What's In a Number

For a very long time, I was proud of the fact that I'd only slept with one person. Or to put that in a Christian way, that I'd forsaken the ten commandments and probably wasn't suitable for leadership any more. Maybe proud is not the right word, but it was a comfortable position to be in. By normal standards I was a good/self respecting/non slutty girl, you know the type who has her shit together, who you could take home to meet your family. And on the other side, people could no longer put me in the prude judgemental Christian girl category – its a pretty exclusive club. It's not that having sex made me wiser or less judgemental about the world but the second you tell someone that you're a virgin, they start to apologise for swearing around you and refuse to hit on you no matter how much cleavage you have showing. I'd basically have to slip a nip before people would get that mine and the church's stance on the issue didn't exactly align.

But when it came to raising my number to two, I started to have doubts. See, I'd already proven that I was a citizen of the world, equal and not morally above anyone. Once I raised my number I would no longer be able to wear the 'only been with one guy' badge that I showed off so proudly.

If what other people think of my sexual purity is so important to me, then why don't I just not sleep with anyone else? This is what I asked myself at the beginning of this year, when I seemed to be attracting interest from more than just that 60 year old Lebanese man at the truck stop. It wasn't a problem when I didn't have the option (aka bible school in France), but why should I start just because its available?

Oh I know why. Because I really like sex, and I am ready to start dating again and looking for 'the one' or 'the several' is something my 23 year old self wants to start thinking about and having the possibility of premarital sex on the table widens my options by a great deal. Sorry guys, but its true.

The desire to keep my number at one and the desire to have some sort of connection with someone tore at each other within me for a long time. But I figured out a way to win both sides of this war and all I lost was my dignity. Yep, you guessed it, my brilliant solution was the 'one' person with whom I had already shared a bed. Not the nicest guy in the world, but he has the type of selfish sexual craving that I could count on. He wasn't going to flake out on me, wasn't going to fall in love with me, or want to hang out any other time. That's what he was going for the first time we got together all those years ago. The difference this time around was that we were on the same page, almost.

We hung out, and made out and things of a sexual nature took place over the course of several months, but no actual sex. I was scared to commit to that after so many years and, although not thrilled, he was ok with it. Eventually I wanted to get over the anxiety, you know conquer all my fears and so agreed to try it. It hurt, I cried. But the first time was supposed to hurt, wasn't it?

We tried it once again, it was better but I was starting to have doubts. There was way too much history for us to be casually screwing with zero consequences. It wasn't working, I was going to have to find someone else and get over this stupid obsession with keeping my fake purity intact. And find someone I did.

He was French. He hugged me in a park, kissed me in a tree and well you get the idea. I burned with desire after he sang Disney songs in French to me at the camp fire (apparently a weakness of mine, guys, take note) and it was good.

I'm not sure what I was expecting for my first, non-toxic-ex-boyfriend, accepting-that-I'm-not-as-pure-as-I've-been-advertising, no-longer-at-number-one – sexual experience, but there were no fireworks to speak of, and there was certainly no overwhelming wave of shame or guilt that I was expecting. There was actually a moment where I reflected on the absurdity of all the stigma surrounding that whole area of your body. It was the second just after he slipped in. I was surprised how easily and how quickly it happened. Just like that, with one quick thrust all of my purity, and notions of saving the rest of myself til marriage crashed down around me, and the pedestal on which premarital sex normally sat, was pulled from underneath it. I could see it for what it really is. A carnal, messy, chaotic experience, in which two people share an intimate connection. I can actually see why you'd only want it with one person because of how close it makes you, and I'm sure that connection must mean less and less the more partners you have.

But for me, I'm glad I had another partner, and I'm glad that I could make the decision completely for myself without the judgement of well meaning friends, or the anxiety of how I appear to others, or the laws of a religion that I love the God of, but not all the practices.

Because if you don't want to have sex until you are married, then no one should make you feel bad about that decision, and on the other hand, if you want to have as many sexual experiences as you can whilst your skin is still taught around your arms and thighs (and hey who am I to judge, even well beyond all that sagging) then that is completely up to you.

For me it pulled me out of a really toxic spiral into which my ex had been continually dragging me. It launched me into a world of dating that I was previously way too anxious to enter. And it forced me to accept who I am as a person rather than the facade I was trying to portray.

And all thanks to this awkward, sweaty, grunting activity that leaves you panting and smiling stupidly at the end. As for the guy? He went back to France and we won't see each other for a long time, but I'm at peace with it. Our adventure together was wonderful, he liked me for more than just sex and that made it so much better. I'm glad I waited for him.

uneducation of sorts

I finally did it! I put my brave face on and took the courageous step toward the road less traveled. I mustered up every bit of confidence I had in me and I actually did it. I quit uni. It takes a lot to finally give up on something. Some say if at first you don't succeed try and try again. But I say, if at first you don't succeed and then successively fail every other time until you're having panic attacks, then maybe you should get the fuck out of uni.

I also thought about what I wanted to do after uni, and its literally work in cafes and pubs and travel around Europe and write as much as I can - As soon as I figured out how unambitious my life plans actually were, then all of a sudden, the assignments and the stresses and the not being able to sleep at night, just weren't doing it for me.

So my less educated life begins now,  well it began 5 weeks ago, but basically as soon as I had my last exam for last semester, I ran away on a road trip with a french man. I'm thinking of doing a Jack Kerouac and writing everything that happened 'on the road' into a story. I think he spent 7 years traveling and then took 30 days to write it. I spent 5 weeks, so I'm hoping to knock it out this afternoon. All of the highlights and lowlights will be there. The super exciting getting the fire started and the ever asked question of 'what will we have for dinner tonight' and the awe inspired 'ooh look at that tree'. I'm expecting instant fame and riches. (my next post will be a more detailed account of the trip).

Now that i'm not studying, I will dedicate all of my time to writing. 9 til 5 every day I have to be reading, writing or learning. Today was my first day. I was late to work, and I bunked off at 10 to go have coffee with a friend. When I got back, I began by sitting upright at my desk, but started slouching more and more over the afternoon and now its 3pm and I'm in bed with my laptop, I like this job.

The Beginning of My Autobiography (I assume the fame thing comes later)

I thought about shutting this blog down (I know! its been a crazy whirlwind, those 13 posts) because of the embarrassing nature of all these personal stories, the potential trouble they might cause me later in life (you know when I run for president and release an overtly Christian album condemning everyone but me for their sins), and because if my family or close friends were to read this, they would see me in a completely different way.
I'm not all that secretive in general, but I think the idea of an online blog no one reads creates a kind of confessional mood in me, plus its more interesting to read juicy details than 'how i'm going to improve myself' lists.

Reading it back made me decide to keep it, cause who the fuck cares if people know every disgusting detail about me, chances are there are a lot of people who have similar secrets and maybe it will make them feel better knowing someone else out there also looks at their poop on occasion to try to figure out which meal it was from (oh what's that? ohh you only want sexy secrets? oohh ok.. penis penis masturbation.. just keeping the public happy).

I read an autobiography recently of one of my favourite comedians, Tina Fey. I decided that I'm probably going to be famous when I grow up and that I should start writing mine now, so we don't miss any of those finer details. In 30 years time, there's a slight chance I won't remember that I had cinnamon flavoured porridge for breakfast this morning, and the idea of the public missing out on that sort of stuff, well it sickens me and makes my eye sockets cry (it may also be 4.30 am).

We've missed a lot of time, most of the romantic interests of the previous chapters have gotten girlfriends, or told me outright that they weren't interested but I am proud to say that in my time away I almost, kind of was starting to begin to date someone. It didn't last very long, and was never official, but thai food, sleepovers, and a few genuine I'm interested in seeing where this is going conversations definitely count as something and its a definite sign that I am back in the game.

I got a little sad at the 'we probably should stop hanging out coz of the whole not much in common thing' conversation and definitely did something similar to pleading my case in court about why I thought we should just ignore those issues for a little while longer, maybe into like the third kid or something. But after that embarrassment ended I held my held high and ended on good terms. (if we ignore the 'are you sure you don't just want to be fuckbuddies' text message that went ignored several days later)

It was really nice and all to have someone interested, and the pain wasn't too hard to deal with, so I can be confidant that I am ready and no longer anxiety ridden about dating. However I actually am coming to really like being on my own, deciding who I am, what I like, where I want to go. I'm so impressionable that its impossible for me to know these when I'm with someone else, and once you end up with someone, there's no going back to that stage (yes i believe in forever love), so I'm relishing it as much as possible now. That said, I probably would think entirely differently if I stopped hanging out with this friend I hook up with on a semi-regular basis, in fact I'd probably already be crying.

I will start a slightly more professional blog, in which I try to navigate becoming a writer, wait wasn't that was this one was meant to be? I'll link it somewhere and see you over there (Lauren, are you talking to yourself again?  ..What? no?  Ok just checking (*muttered under breath* you psycho weird person) once again people.. almost 5 in the morning.

What to say when you don't have anything interesting to say...

...

I am a bad person

I brought in the new year with all the class and self respect of a turtle on its back, with his pants down making obscene gestures at passers by. The night started off well enough. A quite party with some lovely friends, whom I not only ditched at around 9.30, but also I stole 2 of their already dwindling number; my rather flamboyant friends who didn't really fit there anyway. My sisters were throwing a less sober party; it was definitely worth the switch. There was alcohol-a-plenty, sparkler bombs and dancing, not to mention my very own bed. We danced in the new year, did shots of golden vodka, and my sister's boyfriend (a very sweet, usually shy guy) took his shirt off and was break dancing. I unsuccessfully tried to lure my homosexual friend to bed with me, no idea why that one didn't work. Then I moved on to my sister's boyfriend's best friend, with whom I have flirted in the past, also unsuccessfully. 

There I was, lying in bed, alone and rejected on New Year's Eve. As one of my resolutions was to not make out with boys who aren't my boyfriend, this would seem that everything had gone to plan (just for clarity; I don't have a boyfriend but just want that commitment, or at least a hint of it, before I get physical). Alas, I was miserable. I was lying in the most forlorn pose I could muster in my drunken state, when I noticed my phone flashing. A missed call from that boy who likes me. We had a moment a few weeks back, but since then I'd been very clear in that I wasn't interested. We are friends and no more. I don't want to be one of those girls who knowingly leads guys on because she likes the attention. I hate those girls, I think they are bad people. Although that said I was pretty lonely, and I actually really genuinely like his company, and one phone call wouldn't hurt, would it? Half an hour later and he was in a taxi on his way over to mine. I am a bad person. We had a really pleasant time. He stayed over, and after the embarrassment of introducing him to my sisters, who did unfortunately notice that our party was one more in number since the night before, we had a nice day together. We stayed in bed, we watched a movie, we made out and he told me it had gotten to the stage where if he saw me with someone else it would hurt him. I promised him that there was nothing going on with anyone, and that I would wait if anything did come up, but that I still wasn't interested in anything long term with him. I have to quit this. A nunnery seems like a really good idea right now, but knowing me I'd probably fall for some monk, and make him break his vowel of silence as he yells at me to stop feeling up his leg with my foot at the confession booth.

Resolutions are a bit of a sham, I've failed heaps already and forgotten the rest. Maybe my resolution should just be to not be a bad person, and I should remake it every day. And to lose weight. 

Another, less slutty, aspect of my life (I know may as well just stop reading now) is how unmotivated I am to write. I will never succeed at anything if I give up when it gets boring. There's an added element because I have now made a deal with a writer friend to swap him for his stories, so there is that adding anxiety to my writing. I kind of like this guy. I hope it works out just so we have this super romantic story of how we got to know each other through shared stories. And he wrote a story about a young man, nervously in love with a friend. So nervously in fact that the only way he could tell her was through a character in a story he gave her. Or something like that. But I'll never get my happy ending if I don't finish my story. Maybe I'll write it now..