I turned 30 in February, which, even if you try to ignore it or pretend you don’t care, is still kind of momentous and stressful. I spent most of 29 really worried about 30. In planning how I was going to embrace the big 3-0, I resolved a couple of things at the New Year:
1. I would have more sex in 2010 – and I’m quantifying this by making sure I have sex every month.
2. I would say yes – yes to the things that might be fun, but that I usually dismiss because I’m a little neurotic.
Sex and Yes go well together.
In January, I dated The Sweater (no, not that kind of sweater). He was nice, a physicist employed by a big university. We had fun. We hiked around the coast and picnicked above an old military installation. We played pool and I overlooked his cigarettes, because I had to have January sex and this guy was a pretty good bet. The night I said yes we ordered in and watched our favorite stupid movies (him: The Jerk, me: UHF). We moved to my bed, and it was pretty good for a few minutes, until he began to get so soggy wet that I was a little worried something was medically wrong.
Here’s what was wrong: he dripped in my eye. He dripped sweat in my fucking eye during sex. One moment it was hot. The next moment it was clammy and there was sweat in my eye. In spite my immediate desire to launch out of bed and shower, I let it play out. When I sent him home, I stripped my drenched sheets, showered off, and busted out the vibrator to finish the job. We went out one more time, sans sex, and then I called it off over e-mail.
February was the Month of Me. I made plans almost every night and I moved on to the larger goal of ticking the month off my sex list. I slept with the Hot Guy on date two. It turns out he was packing a pretty sizable penis, was cute, employed and seemed to like me. I made him dinner at my house. We had more sex. It was bland, but good in the way big dick sex is, until he started to be creepily infatuated by my boobs.
In the meantime, I met the Punk Rock Guy. We made a connection over Jawbreaker and whiskey, which is totally enough when you’re 23. He invited me to Valentine’s Day with his grandparents on our third date, which I decided was very cute. The grandparents were cute, too. I don’t have any of my own left, so I rely on other people for access to old people.
During the Month of Me I had two birthday celebrations and went out every night. I snowboarded, drank, rocked and dragged my happily exhausted ass into work at my new job, which I celebrated by drinking more and spending money I didn’t have. I got a massage and a facial. I had a lot of sex, juggling two guys. Two! The Hot Guy texted me on my birthday: “Happy Birthday, will have to be extra nice to you when I see you in my birthday suit.” I was impressed that he remembered the date. Then a few days later he texted, “Hey, do you want to grab a drink later and then I can grab you?” I broke up with him because he put me on the maintenance text plan too soon. You want to sleep with me, Hot Guy, you have to at least send a few more sentences.
Plus, the Punk Rock Guy was giving me the hard sell on being the boyfriend. He remembered my birthday and the name of my cat. I wasn’t buying yet, but he and I had a real emotional connection. Plus, the sex was voracious. And I choose the term “voracious” because I occasionally ended up with the kind of teenage boy hickeys you get when a hungry hormonal beast is trying to consume you. But it was fun. And it was hot.
I said yes to a lot of drinking during the Month of Me as well. I made out with a married bartender in the utility closet of a packed bar at $2 happy hour. I tripped up to the mountains for a weekend with a overfull cabin of mostly stoned strangers and had a pretty good time.
I carried Punk Rock Guy into March. We dated. We went out for oysters. We drank. He finally had me over to his house, and I started to have doubts. Was I dating a hoarder? I learned he was both less employed and less of a student than I had been lead to believe. Sex? Yep, still voracious. I tried to negotiate with him to stop leaving marks, but to no avail. We’re currently negotiating calling it off. He’s feeling something I’m not. I’m not going to say yes when other people’s feelings are at stake. I’m not going to say yes to hoarding and unemployment, either.
On weekends, I went hiking with a group of friends. One of them was this girl I had an “oh, fuck, I have a crush on a girl” crush on for the better part of last year, but that was pre-Yes 2009. Her friend seduced me. If you’re going to get involved with a lesbian, you have to create drama, right? It’s only drama for me, but still. We’ll call her The Girl. And when The Girl whispered “I think you’re really hot” in my ear in full British accent, I was willing to do anything. It turns out girl sex is really fun. And hot. I think The Girl is going to be April. I hope The Girl is going to be April. I don’t know if I’m prepared to say yes to having a girlfriend, but in the Year of Yes anything can happen.
…Anything, but the ayahuasca ritual in the Peruvian Jungle. I’m headed there in May and my friend’s trying to talk me into a mystic shaman journey. I’m trapped between yes and the ayahuasca wikipedia paragraph about “excessive vomiting and diarrhea.”