Tag Archives: sex

Tell me I don’t have to have sex out there.

A group of boys, who look no older than fourteen, talk on a crowded New York City subway car—loud—about bitches, and fucking, and fucking bitches.  They carry tennis racquets in zipped cases.  I assume they’re teammates.  The loudest and youngest looking one says, “I could’ve fucked two bitches the same night.  I had them both at my place.  But I didn’t, because one of the bitches was on her period.”

I look around, wanting to see if anyone else’s ears have unwittingly become victim to this conversation.  Some people have headphones on.  Some people might not know English.  I make eye contact with one woman, but her neutral expression doesn’t change.  If anything, she seems to communicate, “Are you really upset?  Are you really surprised or offended?”  Yes.  I am!  I’m upset that these boys boast and talk about female peers that way as if it’s okay.  Or, knowing it’s not okay, making it more appealing.  I don’t care if they’re insecure pubescent boys just making things up or repeating overheard things.  I’m upset that I sit with my book open on my lap, not reading it, listening to them instead, saying nothing.  If girls they have sexual feelings for (if not romantic) are called bitches, what would they call me—some 24-year-old girl scolding them?  Surely they wouldn’t politely apologize.  How would that boost their apparent status as big, sex-havin’ men?

Yesterday was one of distasteful sex-related happenings that made me question the world and the people in it.  Everyone’s entitled to say what they want, do and think what they want.  But that freedom can seriously hurt others.  It can make you think, Man.  This is how so many people approach sex, this is how the media makes sex out to be?  I don’t want any part of that. It’s scary.  Who really wants to be the subject of a nonchalant recap between buddies—“Yeah, I fucked her.  It was all right.”   

When I woke up late yesterday morning I had a notification that I’d received a Facebook message just after 8 a.m.  It started, “Hi, how’ve u been?”  But the sender’s name was one I didn’t recognize, so I assumed it was a spam message.  Someone trying to get me to attend an event, or buy a product, or support some cause.  Turned out to be something very different.  The message was from someone I did vaguely know—a security guard of all things.  You know.  Someone whose job is to make you feel more secure.  I’d forgotten that this man and I were connected on Facebook at all.  He guards a building I used to regularly enter and was someone I would say hello to and small talk with occasionally.  I stopped the small talk, though, after we bonded about our mutual interest in making music and he invited me to see the recording studio he uses—inside of his apartment. 

I hadn’t thought about this person or heard from this person, and then, all of a sudden, a message.  It’s pretty crude stuff and the only reason I’m sharing it is to make a point.  Skip it if you don’t want some graphic imagery in your head.

Hi, how’ve u been?  I don’t mean to be forward, but seriously I’ll like you to know that it’ll be a pleasure to munch on your shaven apple pie haven. If you give me a chance I promise I’ll lick and suck every drop of crease all around and inside of it like no one has ever done b4.

Now am guessing u might have a boyfriend and since I wouldn’t want to be that guy that comes between you two, for the fact that I wouldn’t want the same to happen between me and my girl, that is why I have requested for this alone and nothing else.

However if ever you turn the opposite cheek to this once in a lifetime opportunity, I’ll also like you to know that I will hold no grudge against you and I will still cherish the moments of friendship we shared at [omitted]. Take care and bye for now.

[Name omitted.]

P.S.. Let me be that very private guy in your life that turns u into that glowing mature woman every girl wants to be like…

How kind of him to not hold a grudge against me if I turn down his “once in a lifetime” proposal.  How unselfish, too, to consider my boyfriend (and his girlfriend) in this arrangement!  And how opposite of presumptuous of him to suppose how I groom my “apple pie haven” or that I need to be transformed from a girl into a “glowing mature woman.” 

Granted I probably shouldn’t have even allowed myself to be connected online to this semi-stranger.  My mistake.  I can be naive.  It just wouldn’t occur to me that people might take the time to craft such a message. I would never think of this as everyday, normal fare for a man to send a woman at 8 a.m. on a Monday. 

I’ve watched a lot of romantic comedies in my day, which, admittedly, have probably given me some skewed ideas about heterosexual sex and relationships.  But after watching Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks ride off into the sunset, or Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn, I’ve never approached a male love interest and said, “Hey, how’ve you been?  Will you meet me on top of the Empire State Building and kiss me long and passionately and marry me and raise my babies?”  Maybe some people do hold those expectations.  And maybe some people develop their own expectations after regularly watching certain porn, listening to certain music, or talking to certain people.  Just like kids playing violent video games makes them more likely to shoot people, right…?  It’s more than possible that a person would predominantly see inappropriate or unhealthy social and sexual behaviors and use those cues in their own life.  Because inappropriate and unhealthy can be relative concepts.

I told a male friend of mine about the Facebook message.  He advised me to use the block function, but to first send the guy a picture of STD-ridden female genitalia.  “Speaking of which,” he said, “there’s a guy I know who’s HIV positive.”  He went on to say that the person, before settling down with a partner, claimed to regularly have unprotected sex without broaching the subject of any risk.  And apparently, if questioned, would outright lie. 

There’s a scene in When Harry Met Sally after Harry and Sally have sex with each other for the first time.  Neither are satisfied with how it went.  They individually call their best friends, Jess and Marie, who pick up their individual phones from the nightstands of the bed they share as a couple.  Jess listens to Harry.  Marie listens to Sally.  When they hang up, after hearing their friends’ most recent dating disappointments, Marie turns to Jess and says, exhaustedly, “Tell me I never have to be out there again.”  Jess looks her in the eye and firmly responds, “You never have to be out there again.” 

Yesterday, after the things I was told and the things I overheard and the things proposed to me, I felt similarly exhausted.  Out there felt like a scary place.  A place that will compromise physical and emotional health.  A place where women are just vaginas and men are cads.  A place where very few ride off into the sunset.

Here comes Santa Claus…

Sometimes people will send a note to my email address (notreallyalibrarian@gmail.com), asking: Dear Madame Librarian, Why are you so great?  Or sometimes: Dear ML, That last post really affected me. 

Or most commonly: Dear Madame, What are you wearing?

Tonight, the answer:

About sixty seconds ago, I was standing in my bedroom thinking, “I want to sit down and write on my laptop, but I’m a little cold.  Only, I don’t really want to put on a sweatshirt.  It will feel constricting.  A blanket would be nice, only my arms will be exposed and–”

It was at that exact moment that I remembered that my grandmother had given me a Snuggie as an early Christmas gift and it was not two feet away.  So I sit here, telling you this, wearing my brand new vibrant pink Snuggie.   It still smells like the cardboard box and the plastic bag.

Sadly I have no dashing, matching male companion tonight, but otherwise I look very much like the woman above.

As I mentioned, my family had an early Christmas gift-exchanging celebration today.  My pink Snuggie, as an added bonus, came with a free book light, which made it even more ideal.  I used it on the three-hour drive home from Grandma’s to read Prozac Nation, “…one girl’s journey through the purgatory of depression and back.”  Even still, I’m feeling almost giddy tonight.  It’s not just that I’m clad in Pepto Bismol goodness–it’s also that I feel the holiday spirit quite profoundly this season.  To be honest, I think it has to do with the fact that I’ve been unemployed.  It’s given me so much time to do seasonal things!

It started on November 30th when I happened to be reminded that the Tree had been lit in Rockefeller Center that evening.  Instead of going home, as planned, I battled a throng of people on 49th Street and saw that marvel, choosing to focus on the prettiness of the lights instead of the electricity they were using and the soon-to-be brown and dead branches they were strung upon.

I also had time to bake a gingerbread house!  Unfortunately, before I had time to construct and decorate the house I had to leave town due to a family emergency…but the baked pieces are on the counter waiting for me should I make it home any time soon.

What else.  Oh!  I had a chance to battle a different throng of people (or perhaps some of the same throng) and see Santa Claus at Macy’s.  Of the five other Decembers I’ve been in New York, this is the first one I’ve had the pleasure.  Sure, he was one of maybe eight other Santa Clauses serving Macy’s that day, and sure he didn’t actually look like Santa Claus, but I received a free pin that reads “Santaland at Macy’s 2010” that I will never wear AND I did not spend the $18.99 to receive a photo of myself and a spritely, trim man in a suit.

I list all of these things to explain that I truly am “in the spirit” this year.  Sometimes the holidays come and go so quickly that you wonder if they’re related to that man you slept with a few times in college.  (I never actually experienced such a thing in college, I just wanted to make a reference to sex.)  Anyway, the thing is, of all the beautiful and wondrous things I’ve seen and done this year, there is one thing I’ve encountered that has really pissed. me. off.  It also relates to Macy’s.  And it’s this:

Ew.  That’s disgusting.  It’s horrific and it makes my stomach churn and that’s not because I ate too much crap at Grandma’s, it’s because this advertisement is TERRIBLE!  Macy’s has spun one of the most beloved, wholesome, iconic figures (next to Jesus Christ) into an adultering, Cialis-popping, cradle-robbing doo doo head.  (There’s no other way to put it.)  Santa Claus in this ad might as well be Bill Clinton saying, Ssshh, don’t tell Hillary.  Santa is supposed to consider what little girls want for Christmas, not want little girls for Christmas!

Okay, okay, you might say, but Madame Librarian, Santa is just receiving a peck on the cheek from that newly pubescent young woman.  Nothing sinister is about to happen when he locks the door in the office adjacent to his workroom as the sound of elves using little hammers drowns out whatever noises he and that spritely, trim thing might make.

But I’m not buying it.  And guess what, Macy’s?  I’m also not buying from you.  I’ve got my free pin.  Take the rest and shove it.

Madame Librarian does it better.

Last weekend I was sitting in a hair salon (which is one of the places on Earth I feel most awkward), and I overheard an interaction between an employee and a customer that rubbed me the wrong way.  So much so that I told my diary.  And now I’m telling you.

The customer, a woman, was telling the employee, also a woman, what she was thinking for her hair.  She explained that she’d been blonde for a long time, and had just recently gotten married and had gone back to being brunette because she wanted her natural look in light of the occasion.  She said she wouldn’t mind going back to blonde now. 

And that was all fine.  I thought that was kind of a nice thing to do for your wedding.  But then the employee laughed and said, “Oh, your husband’s going to be so happy with you as a blonde.”  And all the women around them in the salon laughed as if to agree that ha ha men are such predictable creatures who just want to bang a chick with big tits and platinum hair! 

Can we stop with these generalizations that fail to serve anyone?   I recently caught an episode of “Sheer Genius” on Bravo.  It’s a terrible show about hair stylists competing for money and the chance the style hair in an issue of “Allure Magazine”.  Anyway, one of the challenges on this episode involved all the stylists working with a group of blondes who’d done terrible damage to their hair–to the point that some of these women would be bald soon if they kept doing whatever they were doing.  So the whole challenge was to tone down the bleachiness to make the women look, well, less damaged.

Only thing was, the show is filmed in LA.  And more than likely, these women had been sent to the “Sheer Genius” set by their modeling or acting agencies because it would give them a day of work.  Not because they were interested in changing their hair.  And that’s exactly how it was–once the women got into the chairs they ALL said, “I’d like to stay blonde.” 

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being a blonde.  I’m not writing all this just because I have brown hair.  It’s just annoying that being “a blonde” is such a thing.  They have more fun, they have more sex, they have less brain cells. 

These damn t-shirt companies are making money by pinning people against each other!  I don’t think it’s as silly or harmless as it can easily be brushed aside as being.  Like, I get being proud of your heritage, but are these really necessary on multiple days of the year, never mind as regular components of your wardrobe?:

That vampire shirt is pretty funny, though…  That one can stay.

Search Phrase Free Write

Two people used the search phrase “steak vagina” yesterday to find my page.  Those two people, or that one person who searched the same phrase twice, are/is to blame for what follows.

Steak is good when properly prepared.  I’m still deciding how I feel about A1 Steak Sauce.  I think I like it.  I like steak when there’s that bit of pinkness (not redness) right in the middle–I guess that qualifies as medium?  Medium well?  I used to always request my meat cooked medium well, but the meat usually comes back completely well.  Which is a bummer.

Advertisers love to use backyard barbecues as the setting of commercials in the summer.  Men manning grills.  And tongs.  And lighter fluid.  There’s something so American about it.  There’s this commercial Jim Gaffigan is in right now in which he makes some snarky comment about a grill being a thoughtful gift.  I bet he doesn’t actually want a grill for Christmas, though.

My supervisor just came around and told my coworker and me that we could eat the chicken in the fridge.  I don’t think it was prepared on a grill.

I like those steak chew toys that dogs sometimes have.  If I were a dog I would love one for Christmas.  It need not squeak though.

Some people don’t eat steak, but they eat vagina.  Some people don’t eat vagina, but they eat steak.  Some people eat neither steak nor vagina.  Some people aspire to eat vagina and see no correlation between that and eating steak.  Some people eat three times as much steak in a month as they eat vagina.  Some people are morally opposed to eating steak.  These are probably not the same people who are morally opposed to eating vagina.

“Steak vagina.”

Sex according to perfume commercials!

The title sort of says it all.  In my last post I talked about being embarrassed by sex-related Elton John lyrics in front of my parents.  Never mind that.  Any American household worth its puritanical foundation will swiftly change the channel should one of these 30-60 second pieces of filthy deviant excess interrupt a wholesome TV-watching experience: 

Warning: You will, upon watching all of these in succession, climax repeatedly.

What Elton John lacks in hair…

It took me a really long time to realize that Elton John was gay.  It wasn’t at all like realizing that Santa Claus doesn’t exist, but I want to make that comparison anyway.  I guess because I love Elton John.  Not in a childlike, deer-eyed way, but in a mature, jaded way. 

Elton’s been on my mind lately.  Mostly because I just realized that he wears a toupee.  I don’t know why I’m so far behind on my Elton realizations…  But also I’ve been listening to him.  Reminiscing about him.  When I was younger, if I was driving with my parents, I would get uncomfortable when “I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues” came on the radio, because it goes like,

And I guess that’s why
They call it the blues
Time on my hands
Could be time spent with you
Laughing like children
Living like lovers
Rolling like thunder under the covers
And I guess that’s why
They call it the blues

Whoa!  How can you not enjoy that as a chorus?  Children, lovers, blues.  Those are my favorite things right there.  Except for children.


Bernie Taupin there is to thank for those lyrics.  What a stud, right?  He pulls off that hair and sort-of turtleneck exceedingly well.  It’s nuts.

In conclusion, Elton John’s hilarious.  Lady Gaga should wear some of his outfits from the early 80s.  Particularly his glasses.  And also, I suppose, some of his wigs from right now.

One last thing.  This “I Want Love” song has always done it for me.  It’s dark.  Yet hopeful.  And Robert Downey, Jr. is in this video, which just may have started my love affair with him.  This video would also make an interesting thesis.  One could write all about love, sex, and attractive men who are empty inside like a marble-floored mansion.  But they’ve still got those chandeliers waiting to be lit in the foyer of their heart and the ballroom of their loins:

3am Subway Commute: White Girl Edition

The thing is, I’m usually the only girl on the train at this hour, white or otherwise.  Still, it was surprising and uncomfortable to me that I got this territorial feeling when she entered the car.  She hadn’t done anything.  But…then she did do some things.  And my initial reaction felt semi-warranted.  She didn’t do me wrong personally–she did the whole 3am train wrong.  And that right there is reason to fight.

If we’d dualed it out, I would’ve reasoned that I’d been there first, so, “That’s my hunched over drunk man in the corner.  And that suspicious puddle near the door is mine, too!”  She may’ve countered that she had a stronger core section from doing Pilates DVDs daily and could easily take me down.  In case you’d like to visualize this dual, she was dressed like this:  

And in comparison, I was dressed something like this: 

After being in the train car for one stop, the scantily-clad girl pulled a move that’s not so unusual–she decided to move to another car.  It doesn’t really matter why she came to this decision. I wasn’t offended by that. (Though I did feel a bit rejected.) The part I did judge was her execution of this decision. There’s an etiquette to 3am subway riding, and she didn’t follow it. If you decide to move to another car, the key is to do it quickly so as not to (1) Hold up the entire train when the conductor waits for you, or (2) End up having to take the next train when the conductor decides not to wait for you at all.  It used to be that you didn’t need to go outside the train to move between cars, but then they enacted this:

So, fine.  She was a bit slow moving to the next car.  Only that’s not my point.  Just before she entered the next car, she decided THAT one wasn’t good enough for her either, so then she scampered over to the next next car.  That means she had to scurry about 70 feet!  Her strappy sandals clip-clopped along the platform as the train was held up. 

In a sort of reflex, I clicked my tongue and shook my head.  I regret judging her, sort of.  But it was also this wonderful moment of solidarity because I noticed that the man across the aisle from me was doing the same exact thing.  We got it.  We were like members of a bowling league scoffing at the guy stepping up for and taking his turn even though the guy in the lane next to him was just about to take his first steps and lower and pull back his ball!  We were golfers wishing that the big group of elderly men on Hole 3 would let us play through!  We were (one more) the theater-goers who had been waiting months and months (ever since finishing the novel) to see The Time Traveler’s Wife, only to have to endure snickering and saliva-exchanging  noises from the back row.

All that said, I don’t aspire to be one of those ranting, judging everyone and everything just for the sake of having a bitchy opinion bloggers.  That’s not me.  But this time it just had to be done.  This white girl, of all the white girls, needed to be told (however indirectly): “Get your act together!”  In other words, wear the hot pants with the hot pink corset-y thing if it makes you happy.  Glare at we modest subway riders like we may at any second strap you and your sandaled feet down and have our dirty way with you.  Just don’t hold us up!  These people just pulled doubles at their places of employment.  They’re burnt out.  They’re tired.  And they gotta do it all again tomorrow!  All they want to do is get home as quickly as possible, climb into bed, and maybe, if they’re lucky and can stay awake long enough, have their way with their equally exhausted spouses. 

Truth is, I guess I rolled my eyes because I don’t want to be lumped in with this kind of inconsiderate behavior.  I don’t want to be seen as a 3am mostly naked white girl on the subway stereotype (who accidentally wore clothes).   I’ll come right out and say it (and this holds true for everyone): Learn some respect or take a cab.  But respect the cabbie, too.  And wear your seatbelt in cars of all kind.  Also, put a sweater on if you get cold, especially on subway platforms late at night. 

Hope you got home safe, sorry if I was harsh, I guess you weren’t that naked, but you sort of were, so I refuse to apologize for anything I said.  There.  Put that on your MetroCard and swipe it.

Sex is like popcorn.

deflatedpopcornbagI’m semi-moved into a new apartment.  It’s only 13 blocks from my old one, but it’s still pretty life-changing.  For instance, tonight, when I got home after work, I attempted to make my first bag of microwave popcorn in the new place.  Only I already had the kitchen light on, the A/C on, and the bedroom light on, and…I blew a fuse.  Which wasn’t really a big deal, except that, as made evident above, my popcorn didn’t fully pop.  And rather than make another bag when the fuse situation got sorted, I resorted to tortilla chips.

Anyway, that’s probably the least interesting thing that’s happened to me in the past few days, but I thought the deflated Orville Redenbacher was funny for some reason.  It makes me think of ads for sexual dysfunction.  Which probably says something (or a lot) about my psyche.

This post was meant to be a “rave” about the lyrics in the song “Already Gone” by the Eagles…

I’ve never been to a rave.  One time, when I was but a young, doe-eyed college student, this dude from Seattle sat next to me on an Amtrak train.  He was huge into raves.  He asked if I’d ever been.  When I said no, he said that he was positive I would love them and that I had to promise to go to one at my absolute earliest convenience.  He was very adament about the whole thing.  He went as far as to say that I seemed like a “rave type”.  Which sort of threw me, but I smiled and nodded as I always do with strangers with whom I ill-advisedly engage.

Long story short, I’m almost positive the guy had killed multiple people in his lifetime.  He totally had the look of the kind of guy you expect to see on a “Dateline” or “20/20” special: crazy white guy full of sexual rage and misogyny.  He initially introduced himself as Peter.  As the train ride and our conversation progressed, though, he revealed that he actually went by a different name.  He said he had a pair of progressive parents who encouraged him and his siblings to rename themselves.  Peter was very excited to reveal his self-given name to me.  He let the anticipation build (though I wasn’t actually anxious to learn it).  And after an extensive, extensive explanation of his love of Japanese swordsmanship, Peter told me.  His other name was…

Cutts. “With two t’s!” 

Had it not just so happened that I ended up transferring to a different train than Peter/Cutts, I have no doubt that I would’ve ended up drugged and cut.  Slashed, even.

So, yeah…who feels like raving?

(It pans out at the end to show two words above the stage that tell exactly where you are in case you weren’t sure.)

Gary Busey and other studs

It’d stand to reason (and I’d really prefer) to have “Man In The Mirror”,”Rock With You”  or another MJ song stuck in my head, but instead, for intermittent days on end, I’ve had the 1988 Poison classic “Nothin’ But A Good Time” in there.   

I think it started after Bret Michaels nearly died while performing at the Tony Awards a month ago.  I catch myself humming the chorus over and over.  Then I’ll stop, take a moment to figure out what song that is, realize what song that is, and rack my brain over why it has grabbed a song by that walking infection of a man and refuses to let go.  Eventually I give up and decide that I’ll stop pressing the issue and just ignore it–praying that this won’t be the time that the red bumps form.

Keeping with the graphic imagery, earlier tonight I had an exciting revelation about Gary Busey.  Conan had Kevin Connolly of “Entourage” (a show I don’t really watch) as a guest.  Connolly recounted the time when Busey guest starred and proceeded to chase him around the set, catch him, hold him down, and tickle him.  After the interview I realized that Busey and one of the contestants on this season of “The Bachelorette” (a show I make a sad, conscious effort to watch) share similar features.  Not just any contestant, but my favorite contestant–Michael.  He got kicked off already, but he’s a break dancing instructor who apparently lives, like, two minutes from my apartment.  Now that Jillian has sent him home it is clear to me that I need to get my hands on his address, sit on the curb across from his door, hold a red rose boutonniere, and hum the choruses of 80s hair band tunes to myself until he notices me.  It doesn’t matter that he looks like a younger version of an infamous Hollywood mad man–all that matters is that his apartment is potentially within walking distance to mine so that I never have to stay the night after we bang.  I mean…stay the night after we watch Lethal Weapon and floss our teeth.  Because that’s what people who look like this have no other choice but to do:

A few more years, a few more kilos--it'll be effin uncanny.

A few more years, a few more kilos--it'll be effin uncanny.