The Aftermath of Sicilia: Sunburn and S&M

Hindsight and nerve endings being 20/20, this, to the left, may not have been the best choice.

Rubbing lotion in tiny, gentle baby circles on my chest with my fingertips hurts like a bitch that sends me gasping for air.

It's worse than sadomasochism.

There's a pretty good chance that when I get home, I'll be peeling most awe-inspiringly. Like, the sort of awe that you get when you see a burn victim on the streets panhandling for change, compared as to the sort of awe that you get when you see a really great piece of art or drink a perfectly made Cosmopolitan, 1 part Triple Sec, 1 part cranberry juice, and 2 parts premium vodka.

Said Cosmopolitan costs 10 Euro. Said sunburn was absolutely free after round-trip airfare and a hitched bus ride.

Even if you can peel the skin off the back of my thighs and shoulders and write on it like Hannibal's own parchment, will you still love me when I get home?

XOXO

An Open Letter To Men:

Two easy ways to instantly make any conversation better and win us over: 1.) Ask how we are. 2.) Say goodbye when you have to go.

And the Number One way to instantly make a conversation better and win us over: Initiate it.

Some things will always take precedence over you in our lives. We're sorry; we love you, but our own sanity, dignity, ambitions, family, closest friends, and important work functions may trump you at times. We will try to understand when yours do the same to us.

Operate under the assumption that if you're doing it, we know about it. Women's intuition is not for naught.

We worry. A lot. And we have 15 different scenarios as to why you seem distant. We know when to reassure you, so please reassure us when something's not wrong.

...Conversely, we know "I'm fine" doesn't always really mean "I'm fine."

Most of you have heavy-sensory loaded hot-spots somewhere between your ears, jawline, and neck that lead straight to below the belt. You may not know where they are. But we do.

We also enjoy a kick-ass action movie, extra-buttery popcorn, and a huge Slushie. So please tell us when a good one comes out. Bonus points for a hot leading man.

Watching a Girl's Gone Wild commercial with you is one of the most excruciatingly embarrassing moments of our life. Because we know they're fake. But we're not sure if you do. And if ours don't look like that, we don't want you to be let down.

...However, do not instantly assume we don't watch porn as well. 1 in every 3 visitors to an erotic website is a woman.

Body hair is what makes a man. Lack thereof is what makes a woman. Stop fucking apologizing for having it. However, just as we do up-keep, you can, too, and we will think even more highly of it.

Although we're pretty sure you DO notice when we gain five pounds, thank you for pretending that you don't.

Our women's magazines are not coasters. Our beds are not the kitchen table. And our shower is not a toilet. Please respect all accordingly.

There are some nights that we don't particularly want to have to change, do our hair, and move to wherever it is to see you. So when we say, "No, really-- go out to the bar with the guys," what we really mean is, "I want to catch up on Sex and the City re-runs, and I'm tired and didn't shave today." This is not us trying to get rid of you-- this is us just knowing that you need time with your boys as much as we need time to be by ourselves.

We can drive perfectly well. In fact, we are pretty sure we can drive better than you do. In any case, we're intelligent enough to be charming when we ask for directions, so we get the short-cuts.

Your parents terrify us.

And if we wanted to be with your friend, we would be with your friend, and not with you. So don't worry about it. We're with you.

We do not understand your all-in-one body wash/shampoo/whatever else it is it says it will do. And we would rather take a straight water shower than be stranded at your place and have to use it.

So...

If we leave a toothbrush or a small travel container of shampoo or body wash at your place, we are not trying to "mark our territory." We are trying to remain sanitary, because we're pretty sure you enjoy it when we smell good.

We love the fact you are always, ALWAYS warmer than we are. Just like we love the fact that you still let us tuck our very cold toes behind your very warm and sensitive knees. So thank you.
A few of your shirts may go mysteriously "missing," but just think of us wearing them to bed naked, and I'm sure you'll miss them a lot less.

If we offer to give you a massage, you can be pretty sure that what we mean is, "Let me touch you until sex seems like a good idea."

You do not get truly great head until you give good head.

Most of us do know how to hammer a nail, change a tire, and open a pickle jar. But offering to help is always a nice gesture.

And we love it when you act all manly. You know what I mean, taking charge of a situation when we're unsure or hesitant (and yes, this applies to sex, too), puffing out your chest, or just yelling at the TV screen when playing video games.

Our closest girlfriends will always know the real reason we're mad at you, or what we want for our birthday, or when the anniversary is, even when you don't. So it would be beneficial to make good friends with one of them, so that you can always ask for a clue when you need one.

And yes, you should assume that your worst fears are confirmed and we talk about you when we're together; that they are a little skeptical about you even if we are not; and that they are also informed as to how endowed you are. Rest assured, this does not mean we pick on you or judge you-- it's just like how you trade final scores of your favorite football teams with your buddies. They need to know who's good on the field, too.

They way you talk about your ex-girlfriends tells us a lot about the way you talk about us when we're not around.

Not all of our biological clocks tick. So stop worrying we just want you for is marriage and babies. Just like how not all of us always want to cuddle.

There will always be other women who will want to tell you how attractive you are, how smart, how brave, how strong, how amazing, how charming. We may not tell you every day, but by being with you, we are proving the fact DAILY that we KNOW and appreciate how attractive, smart, brave, strong, amazing and charming you are. We wouldn't be with you if we didn't think you were. And we really do think you are, so please don't fall for other flattery so quickly.

We think chicken wings are a perfectly acceptable dinner, too.

If we really like you, we're willing to do most anything for you. Don't abuse this. It's the quickest way to turn like to loathe. And we really like to like you. Because yes, men are pretty great.

Anything I left out? Anything else you want to know about how or what women really think? Anything you need translated or what to clear up on your side for us? Now is your time to ask. I'm feeling extremely candid and sharing.

XOXO

Debauchery: Adventures Abroad Include...

A brief synopsis of the Good, the Bad, and the Downright Ugly:

"Il Treno E In Retardo": The day before my mid-term exams start, Alli and I decide to go hike Cinque Terra. After hiking from Corniglia to Vernazza and indulging in the world's most orgasmic cannoli at Il Pirata, (where bar-keep Massimo declared, "Si, the clams are closed--they're shy. But they're like women; to open them, you just have to charm them. Then they melt like ice cream,") we realize that we can either A.) Go on to dinner in Montorosso since we're STARVING, or B.) Hop our last train to La Spezia and Florence and starve.

Well. We are not the Kitchen Bitches for nothing. So after trolling Montorosso for a store still open to buy a blanket-- none-- and contemplating stealing some hotel's towels off of a drying line-- couldn't reach-- we indulge in a 3 hour long dinner, then head to Fast Bar, proceed to make friends with everyone from the 30-something American tourists to the bartender who is Sealy Booth's Italian twin, drink ourselves warm, and then went and sat on the beach for the next 3 hours until our 5 AM train came, hiding from the carabineri and over-eager local guys from the bar, drinking wine, and having reflective heart-to-hearts. (Which I don't remember.) This day also includes: "My depth perception sucks." "Try mine." "No. I saw yours.", public urination, our first encounter with Italian men who don't know the meaning of the word "no", taking three exams with possibly the worst hangover of my life and only an hour's worth of sleep, and finding out that a classic corkscrew is pretty much a sobriety test in itself. (It takes two drunk blondes to open a bottle of wine, if you were wondering.)

"Ok, You Can Bring Him Back To The U.S With You": For Thursday Night Girl's Night, the girls, Alli and I went to Coquinarius. Feeling bad about us having to wait an hour for a table, Nicolai brings us all out complimentary glasses of wine, then shuffles us inside to a table ASAP, ignoring other waiting customers. At the end of the mean, we all get free glasses of vin santo and biscotti, and when I went up to the register at the end of the meal to "grazie mille" him profusely, he "prego"d and kissed me on both cheeks. As I stumbled back to the table where Alli and Arielle were waiting, I think I said something along the lines of, "He kissed me! Did you see that?! He kissed me like an Italian!"
Alli: "I know! I saw!"
Still in the high-pitch of a five-year-old: "HE KISSED ME!"
Alli: "I am in full support of you bringing him back to America with you."

"...And A Left At The Horse's Tail!": St. Paddy's day, Alli and I decided to go for apertivo at the swanky and fun Kitsch bar, where I proceeded to order a Mai Tai, even though it's first ingredient was rum, and, as we know by now, rum makes me DUMB. This was proven right yet again as we met up with Robin to find the Irish pub we were going to, and my usually impeccable sense of direction appeared addled, right until the point in time I stopped in the middle of the street, picked my nose up into the wind like a spaniel on point, thought for a moment, and then took off like a shot, muttering, "...And a left at the horse's tail!" Let me explain. We had been past the pub only once before, when looking for another restaurant about a month back, and the guidebook's directions to it were literally "take a left at the horse's tail of the statue in the piazza." 3 minutes later, I bring Robin, Alli and I out right in front of the pub. Where I proceeded to drink green beer and get further schnockered to a point at which Alli and I ended up recreating Rape of the Sabine Women in front of the statue, or, as I call it, Rape of the Champlain Women's Dignity. And then Sassy Drunk Carissa came out to play: "Oh, my boyfriend is playing with a balloon. I pick them so well!" "I have a watch. Do you know what time it is? Drunk time." "30...40...50...60 in my cash cow. Do you have a cash cow? I don't think so!"

"Abusement-- That's When You Beat Other People For Fun": Alli and I go to Perugia, where we encounter a metrorail that nearly dropped us into the compacting abyss-- "Alli, I don't want to go there!"-- and then made it better by soothing me with a familiar rhythm-- "Oh, this is a familiar rhythm." "Yes?" "It is. It's the same rhythm."-- Men Who Don't Know The Meaning Of The Word "No", a Romanian knock-off of George Clooney, a Very Small World episode in which an Australian who one of my best high school friends from the Netherlands lived with who Alli met her first time through Perugia, who introduced us to a friend who introduced us to a Middlebury grad student studying in Florence, and a houseparty that could have been straight out of the Burlington scene. I kept looking for the junglejuice and familiar faces. Quotes from that night include: "I think...you want to kiss me." "You want to touch my body?" "He means 'cock'." "It's impossible? No! Come dancing with us at the disco!" "No. No, no, no, no, no, no. NO." Also, Alli gets an 80 year old boyfriend named Sergio. I think it's time to start investing in Viagra.

"Just Call Me Molly": The Button Factory, a Dublin club, is having a 90's themed night. I conveniently forgot all my 90's themed clothes...in the 90's. Instead, I substitute cleavage for theme, because as Jamie says, "You have boobs. You don't need a decade." And it's true. Also, let it be stated here and now that Irish boys are far nicer and more polite in clubs than Italian men are. They actually ask you if they can dance with you, unlike Italian men as JD put it so eloquently, "will fuck you right on the dance floor."

"Gone Wilde In Dublin: One Morning In The Life Of": "Raaaaaaaahhh!" "Reptar?" "If I start humping something on the street, just keep walking." "Oh yeah. It's so much better not inhaling pressed powder." "Well, in the dark last night it looked relatively clean. Though that's been said about things before and proven wrong."

And "Two Pints Cheap-Date Night": Dublin was fun. Real fun.

"Get Me Home. Right Now": On the way to class yesterday, on the cramped Italian sidewalk, two days into coming back from A Land Where They Speak English And I Don't Want To Leave, after seriously considering just flying home from Dublin and hiring people to move my stuff out of my Italian apartment for me, I reached my threshold for Italian tolerance when a man straight-up grabbed me by the crotch. Now, yes, this is Italy, and yes, shitty things happen here all the time, but this was no mistake, and it was downright violating. All I saw as I went to angle my body to pass between him and the people on the other side of me was him smirk, and then it literally knocked the air out of me when I felt him plant his hand and felt finger through my jeans. I was too shocked to do anything than keep walking. After telling some of my friends about it, we realized that this was the same man who has done this to numerous girls. If you are reading this and are a girl studying abroad in Florence, beware a 30-something, brown-haired man about 5'10" on Via Nazionale with a wandering and very purposeful right hand. Give plenty of room to people on the sidewalk, and seriously, if it happens again, take him out. God knows I'm planning on it.

Spring Break Activities: Went spelunking in caves. Rolled down the hills of ancient fortresses of the kings of Ireland. Same old, same old.

And A Collection Of Recent Quotes: "Well, that's how I FEEL!" "Well, I'm sorry, but if you can't commit, I am totally free to eat other men's sandwiches." Sleep rambling: "I feel like a turtle."
"You feel like a turtle?" "Yes. my bed's all warm and I feel like I'm in my shell with only my little head sticking out. I'm a turtle." "Spending the night at a guy's apartment is like going to a one star hotel with a prostitute." "Places to go. Things to see. People to do." "We were basically a room full of people who sounded like we were in the Witness Protection Program." "So basically you're only druggie friends because you use them for their amenities." "Lush-- it's what women call themselves when they want to make alcoholism sound sexy."

So. Eurobreak and studying abroad. This is all what it's about. 45 days until I come home.

XOXO

An American Girl Shows Her Stars And Stripes And Cosmopolitan Ingestion

So this past Tuesday night I was a stunning disgrace to the American culture. Or, rather, I was a total and utter portrayal of the classic American abroad student, and so, a stunning disgrace to the Italian culture. My Tuesday nights are to what everyone else's Thursday nights are. I don't have class until 6 PM on Wednesday, so this leads to all sorts of night-time free-time. This is why I needed internet access so badly. Without, I am forced to resort to this sort of depravity.

I went with my friend Erin, her roommate Kara (Mama Kara,) and their friends to Be Bop, a fun, dive-y little basement bar with live music. Tuesday night is Beatles cover-band night, and let me tell you, they were actually good. You know what else was good? The drinks. Roughly 2 Euro cheaper than I am accustomed to paying for, on top of NO COVER CHARGE, heavy on the liquor, large on the size, and quick to be served. I seriously had a White Russian like m'boys used to make back home. After seeing an Amazonian Italian woman wearing as a shirt the same black sheer blouse from Zara I was wearing as a dress, I resorted to knocking back a Cosmopolitan and a Ruskie, after hardly eating and two glasses of wine in Pairing Food and Wine earlier that afternoon, and was toasted like 10-grain bread in the morning in about 30 minutes. This may have lead to some very loud singing along to the band. It may have even-- for shame-- led to some dancing. In places one should normally not dance. I was eyeing a table-top.

Sober Carissa apparently does not want to get laid. My interactions with the local gents (collectively either still in high school, or 30 years old, or American abroad students-- nothing in between,) went something like this: A tap on the shoulder, a hand on the back, a slap on the ass. I turn around. "Ciao," says Mr. Italia. "Ciao," I say back. "Mi chiamo Simon/Antonio/Charlie." "Mi chiamo Carissa." And I turn back around. Ohhhhhh. Shut down. End of story. Go away. I could be French for all I am so disinterested in you. Lesbians even care about you more. Really. Go take your wandering hands and wander somewhere else.

Drunk Carissa, however, appears to be the 180-degree opposite of Sober Carissa, because I found myself leaning over to Erin, pawing at her, going, "Hey! Heyheyhey! Did you see that guy at the bar?! I only saw his ear and the back of his head, but I think he's cute! I really think he's hot! I'm going to go over and-- ohhh, wait-- he turned around...no, not that cute. Definitely not that cute. Well, maybe, if you look at him from this angle..."

Erin: "What the fuck are you talking about? He is hideous."

Drunk goggles: Helping less fortunate Italian men get some since 1989. While we're here, can we please take a minute to conduct a poll? Because the question was, ahem, raised if Italian men stuff their Armani and Dolce & Gabbana jeans. Because I have been around the block a time or two, and I may have been known to date men who wear tight jeans, but NEVER in my life have I seen anything quite like what was on display at that rooster show. "Quarters-- lots and lots of quarters," was the only excuse Erin could come up with. To me, there is no excuse. Just eye-sear-age.

Towards the end of the band's set, I was really, really cravin' me a Double Cheeseburger like the good ol' times across the Atlantic, so we left Be Bop to find some tasty American victuals. Sad times-- the Golden Arches were closed, but the kebab shop right down the street was not. I took off running in un-straight lines as fast as my little gold flats would take me, smacked into the sliding glass door, and did my damnedest to open it. Nada. I looked in plaintively at the man behind the counter, who was watching me, obviously unimpressed. "Are you open?" I mouthed at him, and he nodded, miming at me to push the door to the side. You know, like how sliding doors are supposed to go. I put my hands flat on the glass and gave it a shove. Uh-uh, little drunk girl. Try again. Finally grasped the little indented handle. Gave a mighty yank. Lost my balance, and staggered in with a triumphant "YEAHHH!" As Erin said, "At least you're a cute drunk," because after those antics, it was the only thing working in my favor to get me served my kebab. That, the fact that I thought Mr. Kebab Man was totally smokin' in that dark skin/dark hair/light eyes way I am extremely partial to, and the other fact that I was still dancing along and breaking it down to their Middle Eastern rap music. ...In the middle of the kebab shop. Yeahhhhhhh.

It gets better. Oh, it gets better. Have you had enough? Are you cringing yet? Are you totally disappointed at the mockery of civilized and decent human behavior when inhabiting a strange and foreign country? Because if you aren't, I am at the memories of the night. At this point, black-out would be preferred over remembering the self-travesty. I am not proud of myself.

So, huh, funny thing-- I forgot how when you're drunk-- like, really, really drunk-- you forget things. Like the fact you gave your friend 2 Euro for a White Russian of her own earlier and so are short-changed after buying a Doner kebab at 2 AM. Which leads to things like finding yourself standing in a packed kebab shop, contemplating if anyone will see you take your kebab and run. And then just saying "fuck it," digging in and devouring said kebab in a beastly manner that not even your close friends can contain their disgust as you demolish it in under 2.2 minutes, losing a french fry down between your cleavage in the process. (The act of fishing dropped food from down there, in case you were not aware, is called "spelunking." As in, "I totally went spelunking after that fry while everyone watched. No fry left behind!")

After the Destruction of Kebab Shop on Cavour, I toddled my way home, chain-smoking and weaving, to wrestle out of my clothes and fall into bed, full make-up still on. Woke up the next morning protesting sunlight, street noise, raccoon eyes, and my continued existence with a massive hangover. Lesson learned.

So let's here it for America, Americans, and American students abroad! Land of the freely drunk, home of the blazed.

XOXO

P.S-- You can probably find me at Be Bop next Tuesday night. Repeat performance around 11. Less drinking this round, though. But probably equal parts dancing and singing.

"Well, It Seemed Like You Might Be Asking."

I had the most INTERESTING conversation with Perfect last night.

Firstly, yes, you read that right—your tired eyes are not deceiving you—a conversation (text, albeit,) was had. The first multi-text conversation since he left for college, and it lasted for 6 HOURS. (There was driving and eating somewhere in between there, so I’ll trim it to 4 hours, but still—6:30 PM through 12:30 AM.

YES.

Secondly, against all my better judgment, and all Caiti’s better judgment, Perfect may now have a slightly scandalous picture of me in his possession. Now, before you go all medieval and shit on me (yes, you, Caiti), let me start from the beginning and explain.

Yesterday, Alli, Melissa and I went to Montpelier and Worcester for an end –of-summer weekend blowout. We cleverly called it the “Girls’ MON(tpelier)-(Worce)STER Adventure.” We did all the things we normally do: blasted music, took gratuitous amounts of pictures and video, got coffee, climbed on cannons on the State House lawn and offended families with our sexually-themed poses, skipped gaily through Montpelier without a care in the world of being yelled at to get out of town by Perfect from Capitol Copy now that he’s three and a half hours away in Massachusetts, bombed down Route 12 into Worcester, took some more gratuitous pictures, stopped for gas, took two new “field trips” around Worcester to further adventure, went to the Pots, went skinny-dipping, were caught by a family, walked down the road naked, went to Dairy Crème, had to hold myself back from slamming my medium chocolate/vanilla with rainbow sprinkles twist into the face of the girl who served it to me…you know—the usual.

I should make an aside here so you don’t assume I’m a normally violent or vindictive person. Although I love the ice cream at Dairy Crème, I fucking hate their wait-staff. It seems as though every girl who has ever left a flirty or potentially loaded comment on Perfect’s Facebook wall insinuating SOMETHING works there. Really. And the one who handed me my ice cream cone yesterday was the same girl who posted lyrics to a bump-and-grind song that due to the content that followed afterward, I can only assume she and Perfect ground it out together to some night this past summer. I know, I know….assuming makes an ass out of “u” & “me,” but really—I know Perfect. I know how he loves to dance. I know how he loves to grind. I remember his caveat to me of, “I see pictures later and I’m just like, “whoa, it wasn’t like that!” You know? It’s just dancing.” Yeah, it may just be dancing, but I am a dancing fool who loves to dance just as much as he does, and you know the only people I really grind with? People who I’d let get into my pants, because they might as well be, anyway.

It wasn’t that whole fiasco so much. I’ve gotten past (most) of my issues concerning what may or may not have happened, and channel it in a productive way: I downloaded that song onto my iPod, and when I’m running at the gym, if I start to think I won’t make it another quarter-mile, I put it on. And thinking about it, imagining them fused at the pelvis, well…that burns me through the next quarter-mile with energy to spare. It works. So it wasn’t so much THAT, as the fact that as she reached out, cone in hand, our eyes locked as I realized who she was, and her eyes flashed in recognition of who I was, and then…she smiled at me. This really nice, friendly smile that said, “oh, hey! I know who you are! We have friends in common.” And I just wanted to reach over the counter, grab her by her hair, and smash her forehead repeatedly against said counter with an identical perky smile on my face that said, “Oh, I know!”

But my whole psychotic tirade is an aside to the point.

While at the Pots, Melissa took a picture of Alli and me standing in our towels in front of the swimming hole and waterfall. And yeah, ok, so we may have been obviously not wearing bathing suits because of our blatantly bare backs, but I didn’t think much of it, because I sent it to Perfect later while we were at Dairy Crème with a note attached saying, “Wish you were here! (It’s fucking cold!)” Previously, I had fired off a spur-of-the-moment and not really seemingly important text that we were running a bet, and could he finish of one of the gigantic Dairy Crème large ice cream cones? When he replied back to that verbosely and in multiple sentences and thought processes, it was obvious he was feeling chatty. Maybe that’s what us going five days without talking to each other will do for him. I decided that hey, still parked in the Dairy Crème parking lot while Little Miss Pelvic Thrust was watching us through the glass service window, it would be a good time to send him that picture. So I did.

I should realize by now that Perfect is one of those very few people in my life who always manages to shock me. If I think it’s one way, he’ll be thinking in another direction. If I say “up,” he’ll be thoroughly “down.” When I finally get exhausted from being constantly on my tip-toes and throw in the towel and least expect it is when he always seems to pounce, and it always knocks me off guard. He knows exactly how to push my buttons, in what order, and how I liked them to be touched.

“That’s nothing! I’ve seen better pics!” he said.

At first, I was shocked. Then, affronted. Then, realization dawned and I realized what I had meant to be a friendly photo of something familiar and an “I’m thinking of you” was taken to a “yeah, I’m familiar with your naked back and now I want to think of you fully nekkid” level.

“Hahaha, please,” I texted back after I had recovered. “That was just supposed to be a pic from home. Believe me, if I were going to send you pictures to get your pulse racing, I’d know to send a better one than that.”

Perfect, in full button-pushing mode, called my bluff and raised me. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve sent some well-appreciated pictures before, but only to the very, very good, and the very, very lucky.”

“Haha. Very, very?”

“A girl’s got to be discerning,” I texted back, with the sort of Victorian haughty sniff that I hoped he caught on to. “Can’t just give them away, you know.”

And then Perfect said the thing that just literally blew my mind right out of the water. “Haha, true, but I have had sex with you!”

Excuse me. Gentlemen in the room? Please stand up. Oh, Perfect, I notice you’re NOT standing? Good boy. Right answer. Although yes, I will admit, it, ahem, got the ocean below rolling when he said this (ohhh, I’m so easy), it got both my libido and pride going in tandem.

“So what?” I asked, maybe a little forcefully; I don’t know, you tell me after you read this. “You want a picture? Do you think you’re very, very good or very, very lucky? Just because I’ve had sex with you doesn’t mean you get a complimentary picture. What’s in it for me, hmm?”

I like to pack as much sass as I can into my 5-foot-3-inches as I can. Sass is something that I feel Perfect doesn’t get enough of in his daily diet. He’s more used to things and/or women just falling over in front of him. I don’t like to fall. As evidenced by the above.

There was about twenty minutes of silence from his end in which I started to worry if I had completely called our little game of non-penetration stimulation off with my loads of…sass. Up until this point, Perfect had been texting back seconds after I sent him a text. (I love that promptness. Nothing says “I’m home in my dorm room and bored and horny” more than a very prompt response. I live for those prompt responses. They are one of my favorite things. Especially if the subject matter built around them is naughty by nature.)

I also started to worry that I may be on the receiving end of a dick-a-licious picture text. So I did what was natural: called in a girl friend’s expert advice. Between the two of us, Caiti and I reached a decision: make sure he’s alone, is sober, and promises to not show any sent pictures to anyone else. Trust is key. Also, DON’T SEND ANYTHING WITHOUT GETTING SOMETHING FIRST. Also, men’s idea of sexy tends to be, literally, balls-to-the-walls. Men have, do, and will continue to think that sending pictures of their packages is hot. They expect titty shots in return. Women, on the other hand, think there’s nothing more tasteful and teasing than a pretty, sexy, and pretty sexy lingerie shot to get things rolling. Women tend to send progressive pictures, each with less clothing than the last. Again, it’s about building both trust and suspense. Men tend to go BAM! There it all is, all at once, and all in the front.

Understandably, I was having some performance-anxiety issues with the idea of actually having to send Perfect a picture if that’s what it came down to. The whole “I’ve seen better” had started to churn around in my head. A.) Oh, really? How many girls are sending you nudey-pics, Mr. Perfect, and B.) What is he used to getting, and so C.) What does he expect? Don’t get me wrong—like I told him, I’m not new to this. And my pictures in the past have been well-appreciated. I also have a nice stash of some pictures already on my cell phone’s memory that I took when Perfect and I were officially together on my birthday, the night that he was supposed to be able to spend the night but ended up not being able to. Let’s just say, the money I dropped in Victoria’s Secret that day was not wasted that night. He had asked for pictures that night, as well, but I heeded the advice of a different Caitlin—Cait—and kept them to myself. But this was an issue of: if he were to send a picture of his artillery, what the fuck was I supposed to counter with? This snatch ain’t seeing a cell phone camera, HELL to the NO.

Instead, I got a different kind of response: a major scale-back. After I read the sassy response out-loud to Alli and watched he face go shocked and slack-jawed, I had started to draft a clarification, but Perfect beat me to it. Wounded. (I forgot he was sensitive. Oops.) A bit affronted. Hurt pride. “LOL, I don’t know. LOL. I wasn’t asking.”

“Oh, well, that last text was supposed to be teasing, not harsh. Text doesn’t translate tone well, hahaha. And I seemed like you might be, so I was trying to decide if you were good or lucky.”

“Haha, am I good or lucky?” AHA. There we go. Back where I wanted. Good save! Carissa fumbles the come on, but recovers it to score a touch-down response somewhere in her end-zone. (Excuse me for a moment. I love football and sexual football metaphors.)

“Well, from what I remember, you were good, and I’d say you’re pretty lucky, but it all depends on a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Are you asking now, for starters?”

“Well, I am if you’re offering, haha!”

Oh no. I wasn’t going to let him escape with this one, oh no. This was not my horny little doing, my friend. His sex-mind was what got us here in the first place. I was just doing a “friendly” thing, which he turned into a “hey, we fucked and I’d like to see where we can still go” thing.

“You were the one who brought it up. And you should know this isn’t a one-way thing. If I send you something, I expect something in return. Can you deal with those terms?”

“Well, I’m not in a place I can do that now with my two roommates in the room, so I guess that means tonight’s a no, haha.”

My libido cried at the same time I considered saying, “That’s what cars are for. Or bathrooms. Or vacant rooms. Or a dark bike-path devoid of passers-by.” Instead, I reigned it in, leaving him to do the thinking on his own.

“Aww, that’s a shame. Well, if you get creative, let me know. I’m down for it.”

“LOL, alright.”

I put down the phone.

An hour later, still thinking about it, I picked it back up, took advantage of Perfect’s now 24/7 coverage that was the only thing that kept me from doing naughty things like this when he lived at home in Worcester, and sent him one of the pictures I took the night of my birthday. Before you kill me, especially Caiti—let me explain. It’s tasteful. I’m covered in a pink-orange lace teddy and flouncy matching underwear. I’m wearing heels that make my legs look a deceptive mile long. The lighting is low, I’m tan and toned, and half of my face is covered by my hair. It’s very Victoria’s Secret catalog, maybe because the lingerie IS Victoria’s Secret. I figure, give him something to think about so he doesn’t go off texting those other little hussies who will apparently send him pictures no questions asked. (To this, I think, really? I can’t see One Time Girl firing off candids of her boobs, so who does that leave? Dairy Crème girls? Grrrrrrrrrr…)

“There’s a little something to start you off,” I told him. “I’m making you a tab. I expect you’ll pay it off when you can. Sweet dreams.”

“Haha, oh, that’s a little better,” Perfect responded back.

“Well, enjoy it killer, because that’s all you get fo’ free, hahaha,” I said. He remained quiet for the next twenty or so minutes, which from previous knowledge is about the time we’ve decided it takes for him to sneak off to whack off. When he texted me back, it made me hoot with raucous laughter.

“Haha, who took that? LOL.”

Now, Mr. Perfect, you can hide behind your “haha”s and your “LOL”s, but really, by now, I know that’s how you dress up, disguise and hide what you’re really trying to say when you’re a little bit unsure of how it will go over. And this “Haha, who took that? LOL,” had concern, jealousy, and just the right amount of delicious male possession all over it. I couldn’t resist baiting him a little more. So easy.

“Hahaha—one of my other lovers. No, I took it myself. I’m holding my cell, see?” And it was true. Almost front and center in the picture, shining in my hand was my cell phone, outstretched to catch my image in my mirror. (Yes, I had to Myspace it up to take the picture in the first place—I’m so, so sorry.) But it felt good knowing my nearly naked body was so captivating he didn’t even notice it until I pointed it out.

“Haha, oh, ok.” Blatant relief.

So. Excuse me, again. Here I am, thinking he’s sleeping around with all the new freshmen girls, getting ready to expect the worst, and yet, apparently, he’s still feeling possessive over my body and worrying about other people seeing it? What is not adding up here? Could Perfect be—gasp—holding on, too? I try not to lead my train of thought down that road, but really—what gives for his concern and desire to make sure I am not passing myself around like I am thinking in a worst-case scenario he is passing himself around?

As I told the lovely Miss Sarah, men are hounds. I like to keep this in mind, which may not fit with the whole "think positive" thing I was supposedly trying to, but I always, ALWAYS keep a little part of my mind that tells me, "He's off sleeping with another girl. Right now. Possibly, two. Possibly, he's sleeping his way through his college/local bar/city/gym."

I have found that if I keep this possibility in my mind, I am never quite so shocked and pissed off as I would be if I didn't consider it a possibility in the first place, or train myself to expect it.

Maybe it's teaching men a bad thing, though. Maybe it's teaching them that we expect bad behavior from men. But honestly, even while I'm intimately texting or talking to Perfect, I can't help but wonder what other girls he's also texting/talking to/looking at pictures of. Maybe I'm guarded. Maybe I am a pessimist at heart. But maybe, it's also smart.

I would cry “double standard” if it wasn’t for the fact that this new development makes me feel deliciously tingly inside. Perfect is still somehow, even just a little bit, attached. Hostage relationship, we have a win!

XOXO

Boob Envy: We Got 'Em, You Want 'Em

One of my favorite stories of all time that was told to me was about a Champlain College student that when asked in class by his professor what extra body part he would grow if he were able to, he responded, “A female boob. Right in the middle of my chest.” When asked to explain his thinking, he said, “What man doesn’t want a boob just to play with whenever they want?” Not another hand or arm, not wings, not even another penis—a single, solitary female breast was this guy’s one desire.

Boob envy. It’s not an uncommon subject. Everywhere you go, there are women who wish that they were bigger, smaller, more perky, less droopy, less bouncy, more firm. Bigger boobs are seen as more feminine, sexy, desirable. But they’re also a pain in the ass. They’re heavy, they make running or sports difficult, they get in the way. And, if you’re a petite woman with big boobs and a little waist, good luck finding a tank top that actually fits without falling out of it. Small breasts are more functional, innocent, and you can actually go bra-less or wear backless dresses. But, as I’ve been told by numerous B and lesser cup women, they’d kill for more. To which large-breasted women reply: “Do you want some of mine?” No one seems to be quite satisfied with their mammary-centric lot in life, except for maybe the men who get to experience them.

An old flame of mine once said that if he could be a woman for a day, he’d be one of those girls that walk around in a thin, long t-shirt over leggings and no bra. I asked him why, and he looked at me like I had two heads. (Or, three boobs.) “Are you kidding? Those girls drive guys crazy! YOU CAN SEE THEIR BOOBS. Having boobs for a day would be so cool. Why would I not want to flaunt them?” (This was from a self-proclaimed ass man, nonetheless.) It seems as though even men are obsessed with the twin female orbs, hence the popularity of Hooters. And here you thought it was just for the food.

Hollywood, the porn industry, and photos airbrushed to almost epic proportions have made breast implants and fake breasts a lot more plentiful in the media than say…natural breasts. Women see them and get down and out that their nipples don’t point out perfectly like the Queen of England’s guards. Men see them and get ideas, which are then dashed when they roll over and look at their girlfriend. Trust me, a discerning eye can pick out the real from the fake within a glance. A friend of mine was boasting about the hot new poster he had hanging in his dorm room. “She’s so girl-next-door,” he said. A female friend and I walked in and almost immediately le him down within a few seconds of seeing it. “They’re not real.”

“How can you tell?”

“They’re so far apart, but they still point out. You can practically see the where they Photoshopped in more boob-age. Plus, no boobs are that naturally round. It’s like those women in thongs on the beach in beer posters.”

“You mean--” Here, a horrified gasp.

“Yeah, they’re fake too.”

But I’m not here to disappoint and make people feel if their cups are either half-empty or overflowing—this is our boob appreciation issue! So ladies, take care of the girls. No matter what size, shape, or origin, go get them checked out and make sure you’re healthy. And gentlemen, no, although you do not count as a certified ob-gyn, feel free to let your lady know the love and affection you have for her set.

XOXO