Confessions.of.a.NYC.Lezie

I smiled inwardly, remembering how highly aroused I had been. How my attraction to her had taken me by surprise; I hadn’t expected to bed her and I certainly hadn’t expected to want to bed her so very much. But her description of all the things she was going to do to me, directed into my ear via a soft whisper, combined with a firm hand on my thigh, had made me yearn for her to be inside me.

Somehow, after hours of non-sexual conversation, the dynamic had radically changed. Before I could analyze how, or why it had, her lips were on mine; my hands were traversing the brief expanse of naked skin between her shirt and her jeans; and her fingertips were drawing small circles along the back of my neck. We both sat there, wanting, and it was no longer a question of if we would get naked, but when.



To be Cont.

In the beginning, everything is a mystery. When Hope and I started dating, started to learn each others’ likes and dislikes, our personality glitches and our idiosyncrasies, it seemed the learning curve was steep. “How do you take your coffee?” I asked, the first time we went to the Dinner – not even sure if she liked coffee. I approached each question with rabid curiosity hoping to learn more about this woman with whom I was falling in love.

Within the first few months, certain things became apparent: Hope hated fried food, had to sleep with her hair down ( I pulled mine in a bun), hated small talk, was ferociously loyal, was a talker not an AIM person, loved dogs and loved adventure. In the beginning you store this information like pieces of a puzzle, trying to construct, in your own mind, the full picture of the person.I didn’t take too long to piece Hope together, to be able to get a clear picture of who she is and to anticipate her actions. In the year that we have lived together (part-time, my place and the other half hers), I have learned her inner-workings, what makes her tick. I was pretty sure there were no more mysteries.

Hope can fall into a deep sleep for 15 minutes after work, awake without an alarm and have the energy to do her tae bo or her abs of steel. She was never late. Hope folds her t-shirts and underwears, instead of shoving them like sausages into the drawer. “You get more room this way,” she claims. She refuses to go to the beach without sunblock, even when I tell her that we wont burn, “I am olive. I don’t burn. It’s greasy, forget it.” Sure enough, hours later with angry red skin and a nasty tan, I inform her that she was right. Also, she will never trade dessert (at Cafe Lalu) for anything.

Now, with each gf I had, I had to learn each and everyone of them. Surely every single one was different. The Pearl was basically my twin – highly opinionated and defensive, loves a good beer and conversation and laughs at practically any joke thrown at her. The Gym Addict was a different and probably the hardest to learn but during the short months that we were together I managed to know that she hated girl cut tee-shirts, she loves sushi and is overly sentimental.

Perhaps it was the time Hope and I spent together that made me piece the puzzle to form the complete picture or perhaps it was just me eager to learn more about this amazing woman. And even with The Pearl (2 years together), I wanted to know everything about her. Coming from similar backgrounds, it made it easier for me to understand who she was. But, I feel with every break up, the puzzle pieces crumble and the picture vanishes.

I don’t know Hope anymore (as much as I am telling myself I still do). I don’t know what bothers her, what ticks her, what makes her smile anymore.

All I know is that when she makes up her mind about something or someone – you can’t try to change it.

I guess there will always be some surprises with Hope. (that’s one thing I liked about her)

Sometimes, late at night, when I’m tired, I get kind of loopy. It’s a little bit like being drunk. I get sentimental, and can be prone to doing things like calling people, sending text messages that are hopefully slicker than the ones I get from [annoying texter] or emailing people that I not only really shouldn’t, but saying things that I should probably wait until morning for in order to make sure that the content won't embarrass me.

It’s the drunken equivalent of sending a late night text message to some girl who broke up with you and telling her that you love her or you want to come over to her place. Except that, instead of alcohol, it's just me running on far too little sleep.Needless to say, doing things like this is not always a smart move.

Friday night, I was absolutely exhausted. I don’t always get a lot of sleep from Monday through Friday and this week has been no exception. It’s been work, work, work and more work.Before going to bed sometime after 1:00 a.m., I was so tired that I was almost dizzy.

Having a late night coffee (it helps me fall asleep – believe it or not), I began typing the names of people from my past into the search function of myspace. Now, looking at profiles on myspace is a bit different than on other sites, primarily because you can’t see somebody’s contacts unless you’re already friends with them or their profile isn’t blocked. And as far as pictures, if you are not friends and they are blocked you can only see their first picture – which initially isn’t that bad.You may not be surprised to find out that my second grade teacher isn’t on myspace.

But, amongst somebody else from my past whom I’m not going to mention because I haven’t told that story yet, I found E. her profile features a cute picture of her and her niece. Smiling. As her hair is being whipped about by the wind.

And E. and I still haven’t been in touch for months – perhaps even years, really. It’s been about a year now since I last saw her. And checking out her profile made me miss her. And, as I said, I was seriously over tired. So, I thought about it for a second, and decided to shoot her an email. Hey, it never hurts to try (and try and try and try), right?Here’s what I wrote:

Hey

I know this may be a surprise or even a shock to you (as it was for me to grow a pair and actually write this) I had the occasion to chat with an old friend of ours – Aisha who asked for you. And so I wanted to say hello.

So hope all is well and best regards to your family.

Ciao,

NYC.Lezie

I sent it to an email address I had. And of course, the email bounced back. I figured she changed her email address and so, no luck. I really don’t want to send her a message over on myspace – I don’t want to seem like a loser.

I'm a Lezie who enjoys good beer. My preference is the darker the better just like my women – European but slightly Mediterranean. However, any active beer drinker knows that the heavier the beer, the more the calories. I drink on a night of drunken debauchery an average of 7 or 8 beers.

Guinness is my favorite, but I only reserve that for when I decide to drink my dinner. However, I've been known to drink 3 or 4 on a given night. At approximately 200 calories a pop, that's 800 calories right there.

My second favorite beer, Saranac Amber, we'll say is approximately 175 calories based on the caloric value of similar amber beers. Now, given that they aren't as heavy as Guinness is, I can drink more. I remember one night I drank 10. I know I'm a mathlete, but I bet most of you can calculate10x175=1750 calories. In one night.

My third favorite beer, Leinenkugels Honey Weiss, is sadly (or thankfully) no where to be found anywhere in NYC. Still, I would say the caloric value of this beer ranges from 150-165 or so. We're still in the 1500 calorie range for a night of heavy drinking. Lord knows when I head back to the land of Honey Weiss, I make up for any time I spent away from this delicious brew.

So my point? Bud Light, Amstel Light, Coors Light, while they all may be shitty and taste like water or cat piss, only have approximately 100 calories per beer. I can go out, get shit faced, go to the gym the next day, and still retain my semi girlish figure. I've resigned myself to the fact that my slight beer pouch (not really a gut, but an inch of skin I can grab right below my belly button) will never go away due to my heavy consumption of beer, but I'm okay with that. At least I'm having fun, right?So next time you see me out, and you make a comment on my crappy water downed beer, give me a break, mmm k?

You don't want no fatty slobbering on your knob now do you?

NOTE: Yes, I could drink vodka, which I do at times, but the results are never pretty. Hard alcohol's influence over me deserves its own post.

Ever tried one of those craigslist missed connections? I practically live on CL and for maybe a month or so, I’ve been going to CL MC just for fun. The Writer mentioned to me that there are people who write them sorely for the entertainment and others do it to really reconnect with someone. And Everytime, I am flabbergasted at some of the missed connections.

And so I tried my first.

Me: I was the young, nubile girl sitting across from you in the brown dress and curly hair pulled back in a loose pony tail with a couple of curls dangling on her face, listening to her iPod, trying desperately to avoid eye contact with you by staring at the subway ads…


You: You were the over weight, could be 50, could be 70 year old man sitting across from me. I thought you might have been cross-eyed at first, but it turns out you only had one wonky eye. I appreciate your wonky eye checking me out though. It's always nice to have creepy old men staring at your chest when you are clearly uncomfortable. I also am not sure if you were just itchy "down there", or you were trying to seduce me with your plastic bag and all your rubbing.


Either way, it was a nice touch. That coy look on your face was irresistible, and I really appreciate you letting me off the train first so you can try and look up my skirt as I walked up the stairs.


Call me [wink, wink]

Yep it’s like 430 right now. And I am supper excited because I get to home at exactly 5pm. So basically no blogging really. Just me rambling about things that probably wont make sense to you or myself but it will kill time and I LIKE IT.

Wanna know something that irks me?? Sure??

Ok.

So I walked into my office this morning, closed the door and put my head down for a little because I had a killer headache and I don’t deal with headaches very well. I either cuss like a dirty truck driver from upstate or I make you feel like you are nothing to me like the upper east side trophy wives. And THEN…I heard a child running down the hallway and I cringed. Really. What the fuck?? It’ s Wednesday people. Keep your kids at home! See, I would understand if it was a Friday and there was nothing to do – not that sleeping at the office isn’t doing something damnit!


I really don’t like to be woken up in the middle of a glorious morning nap by screaming kids while at work. I mean, I don’t hate kids. I’m sure I won’t mind it when I eventually have my own future perfectly behaved, above average in every possible way beacons of joy who will someday not only cure the common cold but also win Wimbledon. Twice.

But come on, can I get a break? When I become CEO of my own ad Agency there will be a wall full of rules. The number 1 being the no kids rule and the last being - bring your beers to work on fridays.


Ok good. We are on time here. It is now 432. umm…I looked amazing today. With the gloomy weather I forced myself to look decent for once this week. NYC when its gray is depressing. This morning I didn’t want to get out of bed. Ok – that’s every morning.

Anyhoo…maybe I’ll get up and walk around and do my usual “I have nothing to do but stare at other people work” checkup.


I promise. Tomorrow will be better.

It is now 4:34pm ahhhh

To the Unsuspecting Woman of the W. 53rd St New York Sports Club,

Do you realize the terror I must have experienced around 600 this morning, August 21st, 2007.I hope for you that that your intention was NOT to parade through the women's locker room, wearing nothing but your birthday suit.

I have to admit, It seemed that you were too preoccupied with checking your voicemail and obsessing about something or other in your highly pms state, to comprehend that you had left your towel in the locker. I hope It was a purely innocent move on your part, as you gallivanted to the shower, all saggy tits and pubes. You should be fully aware of the trauma you may have caused some of us, having no choice but to stare unabashedly at your slightly unmanicured bush.

It's times like these, dear woman, that you should appreciate the need for regular waxings.

I noticed that your faux pas was unnoticed until you reached the shower, looked down and said "fuck". You did try to redeem yourself by grabbing a towel on your way back to the locker, in order to not subject ME to double the pleasure of your nubile self.

Woman of 53rd street, I hope you are on your way to get a Brazilian, some lipo, and a tit lift.

Sincerely,


NYC.Lezie.

So I was at the gym today and caught some of Oprah- she was having famous women talk about what they would tell their younger selves and what they know now that they're "older".

It got me thinking about what I would tell my younger self- and it was all the same mush- love yourself for who you are, beauty comes from inside, blah blah... And then I had a bigger revelation.

We can tell our younger selves these things because we've learned them from being who we were. If we were all confident, loving, self affirmed teenagers we probably wouldn't be who we are today which is usually happier, healthier and proud of what we'd accomplished.

I think I would be snobbish, stuck-up and lonely if I didn't have the baggage and yucky teenage years to have taught me about loving myself, helping others feel loved and what confidence is. It we start out with everything, we've got a lot more to lose rather than gain.

So, I guess I'm happy that being a gawky teenager sucked, because all the goodness I've found inside and out feels that much better.

I was talking to LA Dude about threesomes and he was telling me about his experiences and how awful they were and I was shocked that one of the girls did not know how 2 guys and a girl can all successfully fuck at the same time without any "watching." You know, finger cuffs? Wobby H? London Bridge?
uh oh…

The secret to my vulgarity?

I had an ex who watched lots of porn and of course, being the excellent girlfriend that I was I sat there with her. *cough

I think she had developed Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from excess ...

I don't get why more girls don't watch porn. Well, maybe they do and just don't admit to it? I don't know. I don't watch anything freaky. Threesomes don't do it for me, and neither does any other of that freaky shit like midget porn or animal sex. I don't like watching pearl necklaces (guys, that is never enjoyable) or have a fondness for Asians. I just like straight, normal sexy porn--and not that pussy (pun intended?) soft core shit on Skinamax. Fuck that romance shit. Or that fake lesbian porn shit, with Coco Dulce Supreme (I just made that name up – you like?) porn-star with fingernails 10inches long. Seriously. I don’t know any lezies who would fuck anyone with long nails. *Ouch.

I remember the first time I watched porn. And so here is the story. Remember Spice Channel? Well it was my discovery channel. I learned about a girl’s vagina. Ron Jeremy nasty but quite long ding dong, I learned how to basically fake my orgasm.

One time in college, I showed my roommates some of the porn my brother had left on my pc (now that I think about it – eww) and we all sat around and watched (no guys, we didn't start touching each others boobs or anything, just the occasional clitoris.) C. (I won’t type her name. She reads this and would kill me) was the only other girl I have ever met beside myself who admitted openly to liking porn. This is why she is awesome.

My point is, girls shouldn't be ashamed of watching a little sexy time. A little penetration never hurt anyone. And you can quote me on that. Who knows? You ladies might learn a thing or two.

Now, if you'll excuse me. I have to go back to work. Riiiiight....

The best thing about memories is their accessibility; that shelvable quality. There is no searching through cluttered drawers to find them, no late fees or need for a net to catch them with.

No permission slips or sell by date. You can replay them like a slide show in your mind any time you want. Any memory, anywhere, any time. They are convenient and kept close, like words on the tip of your tongue, or spare change in a jar.

The only problem is, once the slide show is over, all you are left with is a blank wall.

This past weekend, I wanted to spend it alone – as in I wanted some fresh air, I wanted peace, I wanted sanity and really…no one to entertain.

Saturday morning was spent at the beach. A little fake surfing here and there and jet skiing along Long Beach Island was blissful. You may think otherwise, but I was in heaven. I went back to my summer crib and started to dial some numbers because I was starting to get bored. The first person I called was of course The Writer and since she lives in NYC and I swear no one who lives in the East Village owns a car, we had to make plans around her neck of the woods. Next person on my list was BFF NYU. She’s always fun to hang out with and when she is drunk she is the best entertainment available. I asked her if she would want to hang in the city and so she agreed. So my next and last person was my Intern and it was a quick yes.

My night started just fine. Traffic into the city was calm- it was just pleasant. We all met up at Porky’s. If you don’t know Porky’s then good. It is the trashiest college frat boy bar in city. It was packed with hair gel and tight pink shirts and over ripped bodies and nipples saying HellOooOo. I wasn’t complaining. 1. Because Guido(s) are just another species I don’t turn head for and 2. I was there for the drinks.

I made my way to the bar and observed the crowd dancing to “Umbrella” c’mon…how old is that song? Ella Ella … I laughed as I walked to the dance floor to show the boys how it’s really done. I got this kid’s cane who was crippled and told him that I’d be right back. I got my danced on and seriously made up some crazy dance moves with that cane. I was in 4-inch heels and a little top with skinny jeans (for some of you – tapered jeans and you don’t know what’s a la mode!) and I was really hetero that night – guys wanting to dance with me, getting my number and offering drinks to a pretty lass. I kid you not.

Fast forward 4 hours on the dance floor.

I was sliding across the floor; the floor got so wet with fucktards who were drunk and kept dropping their sweet “i'm your best friend” beers on the floor and I danced and sang through every 80’s hit music and made friends that I don’t remember making. 12 rum and cokes later, I found myself dancing with my ex- intern. Ouch! And I’ll leave it as that.

It was about 3:30am when I decided to rack up my girlies, sip my last drink and head out. No I didn’t drive home. I slept in the city.

I don’t remember walking to The Writer’s place. I don’t remember the cab there. And I certainly do not remember what happened after that.

I woke up at 9am, wondered what happened. Looked over and saw her and woke up with “I’m fucking hungry, my head hurts, I need to puke!” I went to my clutch to look to see whose number I got that night and saw that my phone was missing and all I could think was:
“Fuck. I’m screwed”

I went back to bed and woke up for my flight at 10pm. It didn’t register that I didn’t have my phone until I got home and my mother was asking where the hell I was.

“Fuck. I’m screwed.” I need to come up with a story to my HR people so that I can get a new phone without having to pay 500 bucks for it. I should just lie.

Yep. That’s not going to work.

The Writer and I hung out this weekend and we went to Bungalo 8. For those who are clueless – it is where the young celebs hang out when they are in NYC. We had to prove it wasn’t too cool for us.

“One drink and then we go,” I told The Writer as we crossed the street. “I don’t want to hang out here all night, all the men look like they wax their eyebrows.”

“So…we only have one mission – to find L. Lohan,” she said. And with a quick smirk I agreed and enforced the one drink policy.

“One drink,” she agreed, adjusting her cleavage for the eighth time. She had run into the age-old dilemma while getting ready: How much boob is too much boob? Trying to combine the best of both worlds, she was wearing an extremely low cut dress with a small tank top underneath. While I, wore a cute white summer lace baby doll dress.

We got into the club with an ease that can only be described as anticlimactic and two drinks later (like we ever actually have one drink) our egos were appeased. We were ready to meet up with our friends at a less pretentious club.

Making the requisite stop at the bathroom, we found it to be one of those single stall types and went in together. (The Writer and I are really good friends ;) and if you tell me you’ve never peed with any of your friends then I think you’re either lying or you are my mother.)

We were all set to leave, when we discovered we literally could not.She pulled, pushed and jiggled the handle but the door remained closed. She even smacked the wood a few times in an attempt to open the door through brute force, but it remained firm as I stood in the corner, helping no one by giggling uncontrollably.

“NYC.Lezie, what are we going to do?” she demanded.

Suddenly there were agitated voices outside the bathroom. I looked at her.“I can’t handle this right now,” I announced, turning to the mirror. “I’m going to put on Mascara.”

“I’m going to take off this tank top,” she said, either following my lead of ignoring the problem at hand or thinking that more of her cleavage could solve the situation as it has solved so many situations before.It was only when her tank top was half-off that the door flew open, revealing a concerned looking busboy and a small crowd of anxious, would-be bathroom goers.She quickly pulled up her straps.

“Uhhh…we heard the door move, we thought you might have needed...help?” The busboy looked embarrassed to have caught us in a passionate, door shaking, girl-on-girl bathroom tryst.

The Writer looked like she might try to explain, an event that could only make things worse (“No, see I was trying to get out, but couldn’t, and then I took off my shirt! Get it?”) so I gave her a shove, brightly said “Thanks!” and darted past the smirking on-lookers.

And then, with people still looking after us curiously, a sudden gust of air blew her skirt up. She screamed, clutched her ass and ran outside while I strolled, faux-casually, after her.

“So now we can never go back,” I explained to my Hetero friends.

They smiled. “Why not? I bet they’d love to have you back.”

Very ODD weekend.

Stay tuned.

Dear Marketing Genius at Nike,

The other day I was walking down the street, in a hurry to get somewhere. While passing your beautiful flagship store on 57th street, I came across this sign in the window...

Some lady running in some fancy tank and shorts and it said “someone who is busier than you is running right now”

and it made me stop dead in my tracks. I started thinking about all the "important" things in my life; family, friends, work, drinking, sleeping, sexing it up, blogging (Okay I kinda felt like I had to say the blogging part, just so you all know I care). I realized that yes, I could be spending my precious time concerning my self with all those silly things, but this clearly wasn't just a sign. It was a SIGN.

Suddenly, I felt the urge to stop what I was doing, drop everything, ditch the person I was with and go into your store and spend upwards of a couple hundred dollars on a new pair of shoes, socks, shorts, sports bra, tank top, zip up jacket and wrap around sunglasses to kick off my new purpose driven life. Oh, and throw in one of Nike + iPod sport kits too, so I can have some tunes and listen to running tutorials while I'm out pounding the pavement.

Meanwhile, someone else who is busier than I am is also, working, saving lives, reading a book, cooking, having sex, blogging, getting their nails done, drinking, finding a cure for diseases, making money, shopping, watching a sports game at a bar with friends.... the list goes on.But who wants to waste their time doing those things? So thanks Nike, for causing me to have this epiphany and making me realized just how fucked up my priorities are.

Regards,

NYC.Lezie

p.s. Actually, I won't be buying your shoes, they suck. The last pair of Nikes I had gave me shin splints. This letter will also serve as my official endorsement for Asics, New Balance and basically any brand that aren't NIKE.

I have been told that other people do not think about the possibility of their relationship ending every single day. Then again, I have been told I seem like a really great girlfriend, so who the hell knows what to believe.

In any case, when I was in a relationship, I remember at least three times a week, I thought that the Pearl and I were going to break up.

Example: Whenever we had a chance to talk during the week and the conversations would go sour at the slight tone of one of us - CERTAIN OUR RELATIONSHIP WAS OVER.

Naturally, I then never wanted to have sex. DISASTER.

Then, when she would be super quiet on the drive to the Metro North. Probably because she was thinking about how she didn't love me anymore. MORE DISASTER.

I then spent the entire train ride home telling myself that single life can be fun, and though there would be the minor problem of living together to sort out, in general breaking up with the Pearl really wouldn’t be that bad.Then I realized I was insane.

This is a realization I have come to before, most notably when I got annoyed with the Pearl for telling me I was beautiful because what if she couldn't love me once I was old?

It's was really exhausting to love the Pearl and be happy while at the same time trying to convince myself it would be totally fine if she were gone.

Lately, it has been day after day of the mundane and the tedious. I’ve never professed to have the most exciting, interesting life in the world. I do, however, usually keep myself pretty well entertained between my family and friends, writing and assorted social exploits.

I’ve always said that one of the best things about being an adult is that no one is standing there telling you what to do, what not to do or how silly doing something you’re doing is. I talk a big talk about not having to go out when I don’t want to. About having as many friends as anyone could dream of having.

But, you know, being an adult really does suck. I should be going out and party more. And meeting new people and cultivating new friendships isn’t bad. And I shouldn’t stay up so late.

I don’t feel as in control of my body, my diet, my schedule, my chores, my finances, my free time, my laundry, my future, my present, my hair. Myself.

Just writing that out feels like a first step.

On the other hand, I am out in D.C. on business. I am of course with my intern whom I have never seen in a pinstripe suit until this morning – I complimented her 4 times. Only 4.

And again, today is August 1 - It means three things for me.

1) My student loans are due
2)Rent is fucking due
3) It is Hope's birthday. (I looked at my phone this morning for an hour +, trying to figure out if I should send her a birthday text. – after an hour, I said fuck it. I wont)