Record Breaking Air Guitar

I was going to wait until I'd reported on my successful (and not so successful) checking off of parts of the previously revealed piece of list, but one of the most random items in the #26-#50 Hitch List section was accomplished unexpectedly today...and it is ran-dom. So just I'll post the next chunk of list and get to explaining how I became a Guinness World Record Holding Air Guitarist.

(numbers 26 through 50, in no particular order)

26. Relocate somewhere you've never lived and don't know anyone.

27. Create "Ethnic Sexcapades" Bingo Card (Italian, Irish, Puerto Rican, African American, Japanese, etc.). Compete with friends for first "Bingo." (Winner gets bragging rights and a free trip to the STD clinic.)

28. Take a midnight train going anywhere.

29. Smash out with someone older.

30. Smash out with someone younger.

31. Break a Guinness World Record.

32. Get wasted and party with someone famous.

33. Smash out with someone famous (see 32 for assistance).

34. Play a player.

35. Threesum.

36. Visit the birthplace of your personal hero.

37. Read/view/listen to at least three of the books/films/albums your obnoxious ex recommended but you never touched (who knows, they may have been right about something).

38. Have a brief relationship based entirely on sex.

39. Build something from scratch utilizing three tools you have no idea how to use.

40. Try something you would "never" do in bed.

41. Be the star of your own nude photo shoot. (Pictures are for your eyes only.)

42. Start mixed martial arts and/or self defense classes.

43. Go on a vision quest with an experienced guide.

44. Travel somewhere exclusively for a famous local food item (must cross state lines). Philly cheese steaks, media noches in Cuba, Pad Thai in Thailand, etc.

45. Get arrested.

46. Experience a complete relationship in one weekend (meet, flirt, fall in lust, screw, spend too much time together and breakup all over the course of a single weekend. Hard to do in small towns, but it happens all the time in NYC).

47. Read at least two books on the world history of marriage.

48. Experience parenthood temporarily with the assistance of friends/siblings/relatives who have small children.

49. Have a raucous ladies'/guys' night in a famous non-native party city.

50. Write your own eulogy.

Now for the randomness:

I first wrote #31 down on March 16, 2009.

I knew I'd never have the talent to be the Fastest Rap MC (921 syllables spit like hot fire in just 60 seconds), the patience to stand on one leg for 76 hours (I have a hard enough time in a pair of stilettos for 2 hours) or a screw loose enough to be THIS GUY (WTF?!), but being a Guinness World Record holder seemed a good future conversation starter and an excuse to develop a unique skill.

But, apparently, you do not have to develop any skill to be a record holder.

Upon visiting the Broadway musical Rock of Ages--and before you start quipping about the questionable artistic value of a show built on public drunkenness and belligerent 80s karaoke tunes, let me just insert that it FUCKING ROCKS--I discovered the show was attempting to break the Guinness World Record for Largest Air Guitar Ensemble. Audience members and additional fans were given a brief master class in air guitar taught by 2007 American Air Guitar Champion William Ocean (who, it should be mentioned, literally gets paid to go around the world playing an invisible instrument. I'd like to take this opportunity to tell my high school guidance counselor to go make love to herself, because she clearly steered me wrong career-wise), where everyone in attendance learned the differences between basic air strumming, a shredding air solo and Mortal Kombat-style finishing moves like the Epic-Flaming-Guitar-Toss-And-Catch.

Then the entire theater, from stage to balcony, shredded their air axes for over two minutes to the famed solo from Journey's "Don't Stop Believin.'" Old, balding white guys in business attire head-banged while flashing their (slightly creepy) Gene Simmons tongues, big-breasted Bridge-and-Tunnel divas jiggled in their sequined shirts and matinee-yentas from Jersey strummed until their arthritis kicked in, QVC-jewelry banging and jangling like a demonic acrylic percussion section throughout.

It was kind of awesome.

In the end, Rock of Ages' 810 participants plowed over the previously held record of 440 air guitarist, meaning I get to cross #31 off the list (granted, it's a group effort award, but I'm not about to start jamming live rattlesnakes in my mouth, so that's it for now). Also, apparently this event is newsworthy stuff, which is hilarious.

Yep. Just another average Wednesday.