Dear Swing Enthusiast,
I think it’s time I come clean.
If you reread all of my posts to date again and again out of sheer swing enthusiasm (not that I do that), you might come to certain conclusions about the type of girl I am. My mother recently put it best when she said I clearly came off as “wicked horny” throughout The Swing Diaries.
Yes, my mother says that type of thing, much to my chagrin.
I know what you’re thinking. Why on earth did I tell me mother about my secret sexy swing blog? All I can say is that she’s not like other mothers. She’s a realist and enjoys reading about my romantic misadventures. Regardless, I was a little aghast at her comment- mostly because it came from Mom, but also because I didn’t realize that was the prevailing message I was leaving with some readers. Sure, I experience lust as much as the next swinger, but it certainly wasn’t the driving force in my swing life and otherwise.
Ok, maybe it is…
But not the way you think! On one of our first hot chocolate chats, Apple Guy and I started talking about sex. Because apparently I can’t wait to move the topic of conversation into the bedroom! (I’m starting to see my mother’s point.) I told Apple Guy then, and I maintain now, that I am all talk. I put it this way exactly: “Dirty mind. Clean body.”
It’s a frustrating existence lately for the girl with her mind in the bedroom and her bod in the books. How many bisexuals do you know that technically qualify as virgins?
There. I said it. The “V” word. I used to embrace the “V” word. It meant I was waiting for someone special. Meanwhile, my mother, among many of my other friends, is getting nervous that I’ll be locked at the ankles until I’m 30, and has now taken to blatantly suggesting I go out and “get laid,” while I adamantly insist that the first time has got to be for love. Isn’t it usually the daughter who just wants to have fun while the mother implores her to wait for someone special? Our relationship is an unconventional one at best.
The thing is, I want to have sex. I do. I admit it. Guilty! Very, very guilty. Who am I kidding? Even my mother can tell! And I’m no stranger to the female orgasm, let me just you. It really all boils down to the fact that I just haven’t found the right guy. Let me explain…
My first boyfriend was amazing. It was my first semester of college in my freshman year. He was funny, talented, attentive, and a senior! I was very young, and he and I both knew I wasn’t ready. So, it didn’t happen before I trampled on his heart and ended the relationship by transferring to a different school across state.
My second boyfriend was a sweetheart. It was my sophomore and junior years of college. He, too, was a senior and then a post-grad. He was shy, dorky, super-attentive, and sensitive. Very, very sensitive. Let’s just say the prospect of intercourse could overwhelm him more often then not and we never ended up crossing the official finish line through no fault of my own. We were together for a year and half and did not seal the deal…
Hey, I did my part!
Then, as my mother might say (sorry, Mom, but you would), I “got hit by the lesbian bus.” Oh boy, did I! Much to my surprise and delight, I fell in love with a girl just before graduation and, by lesbian standards and even my own, am by no means a v*****. However, by straight standards, all that stuff’s just foreplay!
So, I find myself in a bind. I didn’t realize quite the bind I was in until shortly after my breakup when my good friend Dalia said:
Oh my god! If you're with a guy next, what are you gonna tell him?
Me: Umm… what do you mean? Most guys think girl on girl action is hot, and if it bothers him then he’s an assho—
Dalia: No. Uh, hello! You’re a virgin!
Me: So? It’s not like I’m saving myself for marriage or anything. Isn’t purity somewhat desirable anymore?
Dalia: Not at 25 it’s not. Sara, you cannot tell some guy you’ve never had sex. He’ll run, Sara. He will run!
I let Dalia detail her plan for me to find the first man I met in a bar, despite the fact that I don’t really drink (yeah, I’ve got this abstinence thing down), only to “get it over with” with said mystery man. I told Dalia I thought her plan was ridiculous, and that honesty was obviously the best policy. Let them run! I’m not a prude, nor am I strumpet. I have always followed my heart, and have nothing to hide as a result. But the seeds of doubt had been planted in my mind…
Naturally, I bought a sex book. Two actually. I suddenly thought that maybe I was ill-equipped to meet the demands of the modern man. I panicked and bought How to Be a Great Lover and You Want Me to Do What? on Amazon. When I received the books in the mail at work of all places, Peggy and the girls were captivated. Truth be told, I hardly touched the books, especial the particularly graphic one. Meanwhile, my books got past from cubicle to cubicle wrapped in a big, boring spreadsheet, instead of the traditional brown wrapper popular circa 1950. Apparently, I’m not the only lady who’s thinking impure thoughts. To top it off, my mother absconded with both books in my precious sex library when she came to help me move recently, sighting that she could put them to use long before I hoped to.
Everyone’s a critic.
So, here I am faced with a sea full of swingers. You remember swing, right? It’s the official topic of this blog in case you forgot. Among my prospects at the dance studio, you’ve got the bashful, sweetly bearded Grisly Adam, the so-boring-I-keep-forgetting-to-tell-you-about-him Norman Nurman, the hypnotically seductive Commie, the blog-favorite Apple Guy, and the old, rusty hard-on that is The Chief. To tell you the truth, if I ever for one second considered The Chief as a viable option for me, it was because the idea of a mature, experienced, hopefully skilled man wasn’t exactly unattractive given my suddenly alarming situation. Try as I might to ignore Dalia’s voice inside my head, I couldn’t kick the idea that male attention was something that now had to be worried about.
I can’t help thinking that subconsciously this is why I started the blog- to sort out, record, and convey this particular journey. It may sound corny, but I, in fact, think that my experience- or lack thereof- is wonderfully human. From what I hear, I should count myself lucky that I have no regrets. I am not afraid to risk my heart and body, but not without just cause. Despite appearances in this blog entry, my mother taught me never to settle or succumb to peer pressure. A quarter of a century into life, I’m still sticking to that advice.
Sorry, Mom.
Sincerely,
-Sara
6.26.2008
6.19.2008
When Things Fall Apart
Dear Swing Enthusiast,
What happens to a blogger when she stops posting and all but disappears?
Chances are things fell apart. I'm reading When Things Fall Apart right now. It's a book that was recommended to me a long time ago by a person I decided didn't know what she was talking about. Grudges die hard, and I am still a little too proud to admit this woman has much to offer the world besides her enormous ego. However, I am reading the book…
Since last we spoke, so much has happened. Remember in my very first post how I referenced my fresh break-up and my plans to move out of our domestic bliss in the summer? Well, all that has finally come to fruition. I am single and living single. Right around the same time the move from the boom of the metropolis to the outskirts of urban decay took place, I also lost my job. Well, one of the three jobs. The one that gave me a sense of security. The one that paid the bills. The one where my best-swing-friend Peggy works. To top it off, I proceeded to fall down a rather inflexible set of stairs, bruising my derrière so badly I could not dance for weeks.
Simply put: Things fell apart.
Enter a deep, dark, all-consuming depression, which put me out of commission as an artist, as a dancer, as a writer, and as a person. I hit bottom. There were several dramatically weepy dials made to Mom. My status bars on Facebook and G-chat were filled with nothing but martyrdom. There was mind-boggling binge eating! (Ok, let’s face it; there continues to be mind-boggling binge eating.) I actually considered becoming a professional dominatrix! Things truly fell apart.
When things fall apart, my book recommends giving up hope. According to Buddhist teachings, accepting one’s current circumstances and emotions, whether perceived as positive or negative, is the only way to attain true contentment. Things will fall apart again and again. Security is nothing but an illusion our society chases at the expense of compassion.
Fucking depressing, no?
About half way through the book, my outlook started to change. It wasn’t that I felt content so much as I felt free. Since security was a figment of my fantasy life, why did I or anyone else need to grasp at that illusion? Let me give you an example…
As you all know, Apple Guy is the king of the mixed signal. This guy really plays it hot and cold. Or at least warm and tepid. Normally, I would just write off the computer fetish man. As my mother would say, he would, “fall off my planet.” When someone falls off your planet, it entails ignoring him or her as though he or she ceased to exist (this, of course, excludes rampantly talking behind the offender’s back in order to fully dissect, understand, and convey to others the ways in which he or she has wronged you). My mother and I seem to make a sport of pushing selected former friends, lovers and family members off the cliff at the edge of our surprisingly flat planet. It’s a sort-of-therapeutic, quasi-celebratory bridge burning at the end of a disappointing relationship to help rectify our shattered sense of security. It’s really rather nice.
However, I couldn’t seem to successfully get Apple Guy to shove off my roadmap, despite the fact that I was always being reminded-- through innuendo or direct hit-- that he’s just not that into me. Even Peggy served as a constant reminder. She simply cannot give up on the notion that Apple Guy and I are going to shag like rabbits in fuzzy, domestic bliss one of these days. And if he doesn’t make it with me, she hopes he makes it with Laura, the beautiful Asian girl for whom he historically pines. Thanks, Peg. If not me, then the incredibly beautiful one he actually wants. Nice.
Once I brought up Apple Guy’s affection for Laura with him. He began to get misty at the thought and embarrassment of Laura and everyone else presuming they knew how he felt and perhaps laughing at what he had already determined was an unrequited wish. I couldn’t help but be moved by his genuine vulnerability. I couldn’t blame Peggy for wanting to see Mr. Apple happy and in love. Apple Guy is wonderful. He’s adorable, sincere, helpful, and generous. He’s a great listener and a true gentleman.
Apparently, gentlemen prefer Asians, not blondes.
So, what if I accepted my current circumstances without trying to escape them? Apple Guy likes me as a friend and enjoys my company. Sometimes we flirt, but that’s as far as it goes. I enjoy AG’s company despite the fact that he’s not attracted to me. Imagine that! A flirtatious, platonic friendship. How can I not accept that? Looking at the facts again, it’s nothing but good news.
Flash forward. Apple Guy and I are in a really good place. He even heroically helped me move! We had dinner together after swing last week. Then he spontaneously took me on a walking tour of downtown sushi restaurants. Figures. He asked me if I wanted to swing by his apartment since it was on the way to the subway. I teased him about the obvious cliché of this proposition, but accepted, despite the butterflies in my stomach caused by that stupid illusion that is hope.
It was awkward, let me just tell you. I had to come right out and say it:
This is awkward.
Apple Guy: It kinda is. Why?
Me: I don’t know.
Apple Guy: Sexual tension…?
I got three letters for you, people: W T F? Seriously, could the signals get any more mixed? I looked around at all the Asian influences in the décor of his bachelor pad; the apartment was practically made of bamboo! My pride coolly answered for me…
Sexual tension? No. I don’t think so.
Peggy would say this was me putting words into his mouth. Perhaps he was trying to confess something to me. When he walked me to the subway that night, Apple Guy became melancholy and said, “You think I’m a bad guy, don’t you?” I felt like a bitter jerk. I tried to explain that it was just that I found him confusing and was confused about my own feelings, but I know my words failed me. We both parted feeling insecure.
Last night was a breakthrough swing night for me. I moved my dancing up to the next level. Woody Bellagamba exclaimed, “Sara is on fire tonight!” Woody’s been the practice session DJ lately. He likes to lead a dance for all the people who are having a birthday that week; the few birthday boys and girls dance in the middle of the encircling crowd, while brave advanced dancers cut in and out of partner-dancing with them. At Apple Guy’s urging, I danced in the birthday dance with a birthday boy for the very first time. It was thrilling! I followed up this spotlight turn by brazenly asking the apparently girlfriendless Grisly Adam to dance. Grisly then asked me to dance the following two dances. There were definitely sparks, my friends!
By the time Apple Guy and I got to walking home, I was like- Apple Who? I was a ball of enthusiastic, overconfident energy, despite a night of dancing hard. I'm pretty sure it appeared as though I was on speed. We loitered for an excessively long time by the subway entrance, leaning on the side of a Best Buy as our spines began to cry. I couldn’t help noticing we were prolonging our time together again. In an effort to accept my current circumstances and resolve our mutual awkwardness, I called Apple Guy on the fact that he was clearly somewhat confused about what he wanted from me. And he proceeded to do something rarely done by men…
He conceded the point. He admitted that he had a little thing for me, but didn’t want to lose his best swing girl and newfound friend. In doing this, he eliminated the cause of my frustration by validating my suspicions and paying me the compliment. In the end, it seems that is all I really wanted.
So, yes, ladies. Maybe he’s just not that into me, but maybe, as Peggy likes to spin it, we’ll, “be sitting on his big red sex couch innocently cutting out paper dolls one day and suddenly someone’s tongue is going be down someone else’s throat!” I have told Apple Guy about this theory and neither of us quite grasp the paper doll aspect, but I think we both understand the distinct possibility in the latter part of her message. I know I honesty felt the urge to jump Apple Guy and kiss him like the sweet red fruit he is during the tail end of last night's enlightening conversation on the street. (Remember, I was practically on speed.) But fear, pride, and confusion stood in my way.
My book would ask some challenging questions at such a pivotal moment. Why do we let fear, pride, doubt, hope, and this endless quest for security make all the decisions for us? Why is validation and praise the only route we seem to take towards happiness? Why does it matter so much whether or not Apple Guy is paying attention to me? When things fall apart, why do we scuttle so much to put all the pieces back together only to have them crumble again and again?
Uh… because it feels deliciously wonderful! Duh.
Yeah, I just can’t seem to finish the book.
Love,
-Sara
P.S. I'll try my best never to leave you for so long again! In honor of my resurrection from blogging death, I am enabling comments on the Swing Diaries. I welcome you to take a moment and join in on the conversation, but remember never to use real names if you happen to know them. I've also gone public! No more password required.
What happens to a blogger when she stops posting and all but disappears?
Chances are things fell apart. I'm reading When Things Fall Apart right now. It's a book that was recommended to me a long time ago by a person I decided didn't know what she was talking about. Grudges die hard, and I am still a little too proud to admit this woman has much to offer the world besides her enormous ego. However, I am reading the book…
Since last we spoke, so much has happened. Remember in my very first post how I referenced my fresh break-up and my plans to move out of our domestic bliss in the summer? Well, all that has finally come to fruition. I am single and living single. Right around the same time the move from the boom of the metropolis to the outskirts of urban decay took place, I also lost my job. Well, one of the three jobs. The one that gave me a sense of security. The one that paid the bills. The one where my best-swing-friend Peggy works. To top it off, I proceeded to fall down a rather inflexible set of stairs, bruising my derrière so badly I could not dance for weeks.
Simply put: Things fell apart.
Enter a deep, dark, all-consuming depression, which put me out of commission as an artist, as a dancer, as a writer, and as a person. I hit bottom. There were several dramatically weepy dials made to Mom. My status bars on Facebook and G-chat were filled with nothing but martyrdom. There was mind-boggling binge eating! (Ok, let’s face it; there continues to be mind-boggling binge eating.) I actually considered becoming a professional dominatrix! Things truly fell apart.
When things fall apart, my book recommends giving up hope. According to Buddhist teachings, accepting one’s current circumstances and emotions, whether perceived as positive or negative, is the only way to attain true contentment. Things will fall apart again and again. Security is nothing but an illusion our society chases at the expense of compassion.
Fucking depressing, no?
About half way through the book, my outlook started to change. It wasn’t that I felt content so much as I felt free. Since security was a figment of my fantasy life, why did I or anyone else need to grasp at that illusion? Let me give you an example…
As you all know, Apple Guy is the king of the mixed signal. This guy really plays it hot and cold. Or at least warm and tepid. Normally, I would just write off the computer fetish man. As my mother would say, he would, “fall off my planet.” When someone falls off your planet, it entails ignoring him or her as though he or she ceased to exist (this, of course, excludes rampantly talking behind the offender’s back in order to fully dissect, understand, and convey to others the ways in which he or she has wronged you). My mother and I seem to make a sport of pushing selected former friends, lovers and family members off the cliff at the edge of our surprisingly flat planet. It’s a sort-of-therapeutic, quasi-celebratory bridge burning at the end of a disappointing relationship to help rectify our shattered sense of security. It’s really rather nice.
However, I couldn’t seem to successfully get Apple Guy to shove off my roadmap, despite the fact that I was always being reminded-- through innuendo or direct hit-- that he’s just not that into me. Even Peggy served as a constant reminder. She simply cannot give up on the notion that Apple Guy and I are going to shag like rabbits in fuzzy, domestic bliss one of these days. And if he doesn’t make it with me, she hopes he makes it with Laura, the beautiful Asian girl for whom he historically pines. Thanks, Peg. If not me, then the incredibly beautiful one he actually wants. Nice.
Once I brought up Apple Guy’s affection for Laura with him. He began to get misty at the thought and embarrassment of Laura and everyone else presuming they knew how he felt and perhaps laughing at what he had already determined was an unrequited wish. I couldn’t help but be moved by his genuine vulnerability. I couldn’t blame Peggy for wanting to see Mr. Apple happy and in love. Apple Guy is wonderful. He’s adorable, sincere, helpful, and generous. He’s a great listener and a true gentleman.
Apparently, gentlemen prefer Asians, not blondes.
So, what if I accepted my current circumstances without trying to escape them? Apple Guy likes me as a friend and enjoys my company. Sometimes we flirt, but that’s as far as it goes. I enjoy AG’s company despite the fact that he’s not attracted to me. Imagine that! A flirtatious, platonic friendship. How can I not accept that? Looking at the facts again, it’s nothing but good news.
Flash forward. Apple Guy and I are in a really good place. He even heroically helped me move! We had dinner together after swing last week. Then he spontaneously took me on a walking tour of downtown sushi restaurants. Figures. He asked me if I wanted to swing by his apartment since it was on the way to the subway. I teased him about the obvious cliché of this proposition, but accepted, despite the butterflies in my stomach caused by that stupid illusion that is hope.
It was awkward, let me just tell you. I had to come right out and say it:
This is awkward.
Apple Guy: It kinda is. Why?
Me: I don’t know.
Apple Guy: Sexual tension…?
I got three letters for you, people: W T F? Seriously, could the signals get any more mixed? I looked around at all the Asian influences in the décor of his bachelor pad; the apartment was practically made of bamboo! My pride coolly answered for me…
Sexual tension? No. I don’t think so.
Peggy would say this was me putting words into his mouth. Perhaps he was trying to confess something to me. When he walked me to the subway that night, Apple Guy became melancholy and said, “You think I’m a bad guy, don’t you?” I felt like a bitter jerk. I tried to explain that it was just that I found him confusing and was confused about my own feelings, but I know my words failed me. We both parted feeling insecure.
Last night was a breakthrough swing night for me. I moved my dancing up to the next level. Woody Bellagamba exclaimed, “Sara is on fire tonight!” Woody’s been the practice session DJ lately. He likes to lead a dance for all the people who are having a birthday that week; the few birthday boys and girls dance in the middle of the encircling crowd, while brave advanced dancers cut in and out of partner-dancing with them. At Apple Guy’s urging, I danced in the birthday dance with a birthday boy for the very first time. It was thrilling! I followed up this spotlight turn by brazenly asking the apparently girlfriendless Grisly Adam to dance. Grisly then asked me to dance the following two dances. There were definitely sparks, my friends!
By the time Apple Guy and I got to walking home, I was like- Apple Who? I was a ball of enthusiastic, overconfident energy, despite a night of dancing hard. I'm pretty sure it appeared as though I was on speed. We loitered for an excessively long time by the subway entrance, leaning on the side of a Best Buy as our spines began to cry. I couldn’t help noticing we were prolonging our time together again. In an effort to accept my current circumstances and resolve our mutual awkwardness, I called Apple Guy on the fact that he was clearly somewhat confused about what he wanted from me. And he proceeded to do something rarely done by men…
He conceded the point. He admitted that he had a little thing for me, but didn’t want to lose his best swing girl and newfound friend. In doing this, he eliminated the cause of my frustration by validating my suspicions and paying me the compliment. In the end, it seems that is all I really wanted.
So, yes, ladies. Maybe he’s just not that into me, but maybe, as Peggy likes to spin it, we’ll, “be sitting on his big red sex couch innocently cutting out paper dolls one day and suddenly someone’s tongue is going be down someone else’s throat!” I have told Apple Guy about this theory and neither of us quite grasp the paper doll aspect, but I think we both understand the distinct possibility in the latter part of her message. I know I honesty felt the urge to jump Apple Guy and kiss him like the sweet red fruit he is during the tail end of last night's enlightening conversation on the street. (Remember, I was practically on speed.) But fear, pride, and confusion stood in my way.
My book would ask some challenging questions at such a pivotal moment. Why do we let fear, pride, doubt, hope, and this endless quest for security make all the decisions for us? Why is validation and praise the only route we seem to take towards happiness? Why does it matter so much whether or not Apple Guy is paying attention to me? When things fall apart, why do we scuttle so much to put all the pieces back together only to have them crumble again and again?
Uh… because it feels deliciously wonderful! Duh.
Yeah, I just can’t seem to finish the book.
Love,
-Sara
P.S. I'll try my best never to leave you for so long again! In honor of my resurrection from blogging death, I am enabling comments on the Swing Diaries. I welcome you to take a moment and join in on the conversation, but remember never to use real names if you happen to know them. I've also gone public! No more password required.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)