When I started dating a new guy after my breakup, I felt I had to reach out to him all the time. If he was going to get the message that I was interested, then it was up to me to to inform him…constantly.
Whenever I didn’t hear from him within 24 hours I’d reach out to him by text:
“How are you?”
“I miss you.”
Yes, this was my way of reminding him that I existed. For every moment he was not texting me or making plans, I felt that he must’ve forgotten about me and moved on.
Continue reading “The Zen of Dating”
It all began with the photographs we’d taken. On film. That’s how long we were together. When we first started dating I didn’t have a cell phone or a computer. I had given him my phone number on a piece of paper. And when we had our first real conversation it was over a telephone with a cord.
There was still a huge box of photographs to go through since I moved out after our break up. A lot of them were of him. Even more were of us. I decided it would be best to rip it off like a Band-Aid. And that’s exactly what I did. Continue reading “My Ex’s New Girlfriend”
Sexuality for me is a journey and I am exploring it with new eyes. Since recently becoming single after fifteen years, I have an opportunity to create the types of sexual relationships I choose and to express my sexuality in ways that I desire. But it’s scary, because I spent so long keeping it locked tightly away.
As a young girl I knew I was hyper sexual and expressing it came easily. One of my earliest memories is at four years old hiding in the closet with a neighbor friend after a bath. We took off our towels and explored each other’s bodies and it felt very natural to do so.
But quickly I learned that sex—while rampantly (and distortedly) displayed in media—was not something safe for me to express in my life.
I was heavily slut shamed. And the thing about slut shaming or any social conditioning is that after a while, you begin to do it to yourself—only harsher. Continue reading “Sexual Expression is an Act of Bravery”
In college I dated a guy who I thought was the bee’s knees. The year was 1998. Grunge had given way to neo-hippie fusion a la Madonna. Desert raves and ecstasy were in vogue, and I’d ditched a perfectly handsome pre-law major to chase a boy with dreads who played congas in the Venice Beach drum circle.
On our first date we had sex. I don’t remember saying yes, but I definitely didn’t say no. I was nineteen and he was twenty five—a man as far as I was concerned. And he knew where my clitoris was. Not like the other college boys.
Continue reading “I Love You For Tonight”