Here's to Sandy

Drudging through the boat graveyard, my rain speckled glasses are smeared with dirt -- but necessary, for I am covering up my unwashed face, hoping to devoid notices of my unkempt hair knotted atop my head and the over-sized sweater I am wearing, belonging to my boyfriend's laundry basket -- watching my green eyes stamper through the sludge, carrying my bag and his bags of safety items -- what we threw together during the low tide -- I am eyeing the Russian Standard I know he is concealing, imagining the cool rim of the bottle as it reaches my lips, with just enough liquid left to burn my aching throat. I also know there is a new, full bottle of Absolut, just waiting for someone to crack the seal, so my excuses build to finish the other as merely a means of consolidation purposes.

My green eyes is yards ahead, bypassing the families who want to impress their Facebook friends with photos of sailboats and motorboats washed upon land. Some are wedged into the tall grass, the bow immersed in earth while the other half remains vulnerable on the road, naked for pictures. Others have collided, stopping the neighboring boat from wiping down the street. A particularly nice sailboat has leaned itself against a metal rod, stuck in the center of the road. It looks like it had a nice time cruising with the hurricane winds until it discovered the ocean was taken from under her. Her-- boats are women you know.

With his safety around him, my green eyes confidently stomps ahead, worrying his home, his lifeline, is damaged. Meanwhile, I have no clue how my home is. If everything I own is okay. If my blanket and laptop, previously bruised by my roommate, is in fact still in my room and in my condition. Home has different meanings for everyone but when it is tossed in your face so many times, it's a burden. Why aren't I in Brooklyn? If that is indeed my home. If we broke up right now, he would have a home albeit the weather or leaks or power; I would be lost.

My lifeline is here, is him. I have known this boy for one month and there was no question in my mind I would stay with him during the hurricane. If he could not leave his boat than neither could I. If he switched to the cheap hotel with complimentary pastries, bought booze and frozen meals, then I am there with him, too. My questions weren't limitless, rather, limiting. My love, I go where you go. I am where you are.

But cooped up together for four days has created a tension I was unaware of, brought out an insecurity I hid. The two of us, sick with a cold and deep-chested cough. My eyes water, and throat closes up, whenever he smokes his Newports. The liquor fogs my fevered head and with each temperature rising, my body is cranky from the lack of nutrients I am feeding it.

It is true, the ninja adventures in my mind, the romantic holding-each-other-through-the-storm did not occur. My notions of sailing together, of saving each other, were more from a movie than from reality. His love for a fellow sailor is, maybe, more real than his love for any girl. And my love for him is an admiration the silly girl has the older, much cooler boy. I feel like the gum stuck to his flip flop as he tries to make it home. I am only with him 'cause he is stuck with me. Home is all that matters.

I feel like an idiot. The one home I have I abandoned so it wouldn't be fair to call it such. Vodka is a home of types. It's my reliable, standby no matter what the weather or who I am with -- so call me a poet, a drunk, an emotional being -- why is that worse than a logical neurotic?

And here I sit, adorned in my boyfriend's dirty t-shirt and sweater, clean boxers and socks, eating a thawed out Broccoli and Cheese Hot Pocket, taking comfort in the tiny but real cubes of cheddar cheese embedded in the mushy crust. Eating one cold yet pliable, makes it apparent these frozen munchies are not as processed as originally believed. Or perhaps, dwelling in a sailboat in the boat grave yard, sloppy and sick, makes eating a thawed out Hot Pocket not so extreme and there is no comfort after all.

Meeting the Poet

On a crisp night in February I left my Hoboken bubble to visit it's unpopular sister, Jersey City, for a housewarming party thrown by a friend of mine.

This friend is 50-year-old writer who actually has a tangible, published book available (seems unheard of nowadays) and took a liking to me while I was serving him at a restaurant almost four years ago.

Greeting the party in my gray and orange striped cardigan, gripping my Smirnoff handle I bought on sale for twenty bucks, it was clear I was at the wrong event. Jazz was softly streaming and the lights were dim enough to feel like I was entering a poetry club rather than a one-bedroom apartment in a Jersey ghetto. I pretended to look at the books lining the walls, but that was an act, since I already spent nights examining his bookshelves.

My friend tried playing good host by taking the large handle from my small hands and introducing me to some people, sitting in a circle, "This is Stephanie, she's a poet."

My face reddened and I stuttered something about not writing much poetry anymore, more along the lines of short stories. Everyone shook my hand and said their names but I did not process anything as I was too busy trying to fit in.

A surly man, who my friend introduced as "also a poet," starting questioning me on what I write or how I write or something and really, to stop the questions I just handed him my card. I am quite proud of my business cards, adorned with a black and white picture of an alter-ego of sorts with long, wavy black hair and a star tattoo on her neck.

I am pretty sure the next question was if I was having sex with the 50-year-old. I politely guffawed and dismissed that notion.

Later the glum poet pulled up my blog and Twitter via his smartphone and started quoting me -- to me! -- as I tried desperately to avoid eye contact and walk away. It's one thing to comfortably pseudo-promote yourself but another to hear your words read aloud, by a stranger, who you can't tell if he's drunk, condescending, hitting on you, or genuinely enjoying your stories.

The next day I had a friend request and new follower on Twitter. Turns out, this poet was just as nervous as I was and also felt out of place. We're friends now. He encourages me to write, builds my ego. Maybe, in a strange way he's become my mentor, or at least, showed me what I'd be like if I was a 40-year-old, professor-poet.

So that's how meeting the poet led to "Unemployed Sex" -- my new weekly column on njpoet.com.

I Should've Gotten a Magician

As the dutiful Maid of Honor for my sister's upcoming wedding, I was in charge of organizing her bachelorette party. I previously only attended one -- for my now sister-in-law -- but after getting kicked out of a bar and throwing up on my mother, my memory clearly could not guide me on what a bachelorette party is actually supposed to be like.

My bright idea was to find a stripper magician. I was intrigued by the ridiculous possibility of a man, only wearing a bow tie, pulling dildos out of top hats and using my sister as his glamorous assistant. Alas, Google brought me to more midget strippers than I ever knew existed and my goal was never achieved.

Someone suggested Hunk-o-Mania at Club Elegance in Midtown. The gloriously cheesy name and ironic location convinced me it might be fun. Having never seen any sort of stripper event before, I tried to let go of my hesitant judgements as I read the web site's promise of many chiseled Hulk-like naked men dancing.

Nine VIP tickets later -- including a "hot seat" for my sister -- the bachelorette party was set (as far as expected, raunchy single girl antics go).

One step into the club, my party was greeted with penis memorabilia: penis wands, penis pens, penis balloons, headbands with bobble penis horns, veils adorned with tiny, plastic pink penises... until the day bachelors go out with vagina hats, I will never wear or make someone where anything with a penis on their head.

As we settled into our seats, I was overwhelmed by how many bulky men were patrolling the room with the sole purpose to make girls feel special and receive tips. Our waiter greeted us with direct eye contact, leaned in close, and subtly stroked my leg and arms. Was wearing a skirt a mistake? I ordered a vodka on the rocks with a lemon, realizing I was way too sober for whatever is about to happen. He tells me when he returns I will touch his abs and if I like it, give him a dollar. Excuse me?

My mouth readily accepted the iced house vodka in a small plastic cup, while the waiter asked me where I was from. "Jersey but I just moved to Brooklyn" -- I needed to establish how hip I was, that I was not like the dressed up, excitable girls that generally enter this institution.

"Oh really? My father's from Brooklyn..." he tells me, with his crotch an inch from my face. Score, my idea worked, he thinks I am cool and we are discussing something productive.

"Now it's time to touch my abs," he says -- Fail. -- "That's okay, I'm good." I respond, quickly pressing my lips on the straw, sucking up the liquor.

"But everyone has to," he smiles, probably thinking I am just being coy.

"No, really. I am good." Can we just talk about your father again? He walks away and did not address me the rest of the night.

Majority of the club workers were "exotic" but naturally, my eyes migrated toward a tall, toned blonde boy standing along the wall. He looked miserable, like he did not want to work there, like he was strictly there for money but knew deep down he was an incredible musician or writer or something much more interesting and fulfilling than a stripper. Of course, I was projecting my own insecurities and aspirations onto him, but he was so sweet looking I had to believe he wanted more for himself than this life.

I pointed him out to my sister who laughed at how typical my choice was. "You always go for the whitest of whites Stephanie." I knew that was true, I guess I have a type. "He also looks like he's twelve." That was also typical of me, to go for the baby face. In fact, my friends already pinned me into becoming a cougar once I pass my twenties.

My cousin nicknamed him "Kansas" as he looked like an innocent, country boy while my sister-in-law said he reminded her of The Tool as in "Sure, he has a nice body but he has that cute, pre-pubescent boyish charm."

He must've noticed our eyes and whispers and took advantage of this by sauntering over and asking if we wanted a private dance, but he said this with such a thick Russian accent, I was taken even more aback and stuttered a high-pitched, "Oh.. what? Hi.. um, no, uh... thanks.. No, that's okay.. Thanks." Then, sheepishly smiled. Why am I so socially awkward?

He left us while an MC ran onto the stage, "How are all you beautiful women doing tonight!?" the guy yelled into a mic. It did not take much to rev up this crowd. "I have a huge boner right now! I have such a big boner it would knock you back and put your boyfriend or fiance or husband to shame!" The women screamed.

I immediately went to the bar for another drink. Clearly, my waiter was not coming back and how anyone could shout about having a boner into a microphone and not laugh is beyond me.

The lights lowered and "Proud to be an American" played over the speakers as men strut on stage in all sorts of uniforms: a marine, a policeman, a fire fighter, and then my blonde Russian, as a naval officer. The men performed a strange patriotic tribute, lip synching the song and doing choreographed, synchronized salutes.

More naked men later, I began to think something was wrong with me. How could all these women publicly fawn over such contrived behavior? Also, how come it was so easy for them to rub their hands all over the dancers' sweaty bodies while I could hardly make eye contact? Personal space did not exist here. Neither did anyone who thought as much as I did, apparently.

While contemplating why I was perceived as the weird one there, my mind drifted to The Tool and how much I missed his sex. I also began to imagine him as one of these waiters, noting how perfect his abs and broad shoulders would look in the wifebeater uniforms and how his sneaky smile would cause some girls to melt.

My longing was interrupted by the topless, blonde Russian who walked right up to me again but this time with a smirk, like he knew some secret I did not. "I like your hair," he states.

My face reddened and I mumbled, "Thanks," while fireworks went off in my brain. He likes my hair. And he's so fucking cute.

Any solace derived from that comment faded when I noticed my sister and her friends giggling, pulling out their cameras. Instead of taking my hand and leading me to a private room, the Russian placed his hands on my knees and spreads my legs. He preceded to rub his butt into my lap and flex his abs. I closed my eyes tight, not knowing what else to do. So this is a lap dance.

I felt his breath and body heat all over me, while my body was a tense bundle of nerves. My hands were clenched into a tight fist, my shoulders stiff. I kept trying to close my legs but he just kept opening them, insisting on dry humping me as my sister's friends continually grabbed my arm to put my hands on his body. Each time my fingers went anywhere near him, I reacted in such a way you'd think he burned me. I wanted to touch him. I could not touch him. At one point, my reaction was so fast the tip of my finger tugged at his belt loop and I felt the need to utter, "Sorry."

The horrific dance lasted no more than five minutes. He just stopped and walked away. I felt dirty and used. Everyone else got a private room, they got twenty minutes. I got five minutes of humiliation and teasing. If we went into another room maybe I could have convinced him to talk to me, he could've confided in me what brought him to America and why he was stuck stripping. Maybe I could have saved him. Or maybe, I would have just gazed into his blue eyes and he could have saved me.

Flashing lights and house music brought me back to reality. I condemned myself for just thinking of a scenario so fantastical, bought another vodka, and toasted with no one.

Ditched.

A lump is growing in my throat as my mouth dries up, my palms feel clammy and my heart might beat out of my chest. With each breathe, the crack in my heart that was sloppily stitched starts to rip at the seams... it hurts. It nags. It weighs on my lungs.

The rock in my stomach hardens when a little voice in my head whispers, "You knew this would happen" and while my eyes are dry, I am crying inside. Violently shaking. (The only time I can physically cry is when alcohol is involved).

Make it all go away. His eyes. His smile. His false promises. (I am begging to no one).

While you may act like "the wind," I remain--

a fish gutted on the sidewalk.

Burned

That awkward first kiss haunts me at each lips first touch, while my virginity is taken over and over and those blood stained shorts lie in the bottom drawer. My first love, my first physical intimacy, neither left closure and my mouth is constantly searching for you both... with each full moon and sandy beach my body howls at the lost night.

Those boys from high school who only held my hand in secret -- who I let hide me -- I learned the power of my mouth, my stare, my hands. I can twirl boys on my finger now just like I let you twirl me and with each secret, my body goes through the motions of a robot: "It's just a physical thing," my conscious whispers.

That friend who kissed me on the couch, and spent a whole summer kissing me, with each hesitant first kiss I hope it will be yours. I search for those butterflies my body trapped then lost when you let me go.

And the boy with the soft blue eyes, who let me throw a yogurt against the wall and cleaned up my mess. I can never look into another's eyes without wishing they were yours, watching me, telling me, "Everything [I] do is beautiful." I can never cry without feeling like something is missing -- your arms around my shoulders -- your eyes pleading with me.

My rebound anarchist, who was the best sex I ever had, each first meeting I want to be ours, with an instant connection where you know something amazing is going to happen. My hips crave your hands when they'd rub down my side and send chills through my spine. I still bite, expecting you to bite back, or at least invoke a spank, but new lovers never respond.

There's a guy who won't let me go. I've never hated and wanted anyone more, and each drunken night, I want him in my bed. Every dirty word I say is taken from our conversations. It's a trap of sex and emotion and with every new relationship, my trust reminds me you broke it.

Each lover left a scar, my skin is almost covered. If there is someone I am supposed to end up with, where will he fit?

He Told Me to Write Fiction.

"Why wait for those movie-like moments? Why not create one?"

He asks me while we lay on my roof, side-by-side staring at the sky, mistaking stars for satellites. We were convinced the blinking lights high above were moving -- not us -- not until we outstretched our hands into a diamond in front of our faces and realized we were not the center of the universe. But it felt like we were.

"I can't get out of my own head."

"...So you're depressed?"

"Yeah... How about you?"

"Yeah."

While an actor, his front falls for me. Despite our opposing images, there is a quiet understanding. A rare friendship that breeds and begs me to...

It would've been nice to hold his hand then. Maybe, make out. Feel the graveness of his desire flood through me.

But we're just friends. There was comfort just to lay, without expectations. To have someone to be lonely with.

Repeat, Rewind, Delete.

His hair is just the way I like it: missing the gel locking each curl in place. The messiness masks his squinty, brown eyes, and fares well with his smooth torso and toned arms. He looks wild and rough as he pins me to the bed, pushing my hands over my head.

Our eyes lock, while he enters from above -- “You’re beautiful” -- he says (like it was normal), while thrusting his cock deeper inside me. Fuck.

I bite down on my tongue then screech -- “I hate you” -- as my hands unlock, calmly grabbing his shoulders, pulling his sweaty body to mine. Hips aligned, the harder he pushes the more tears brim in the corner of my eyes.

-- “Faster”-- the more he works, the closer we'll be. He won’t see the emotion on my face. The fear and tears that involuntarily spawned from his words.

I'm moaning loud now, telling him to continue, saying just what he wants to hear, but really, trying to cover his whispers in my ear, “I've missed you.”

You always say you miss me when I am right here.

“You’re beautiful”-- repeating that look, that phrase in my head. Only now, she is the recipient and you actually mean it. Is that why she stays?

In her naivety she doesn’t know where your dick has been. And in my knowing weakness, I still take you back.

I cannot trust you like she can. I am not blissful in ignorance. I am always second choice. ...But you won't let me go and the sex is too good (just don't tell me I'm beautiful again).

That Gave Me Pause.

Google searching "Skinny Ties" takes one to mostly rockabilly, vintage websites selling various sizes, colors, designs... it can get overwhelming when you're looking for a specific person.

I searched and searched, not sure exactly what for, until I found it. A one-of-a-kind navy, textured skinny tie with a small, silver shooting star.

I remember you wore it beaming with pride, every time, that I bought it for you-- that not only did the color compliment your soft blue eyes, but the star symbolized me with you. (You were one who actually understood my love of stars). Plus, you looked hip wearing it.

We were so cool.

I'd like to think my presents to you haven't gone in vain. But I wouldn't know. I haven't seen you in over two years... but one of the last times I did was a couple months after I moved to Hoboken. We went to see Mission of Burma as part of Williamsburg's free Waterfront concerts, ate some vegan Asian food, you came visit me and my new apartment but slept on the couch, of course.

In the midst of packing the last three years of my life, gearing up to move to Brooklyn, I found that perfect skinny tie hanging on a side hook in my closet.

What was it doing here? Why did I have it? Did you leave it here by mistake? Did you realize it wasn't with you anymore? Would you still wear it?

I held that skinny tie in my hands and outlined the star with my finger. Despite being worlds away, I am not sure if I'll ever get used to this. Us not being us. Us not being friends. Not having someone understand why I really love stars.

The Failed Threesome

A couple years ago a quiet girl I waitressed with asked me out for dinner and drinks. Since I did not know her very well, I took it as her way of saying she wanted to be friends-- and who am I to deny an extended hand?

She wanted to go to a new restaurant her ex-boyfriend worked at because on Tuesday night they had cheap specials. Sounded good to me.

Once there, we each ordered a martini, followed by another martini we received courtesy of the manager, then another courtesy of her ex. By the time the place closed, we were more than buzzing so it was easy for her ex to convince us to go to another bar down the street.

There, the ex fed us numerous vodka shots. -- I should probably mention her ex did not speak any English. -- While he was taking care of my bill, I did not speak an actual word to him. My coworker sat in between us relaying English to Spanish and vice versa and through the drinks, we managed to have a good time.

By the time it was 3 a.m., we attempted to stumble back to our homes. Being the lush that I am, I invited the two back to my apartment. The least I could offer was more vodka shots from my Smirnoff handle I always have waiting in the freezer since I hardly paid for anything during the night.

After the first apartment shot, things started to get strange. The three of us were hanging out in my room as the quiet girl told me how cute I was. Thanks? Then the boy started rubbing my shoulders and whispered Spanish nothings into my ear. Seriously, Spanish nothings, since I did not understand what he was saying. Simultaneously, the two pressed their hands against my body and guided it to my bed where each tried to unbutton the long flannel I had over my leggings. My fingers quickly buttoned my shirt back up, as they each began to kiss my neck. 

My confused, drunk mind stuttered "I need more vodka" as I struggled to rise. I poured myself another vodka as I glanced at the guy who was sweaty and smelled like tequila. He looked incredibly excited, like a kid in a candy store, not knowing what to grab first.

As I took my shot, each lunged at my shirt buttons again. I laughed nervously then swiftly button them up like I was playing an instrument. Another shove, I was back on the bed... the charade again continued in trying to match my lips with theirs as they pushed down my hands so they could caress my squirming body. Wow, this was some kind of dual molestation.

Somehow, my body lurched upright and I drunkenly shouted "Stop!" The girl then snapped out of it, grabbing her ex's hand and saying, "We're going to go now." No complaints from me.

The next morning she sent me a text saying she blacked out at the bar and didn't remember the rest of the night. We never talked about the incident.

Missing Friendship

We were riding the No. 1 train headed uptown, back to school, after our "leap day date." My hand clasped with yours like it was an old glove. I can't remember if we bickered or if I didn't feel well but you kissed me on my forehead.

(I never told anyone this before).

Right then, my heart sank. I knew it was the last time you would kiss me (as my boyfriend, my love). I gazed into your eyes -- those soft blue eyes --  you asked me why I looked sad. I squeezed your hand -- those soft hands -- you smirked.

(My mind recalled our first date when I nicknamed you "Smirky" 'cause you couldn't stop smiling around me, but you'd try not to, forming a goofy smirk).

The fight happened back at my apartment. Perhaps, I was looking for an argument, an excuse, a reason why we couldn't be together anymore...

You shouted, "Shut the fuck up!"

(I can still hear the way you said it. A slight hesitance after "shut" and a drawn out "fuck," in a louder tone than I ever heard you yell before). 

I did shut up. Right away. And thought about how I was turning you into an awful, unhappy person. My lips pursed together, as I lowered my eyes to the floor, then whispered, "I think we should break up."

Tears followed as I heard you choke on your breath. Five seconds might've passed, maybe five minutes, but eventually, you looked at the wall and said, "I think so, too."

We both cried and held onto each other. Reciting the last "I love you's," reassuring each other when we were older and ailing we would find the other and take care of each other again.

After we wiped each other's tears, we scooped bowls of ice cream and watched an episode of Six Feet Under (our favorite), cuddling under my fuzzy blue blanket. It felt like a giant weight lifted off of us. I don't think I ever felt a bigger relief than that night.

So we had somewhat of an anniversary tonight.

A Postal Service song you used to sing to me played at the bar I went to for Happy Hour. Typical. I came home and flipped through our old photos.

Why do I still feel compelled to tell you about the artists I interview and an installation I saw reminding me of Marcel Duchamp last week? Why did I want to buy us tickets to see the founder of Black Flag and Circle Jerks, who I read about on Pitchfork yesterday? Why were you the one I wanted to call when both my siblings got engaged?

"I can't be your rock anymore," you told me, two years later when you got a new girlfriend. "I can't give her a reason to be jealous."

BUT YOU WERE MY FUCKING BEST FRIEND.

 .

I cried alone tonight.

#2011highs

Twitter upsets me. I feel like I am trying to get into the popular clique by having to copy everyone else... hashtags, retweet, links... but I don't really know how to do it. And I try to show off my random, hilarious and poignant thoughts but always seem to fall short. My followers come and go.

In attempts to get "more popular" I am trying to incorporate trending topics. This morning I noticed one was #2011highs. Well that should be easy...

Writing more. Escaping steakhouse. The Cure show.

Seriously. That was all I could think of.

Sure, I escaped the terrible steakhouse I worked at for two years, now write for an online magazine and started this little blog, but I make less money and most of the time feel uselss. The Cure concert was awesome but why didn't I go to any other mind-blowing shows?

Wow. I can't say "2011 sucked" but where are the highs? Where are those crazy experiences that make my heart feel like it's going to burst and my head go into overload?

No spontaneous trips. More blackouts. Same lovers I should be rid of.

So 2012, I will cheers to you tonight, but please... show me something worthwhile this year... and maybe, have 100 followers find me so I can pretend to be loved.

Happily Ever After or Bust

For the Fall 2011 television lineup I was looking forward to "Grimm"-- a show that features the horror and darkness in fairytales, brings out the violence of the wolf eating Little Red Riding's grandmother, and the twisted, carnivore-nature of the witch taking advantage of greedy, gluttonous children like Hansel and Gretal. Sounds perfect for my cynical, perverse mind.

Seeing previews for the show "Once Upon a Time," well that just looked silly and lovey-dovey.

Apparently, I am sometimes rotten at decoding shows through previews. (Yeah, I know, "Don't judge a book by its cover"...spare me). "Grimm" is boring, not very applicable to the stories, and reminds me of a "Law and Order" or "CSI" type show with nonsensical monsters as criminals. "Once Upon a Time" is kind of awesome.

If you haven't seen the show, it delves into a world where fairytale characters are stuck in the modern era -- our reality -- but don't know it or even who their real identity is because the Evil Queen casted a spell on them. They are lost souls wandering our time, all the while feeling like something is missing. Searching for something more. Disillusioned to the belief this is all there is. 

I think I might be a misplaced fairytale character from "Once Upon a Time."

Okay, not really, but wouldn't it be great if there was such an excuse to feel like that? To feel how I do 90 percent of the time?

But who would I be? Perhaps, Belle. She's a bookworm.

I also discovered I'm a sucker for the Snow White and Prince Charming storyline. Maybe, I am biased for my love of Ginnifer Goodwin (Snow White). Maybe, every girl cannot help but want her Prince Charming.

When I was younger I had a far-fetched dream of becoming an actress, and I remember thinking how I never wanted to play a bride because I only wanted to wear a wedding dress once and if I acted in one, it wouldn't be as special as when I wore one for my real wedding.

I also remember thinking, I would never marry. It was just one of those things I could not foresee in my future. It's something I still think. Not that I am against the notion, but the idea always made me feel... empty, like I knew this was just another thing I would be left out of. A major life event I would not participate in.

Not sure if the show and marriage-talk correlate... but they've both circled my mind.

Currently, both my siblings are engaged. It's Christmas time. I guess it's inevitable to feel a little lonesome, even if I don't want to admit it. Even if I lie and smile and say I'm fine.

The Saga of the Tool (continues)

After the incident and my twelve-hour relationship with The Tool, he started texting me three months later -- "Hey" or his infamous "Heyoooo" and later "I guess you're not going to talk to me anymore." -- I refused to answer. Seriously, who combines "Hey" and "Yo" and why did I once respond to that? One night, he called me 22 times. I ignored him.

When he pleaded that I see him, nerves flooded my system. Something told me a meeting was not a good idea, but something else told me I needed some kind of closure. This was my first friend in Hoboken -- and a boy I was sleeping with for over a year -- what happened?

I conceded to meeting at a bar. I was already half a martini in when he arrived. Looking at him was so familiar yet foreign. He cut off his Jonas Brothers' curls and looked so much older, as if more than six months had passed between us. He hardly looked me in the eyes and kept shifting uncomfortably, tearing up bar napkins. He said he was selfish. I said he was immature. He agreed. He said he never thought I'd like him seriously and when he found this other girl he just secured a relationship so he wouldn't be alone, but in truth, he liked me and didn't want to lose me. 

Why do I feel so rejected? Why didn't he fight for me? 

I asked if he was happy. He said "no."

Something changed in me then. It was like I forgave him or forgot how much he hurt me. As long as he didn't like her better than me, as long as she didn't make him happy, I secretly thought. Or maybe, part of me wanted to save him. Because I desperately needed some saving. Somehow, admitting he was unhappy seemed so far from the him I remembered, his vulnerable honesty was more attractive.

I wanted to kiss him. I stared at his lips, while biting my own, knowing he was no good for me but feeling the chemistry between us. Even if he was never a serious boyfriend, there is such a comfort and sexual energy between us. My loneliness crept up and took my rationale (or maybe it was the third martini).

We ended up back at my place. There was drunken chatter-- when he paused, looked at me softly, then kissed me...but I was so far gone at this point I don't remember what it felt like. The next thing that came out of my mouth was, "Do you want to be inside me?"

I wish I could recall his expression or what he said, but all I know is his clothes started flying off while I calmly removed my skirt, hopped on my bed, and said, "Your penis is not going near me, but you are going to get me off."

My memory then acts like photograph flashes: I hear myself moaning and my screams that I shouldn't be doing this, that I hate him. And I hear him whispering he never stopped thinking about me, about wanting me and I see his face looking at me, on top of me ...And then I blacked out.

When I woke up he was gone. I felt a little dirty. A little upset with myself and how easily I slid back into a drunken-induced habit. Are we friends again? Lovers? What do I want from him? (Something he could never give me). But it's like that wall I built blocking people out has gotten so thick, and since he began to chisel at it so long ago, anything he says or touches makes me crumble. I want someone to know me and look at me like he does.

We're back to the dance of him calling and texting, sort of making plans, then canceling without reasons. I now lost my closure and am back to where I started. I am not cut out for games.

The sad thing is, I still want that kiss.

Like a body pillow.

Have you ever grabbed somebody so tight -- held them so close, grasped their back so hard -- wrapping your arms all the way around them and pushing your face into their shoulder screaming -- "hold me" -- "I love you" -- and all the while tightening your grip, feeling your knuckles turn white as if you were trying to fuse your bodies into one as you feel their love, you physically feel their heart filling, and you know they're smiling because they believe you love them and want them a part of you because you are soul-mates but really, your arms are extended around them like they are a stuffed animal -- an object -- and you are simply pressing into them so you can feel, smell, listen to the breath of a real, life human being next to you -- more than next to you -- so perhaps you feel the love they are feeling --

But really, you feel nothing -- your heart is empty -- it sits in your stomach because this person you are hugging so tight cannot lift it, because as much as you fill their heart, they cannot fill yours -- nothing fills yours -- you are numb. and you are alone. more than ever before. as you lay, two bodies intertwined as one, one heart beating and one heart dying.

Three Years Later.

There is particular bar in Manhattan that has a "Name Night" -- each day they choose a name and if it happens to be yours, you drink for free -- awesome. On this particular Friday it happened to be my name so I was super excited.

As the Friday dragged on, it became apparent no one was going to actually go with me. I was cranky but in the area and couldn't pass up free drinks so I went by my lonesome. I kept staring at my phone for that damn green light to blink informing me I had a text. It never lit up. No one was on their way.

The bartender told me, despite my name, I could not get free drinks 'cause part of their gimmick was you needed to bring friends. Did she think I wanted it this way? She was pretty bitchy, too. I didn't argue, but because I felt like it, I lowered her tip. I took out Dorothy Parker's Complete Book of Poems and read and sipped my vodka as the night filled with more people and I heard twenty girls with my name squeal because they were receiving free drinks.

Hello, I've waited here for you... "Everlong" came on the jukebox. ...Come down and waste away with me... ..good song.. ..Slow how you wanted it to be. I'm over my head. Out of her head, she sang... 

I am laying in my freshman dorm room staring at my ceiling, where I pressed bottle caps into the shape of a star. It's 2 a.m. and all my roommates were at a Yonkers bar. There is a boy on the twin bed with me. A blonde, blue-eyed boy. We've been dating for a month but I am not sure if I really like him 'like that' because he is kind of a punk, kind of a nerd and does not drink or party with the same crowd as me. I am bored with the star so turning slightly, I rest my head on the boy's shoulder and my arm flops across his chest; it raises with his breathing which is uneven -- like he's nervous -- and then I heard something beautiful.  

...And I wonder, when I sing along with you... he began singing, softly but on key. It was not showy, more like a whisper. It was beautiful and honest. It was a boy singing to a girl he knew could not sleep. ...If anything could ever feel this real forever. If anything could ever be this good again...


Holy shit, I am crying-- at the bar! How long has this been going on for? Did anybody see me? I grab the ledge and clumsily push my chair out. I grab a napkin, cover my drink, and place my book on the seat. There are more people in the bar than before. I stumble to the hallway and realize I don't know where the bathroom is. I end up in another room, frantic someone will see the tears on my face despite how dark it is.

I run into a stall, slam the door and start sobbing. ...Breathe out so I can breath you in, Hold you in... Will anyone love me like he did? At that moment, in my freshman dorm, I knew this boy would be a major part of my life. It was before the sex, before things got complicated. We were only eighteen then.

We dated for three years before I broke up with him. I know I hurt him. It makes sense that my punishment is always wondering if anyone will love me like he did. If anyone will sing, "Everlong," after knowing me for a month and mean it.

I leave the stall with a blotchy face and Rudolph-looking nose. The bar was so dark and busy no one noticed.

Bittersweet, Indeed.

My face was flushed. He asked me what I was thinking about. Isn't that the question people always say not to ask? I couldn't tell him (I could not make eye contact either). He remained seated as I paced. "C'mon, you can tell me anything." I could tell his eyes were searching me for answers. "Can I? Can I, really?" I knew I could.

"You're face is turning red." He was smiling. He was getting off on me struggling. "It's just sometimes... I think things... you know? ...I am not getting all 'Fatal Attraction' on you... it's just sometimes..." My voice was squeaking; each stutter came out higher than the one before. That smile was so damn cute. "What would it be like if your whole marriage thing wasn't in the way? I know this could never happen. But what if, you know? What if there were absolutely no inhibitions between us? What if we went out on a 'real' date doing stuff we always talk about doing but know we never could? ...What would people think of us, as a couple? What would we think of us?" My hands were shaking now, and I was short of breath from talking so fast. "I just wonder... what it would be like if our timing was different."

His expression was curiously gleeful, "You think that?" I sighed. I do. "I know that could never happen." Still smiling, he agreed. We couldn't. But my thoughts were out there. They were so bold and stagnate I felt like I could read them off the air. I held my breath.

"I'm hard." He gave me the other smile. The smile that meant we were alone and could mess around. I retorted, "WHAT!? Really!? Now!?" That was not what I was expecting. Casually, he answers, "Yeah, you're turning me on." Half of me wanted to keep screaming and wondered if he listened to what I stammered yet my other half felt special which  -- considering the scenario -- was ridiculous. I gave a sly smirk. "I am?" Okay, so I was fishing for compliments but then, I cut him off. "I can't do this. I have to go."

I grabbed the doorknob to leave -- "Steph, I think of that, too, sometimes." -- Five seconds went by. My eyes were locked with his, but I did not move my hand from the doorknob. The desire made me ache. I could kiss him or simply wrap my arms around him and savor these moments between us. But I turned the knob, instead.

I walked out and leaned my back against the shut door. I drew a long breath, closed my eyes and bowed my head in shame, knowing something I did not say out loud. I could have fallen in love with you.

My three lovers.

I don't sleep around. Not really. I like making out with guys. But to have sex with them? Well, I am particular. So how I ended up having three lovers -- at the same time -- for fours months is beyond me and how I chose these winners from the rest of Hoboken's elite is further from that.

The Tool. Simultaneously, his Jersey Shore meets Jonas Brothers persona endeared and annoyed me. After drinks, he would create a pseudo Italian accent, calling me "baybeh" and leaving the 'R' off the end of words like car and bar. We were friends with benefits for a year before he confessed to having stronger feelings and wanted an exclusive relationship. In other words, he was "jealous of other guys fucking the shit out of [me]." One tipsy night led to us trying on the boyfriend-girlfriend label. Twelve hours later, I saw him walking down the street holding hands with an Asian chick. Dumbfounded, I managed to yell his name, to which he introduced us then hurried away. I still have the boxer briefs left in my room from when he was my boyfriend. My twelve hour boyfriend. I texted him he fucked up but we haven't seen each other nor discussed the incident since. Who broke up with who? 

The Man Whore. A Dominican, charismatic coke head. Off the top of my head I can think of seven people I know he's had sex with. We have nothing else in common. One night he pulled me into my room and gave me an over the top kiss as he tried to stick his hand down my pants. I pushed away, although, secretly liked it. Sure he was slutty, but also, hot. The cat and mouse act continued and ended with him yanking out his (ahem, huge) penis, saying, "Don't you want this?" and me screaming, "No!" and leaving him bewildered on my bed. I smirked at how coy I was, until the next time we hung out, and my hormones won. We had a few nights of rough and wild sex. His room had a long mirror aligned with the bed; the floor covered with half empty liquor bottles and the smell of stale cigarettes. I could spend three days in there without even realizing the sun came up. We did not have much to talk about: just series of basic questions, in between positions, discovering how opposite we were. My favorite question he asked was, "What's your favorite salad dressing?" It was fun for four months until his arrogance got the best of me. Now whenever I see Thousand Island (his favorite) I think of rough sex.

The Married Guy. Don't judge me. It's a cliche story and the mistress never gets the sympathy vote. I am not justifying the situation just explaining it. We talk literature and bond over other people's idiocracies. Once we had a fifteen minute conversation on why I love parenthesis and he loves semicolons. Should I mention we both have daddy issues? And we get prescribed the same panic attack medicine. So he's a wasp and older and married and I suppose that is a problem. The sex is okay but I mostly get off on the secret, taboo aspect of it all. A couple months into the affair, we had a bittersweet conversation about ending it. Two weeks later, we began again. The cycle continues.

A friend (ok, my therapist) said to me, “Various people know fragments of you, but nobody knows and has all of you.” It is true. I put up walls. The Tool built up my ego but I never trusted him. The Man Whore satisfied my animalistic desires but the Married Guy suffices my humanistic need for connection. I choose guys I know could never have all of me... Does this keep me safe or in pain?
  
I am currently in the market for a new lover.