Vulnerability

 I just finished watching the HBO show "Girls;" the one that everyone recommends but no one says they like. I had a similar experience. I spent 75% of the show cringing through the self-conscious, low self-esteem-driven choices of the main characters. The other 25% of the time, I marveled at the talent and excruciating honesty of the show's creator, Lena Dunham.

When the show finished, I told my roommate about my mixed reaction and said that I had a difficult time relating to the characters. Upon reflection, I don't believe that this is true.

Yes. Perhaps I have never made so MANY bad decision in a single night; but have I never felt the same, painful lack of self worth that leads to these decisions? Who am I to put myself above these women who are simply more honest about their motivations? Maybe they simply don't have my knack for positive reframe or "sugar-coating," if you talk to my friends. Do I have better self-esteem or am I better at hiding from my truth? Sometimes I worry that it is the latter. And, I worry that because of this, I will never be able to write the caliber of story that I want to write.

So, in an attempt to move myself towards truth, I will share an experience that would not be out of place in an episode of "Girls."

It was the second quarter of my freshman year of college. I had dated two guys during my first quarter. The first guy, the one I ended up really liking, had recently made it clear that he was no longer interested in "hanging out." The other guy, the one that I broke up with even after learning that he had, moments ago, crashed badly on his skateboard, gave me mono.

This case of mono was not just any case of mono. I had just started to feel the symptoms of my illness when I went home for Thanksgiving break and by the end of the weekend, I was so sick that I had to take incompletes for all of my classes and wasn't able to return to school until the next quarter started in January.  I actually remember very little from my time being sick. I have a vague memory of excruciating pain and exhaustion and I remember having to insert anti-nausea suppositories, just so I could keep food down.  The mono turned into hepatic mono and my face swelled up and turned yellow.

When I was sent back to school after Christmas break, I went with two orders: 1) no alcohol for six weeks because my liver was still recovering and 2) no swapping of saliva because I was still extremely contagious. So, for the second quarter of my freshman year I could neither drink nor make out with anyone. Fuck.

I quickly remedied the first problem by learning to smoke weed. But, I could do nothing about the second part except to be celibate. Celibacy was fairly easy at first.  Weed does not energize my libido like alcohol. In fact, it often puts me to sleep almost immediately. I was also still feeling some of the residual effects of the mono and was getting sick constantly due to my depressed immune system. I was in no state to seduce anyone.

However, my vow of celibacy become much more challenging once the ban on alcohol was lifted. After a few weeks of avoiding temptation, I got drunk and went to a house party with some of my guy friends.  All of my friends knew about my mono and knew that I was still contagious. I chose to forget this fact as I became drunk and started flirting with a cute guy at the party. After talking with him for a few minutes, his friends decided to go to another party and they invited me to go. I (stupidly) said yes and told my friends that I was leaving and not to worry, I would see them back at the dorms. Being guys, they told me to be careful and then told me (loudly) not to infect anyone with my mono. I scowled at them and left.

As we walked down the street towards the next house, one of Cute Guy's friends asked to speak privately with his friend.  Graciously, I allowed this conversation, walking, obliviously, ahead of the group of guys.  After the pow-wow, Cute Guy told me that they needed to make a quick stop at another party before going to the original party they had mentioned earlier.  A few moments later, we were inside dark, smoky living room. I don't have extremely clear memories of this party, but I do remember thinking that it seemed dead and that the house must belong to a group of guys since there was so little furniture. Cute Guy told me to wait on the couch while he went to the bathroom.  After waiting for ten minutes and being ignored by the few people still populating the party, it dawned on me that I had been ditched. In retrospect, it seems likely that Cute Guy's friends heard my friends talking about my mono and told Cute Guy that he needed to abort mission unless he wanted to be infected by the plague. At the time, my brain was processing fairly slowly and, lacking this insight, chose to fill my confused mind with as much self-loathing as I could muster.

 Of course he didn't want to make out with you. You're fat and ugly and your face is broken out. How could you think a cute guy like that would be interested in you. His friends told him not to waste his time with you. What are you going to tell your friends when they ask you about your night? They will just pity you.

For whatever reason, it was the last thought that really stuck. As I left the fading party and started walking back to my dorm, I felt so low. It felt as though I might actually be crushed under the weight of my self-loathing. Then, like an unexpected line of coke for an addict in withdrawal, an unattractive guy on a bike rode up next to me and engaged me in conversation. He asked me if I liked the movie X-men. I did! He asked if I wanted to go back to his place to watch the sequel. And I knew I should say no.  I knew, in the part of my brain that thinks in PSAs, that this was one of those "dangerous situations" young women are supposed to avoid. My training told me that I should look the predator straight in the eye and assertively say, "NO. I WOULD NOT LIKE TO GO BACK TO YOUR APARTMENT." I should then walk (possibly run) in the opposite direction until I found a cop or other suitable authority figure to whom I would report the incident. But, at that broken moment, he was my fix. He was the proof that not all guys thought I was fat and revolting. He was being nice to me and I NEEDED to feel like a human being again.

So, I went. We walked for what seemed like ages. Several times, the PSAs nagged me about the stupidity of my actions, but I shut it down, still needing to feel wanted.  Once we got there, I was relieved to see that he did actually have an apartment, with furniture (a deranged psycho wouldn't think to furnish his living quarters, right?) and that he actually did have the X-Men sequel. After he put in the DVD, he sat down next to me and without much ceremony started making out with me. He was a terrible kisser. Sometimes it felt as though his main objective was to give me a facial using only his tongue. Between that and his inexpert attempts to feel me up, I was not feeling exactly horny.  I thought about my options: I could leave. I could leave and go back to my dorm and scrape up my self worth while thanking my lucky stars that I wasn't raped or dead.  Or, my alcohol enhance brain prompted, I could be that sexually liberated feminist I have always wanted to be.  Who says I can't be sexually active? Lots of powerful women have sex with random strangers! Hell, one of my best friends is one of those women!

Thankfully, I was sobering up and decided that I would probably regret losing my virginity to this ugly stranger. But, I reasoned, I also have never had oral sex, so why not now?

Coming to this conclusion, I broke away from Ugly Boy and, wiping my face with the back of my hand, said, "Just so you know, we are not having sex tonight."

He seemed genuinely crushed. "What? How come?"

"Because I've never had sex before and I'm not going to do it now.  However, I've also never had oral sex before and I want to try it out."

Disappointment was quickly replaced by a euphoric smile and he led me back to his room and (surprisingly) comfortable bed.  We both quietly and efficiently disrobed and laid down together in the bed.  Ugly Boy continued my facial and I reached my hand down and grabbed his penis.  It was the second penis I had ever touched and this one was different because it was uncircumcised.  I began to squeeze it, mushing it around it my hand and feeling it's spongy texture. To me, this encounter did not seem erotic.  It felt more like an experiment.  And I observed with a scientific interest as the penis grew harder.  I had recently aced the anatomy portion of my Human Sexuality class and I thought of all of the scientific names and stages of arousal I had recently learned as I knelt between his knees, considering his penis. I had never given a blow job and I had no idea what a penis would taste or smell like. When I finally put it in my mouth, I remember thinking that it felt like sucking on a big finger and it smelled musty. I forgot about the man attached to the penis in my mouth as I explored the shape and texture with my tongue and hand.  I reached down and felt his spongy balls.  I pushed my lips over the tip of the penis ("the glans", I thought happily) and was surprised at how velvety it felt. I felt my lips push over the corona of the penis and then run onto the more slender shaft.This was a pleasant sensation, so I repeated it a couple more times and then ran my tongue up the underside of the penis, feeling the bumps of the engorged veins and thinking that this area was called the frenulum. I was about to pass my tongue over the veins again when Ugly Guy groaned and I remembered that this experiment penis was an actual real penis and might, at any moment, erupt with semen. And this, I knew, I did not want in my mouth.

"I don't want you to come in my mouth. So, tell me when you think you're close."

He nodded his agreement and I continued to explore, though more self-consciously this time.  After what seemed like a short while (I don't know if I don't accurately remember how long it took or if he just hadn't gotten any recently) he told me he thought he was going to come. So, I laid down beside him as he finished himself off.  After a short rest, he got up and laid between my open legs.  He licked my clit once, shook his head as though to clear it, licked it again and then asked if we could take a shower since "maybe the walk over had made me sweaty." I was so eager to know what getting head was like that I readily agreed without even taking the time to feel offended.  All at once, I was on my back in a shower with the water running on both of us.  I don't remember much about what it felt like because he was not very good. I know he immediately put his index finger in my vagina and began fucking me with great urgency while his tongue wandered aimlessly and intermittently around my clit and vulva.  After five minutes of this, I had felt nary a stirring and I was cold and uncomfortable.  I asked if we could move back to the bed and he agreed.  Once we were on the bed, he recommenced the ineffective fucking and wandering and I soon decided that I could do a much better job myself. I asked if he could "just play with my boobs" and I got myself off.

After orgasming, I was very sober and very ready to leave. We both got up and dressed. I remember having a hard time retying my sarong. Ugly Boy was smoking on his front porch as I walked out his front door.  This surprised me. He gave me a scrap of paper with his phone number on it and I walked away as quickly as I could without making it seem like I was hurrying. The further I got from his house, the angrier I became.  Two blocks away, my face contorted in rage, I tore up the shred of paper and threw it into the filthy gutter.  I paused a moment to collect myself, took a deep breath, and kept walking toward my dorm.

During that walk, I managed to re-convince myself that this was a moment of feminist glory and that I had claimed my sexuality for my own. I retold the story to myself the way that I would later tell it to my friends. I remember laughing a little at the absurd parts. When I finally reached my dorm, my friends and roommates were in a state of near-panic. When the guys had returned from the party without me my girl friends ripped them apart for leaving me and had commenced a search to try and find me. On some level, I felt bad for making them worry. But, I was too defended from my recent experience to do something so vulnerable as admit my fault and apologize. So, I made them laugh and told them not to worry so much. I shamed them a little, telling them that I was a big girl, just for good measure.

They eventually got over it and a few days later I got a yeast infection that launched me into the first stages of my (probably) lifelong hypochondriasis. But, that, I think, is for another blog entry.

So, it seems that I can relate to Dunham's self-esteem-challenged twenty-somethings. I hope to come to a place where I relate first to vulnerability and judge second. Because it feels really good to get this off of my chest. 

Admitting there's a problem

It turns out that the 20s are a fairly angsty period of time.  I have been in my third decade for seven and a half years and, frankly, I am done. This is not to say that I have hated every minute of my 20s or that I have been unhappy even most of the time.  In fact, it has been quite the opposite. My 20s and, really, my whole life, have been blessed. I am very lucky.

The trouble is that I remember the intensity of my lust for life at 18 and now, at 27, it's been beaten down to a shadow of its former self. I don't know if it was the incessant moving, relationships, anxiety, indecision, piling responsibilities or, perhaps, a lumpy, grey mixture of it all. But, I do know that I want it back. And I have no idea how to do it.

And, things are coming to a head. I graduate from my master's program in May and my massive loans come due six months after that.  Today, January 4th, I celebrate my third year anniversary with my girlfriend and I do not know if I want to continue in my relationship. I am very broke, all of the time, but I need to move into a living situation where I am the true master of my own affairs.  My biological clock is ticking, but I am not ready for marriage and a family.

Rationally, I know that I cannot fix all of these problems at once or, maybe, at all.

Emotionally, I am drowning.