Confessions.of.a.NYC.Lezie

I am alive.

I swear

I've survived.


I will post - soon.


In the meantime...Here are some stuff that you should check out.

Jeff Dunham - Amazing comedian and ventriloquist. here is a link.

Josh Groban - I know its pretty gay of me. He is a hot stud and his new CD NOEL is so christmas lovey stuff...it will put you right there in the xmas spirit.

Peanut Butter and Jelly- I rediscovered the joy and pleasure of PB&J. You should too.

Cipriani - Book your New Year's Eve table there. Its my new favorite club.

or you can join me in Paris with my parents - you get to celebrate New Year's Eve before America does. how cool?

My new favorite sweater of all time is this one. go get one. so soft.

Go see "I am Legend". trailor is here

I can't believe Tila the Skank picked Bobby. Message to Dani - Hey Dani...call me ;)

now...go elf yourself.


thanks.

Everyone knows how much I hate Tim Gunn. I only watch 'Project Runway' because I love Heidi Klum and Nina Garcia's opinions of what constitutes "fashion". NO, I do not love Tim Gunn and his quiet stoicism and fake enthusiastic voice with the contestants. But funny enough, as much as I hate him I have gone out of my way to watch his new show 'Tim Gunn's Guide to Style'.

I caught the show while eating lunch and within 10 minutes I was shocking on my food, vomiting and crying in disgust. On this show everything I hate about Gunn is multiplied to the 10th power. He's an ass and tough and is never encouraging. I decided then and there that if I had my own personal Tim Gunn, kind of like a cross between Jeeves and a really great gay roommate it would be something like this:

I picture us in a couple different scenarios:

1. It's a Sunday night. I'm knitting and Tim's reading. No, Tim's knitting too. As he reaches for his cup of tea he catches my profile. Very nonchalantly he says:

- "NYC.Lezie? I think you may be due for a facial."
- "Am I, Tim?"- "Yes, your pores are starting to resemble the Con Ed midtown sinkhole. I'll call Svetlana tomorrow."
I reach over and squeeze his hand.
"Thanks Tim – I fucking hate you."

2. It's a Tuesday morning. I'm getting ready for work. Tim wanders in and sits on the bed. Crosses his legs and says:

- "You're not seriously wearing that."
- "Oh, okay. How about with these pants?"
- "45-year old soccer moms are more stylish."
- "What about this?"
- "No. Just - no."
- "I'm running out of ideas here, Tim."

He walks over and grabs a dress out of the closet, puts his hand on his chin while considering what shoes to pair with it, then points to the box while plucking one of my Chanel scarves out obscurity.

- "Fucking A. How do you do that?"
- "It's a gift."


3. It's Wednesday at 3:30. I'm just about to eat a Snickers bar when the phone rings.

- "Hello?"
- "Put the Snickers bar down and get a yogurt."
-Click-

4. It's early Saturday morning. We're on a Hampton Jitney to The Springs so crowded we're forced not to sit together. My cell phone beeps I have a text message.

- "Christ, I can see your roots from the back of the bus."
- "I can't help it! My stylist is on vacation!"
- "Get some Clairol or something. Just...make it work."


I hate you, Tim.
Xoxoxoxo

PS: I am assuming The German is a fan, so I apologize.

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.

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

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.

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.

After a bottle of wine at lunch, I decided that going to the gym (after) sounded like a good idea. I don’t think I had enough cognitive power to actually have a reason for this decision. I was just following some strange instinct, lacing up my Nike Airs and walking over to the gym on 6 Ave. from my office, stopping to have a cigarette and seeing absolutely no irony in it.

Once on the treadmill I felt a little unstable, but mostly fantastic. I began to feel as though I was cleansing myself of all those alcoholic toxins. I was an Athletic Person who cared about her body. I was a Picture of Fitness. In the throes of my deluded health-fantasy, I pulled off my t-shirt, threw it to the ground and kept jogging in only my sports bra. Obviously, this was the moment in which I should have taken a figurative step back and realized that I was far too intoxicated to be using any sort of exercise equipment. But at the moment, all I could think was Goddamn I am HOT. And man, I can run FAST.

This bliss couldn't last long. Soon enough I lost my footing, and began fumbling for the red emergency STOP button. The button was either broken or my hand-eye coordination was woefully impaired. Either way, the treadmill kept going. I managed to stay on through a series of strange movements that were too mad and desperate to be called running. It was clearly time to abandon ship and jump onto one of the sides of the treadmill. Unfortunately, this move resulted in me falling off the treadmill in a complex series of motions that included banging into the sidebars and kneeling on the running surface.

I sprang up from the floor where I had fallen, my fight or flight response kicking in, and ran (at approximately the same pace I had been running on the treadmill) out of the gym.

I have a pleasing and annoying knowledge that I cannot go back to the gym for at least a month, possibly ever.

O ne reason that is equally fabulous and awful about blogging is that you have your entries set in archives. Your thoughts and experiences – the disturbing and humorous ones are set in this little webpage, where you can easily access when needed.

It is fabulous because it gives me a chance to look back at how I dealt with things and reacted to situations and curve balls, which were thrown at me. And blatantly awful because I realize how often I fall into potholes and get fed up with things that really aren’t worth worrying over. I am most, my worst enemy and my biggest fan and probably the worst self-critic. And this is okay, I think, as long as I don’t build myself up too much or let myself fall too far behind.

I always wanted to be a writer. But there is one moment that I remember; clear as day when I knew I could be a writer. (Trust me, there is an infinite body of water between wanting and knowing.) I was in College and I was taking a Magazine Writing class and one of the assignments was to write an article about an experience you had – whether it was a blissful one or a tragic one, but it had to be about you realizing something great about yourself or someone close to you. I remember it took me a mere 4 hours to complete. I remember crying when I was writing it and even crying more when my professor decided to read it to the class. This specific article ended up being published a couple of months later. Till this day, that article I wrote years ago still remains one of my favorite pieces to showcase for freelance gigs. And since the day I sat glued to my computer for 4 hrs I knew then, as I knew now that I wanted to write professionally.

My professor saw something in my story that day. And she read my article and modeled my work and expected everyone to follow my work. I kept my head down while she read each painstakingly prepared phrase aloud, taking in what I wrote and blending it with my soul. She read it anonymously. But somehow, my classmates knew.

I remember everything about this moment – my Professor (she was a nun) and the rhythm she gave the words as she read, the shiny parquet floor squares of the 5th classroom, where I sat, with my back to the window, pride welling up in my chest and a tear in the corner of my eye. I never thanked her properly for this four minutes, when I went from wanting to be a writer to knowing that it was in me somewhere, obscured by uncertainty and immaturity.

I wonder if one day, years from now, when all of this dating and partying is in the past, I will look back on my stories and ridicule myself or cry.

Who knows, probably both.

At present, I know more gay and lesbian people than I ever have before. When I was younger, I was often the lone blip of homosexuality in our heterosexual world. By choice? By circumstance. Interesting times, those. It was all good.These days I'm surrounded. It's been gradual, this expansion of my cultural vista. It's not sole source, either.

I meet lesbians and gay men so often, in such a variety of circumstance, it has almost become commonplace. We are everywhere.A rumor hit the mill that two friends, heterosexual females, were "hooking up" with each other. Surprised me enough to merit a raised eyebrow while rousing my curiosity. Who doesn't love a little titillating gossip now and again! And of course it was titillating. Since when is news of any two friends of any gender hooking up not titillating? It could be love! Or at least good sex.

Turns out the rumor was true. Not only were they hooking up then, but they are still a couple now. It's been over a year. At what point does "hooking up" turn into "having a romantic relationship" turn into "Hey world, I'm gay"?Lauren pinned the nickname "pseudos" on those friends of ours, a term of endearment if you will. Are they lesbians? Situational? Transitional? Who knows? Them least of all, maybe. Does it matter?She and I are fortunate to have friends who span generations { Wait I am not that old, am I?}.

Some are solidly heterosexual, some solidly homosexual. Others are trying to figure out who they are. Toss in a handful who have no fucking clue and all bases are covered.What's a friend to do when a friend switches sexual teams? I know what my "friends" did when I traded up. Many of them fled. A few adapted. I'm an adapter.

A friend is a friend. Life is hard enough without stressing over something as basic as who someone loves.

I have a plethora of friends…really. Okay, just one.

Why do I always have the one friend who doesn’t have a job? But you have to explain it like they do have a job. And you’re always saying things like, “Oh, [anonymous]? Oh well yeah, she is um, well she just finished school, yeah, five years ago…so you know, she’s still, umm taking her time looking and stuff…” and it sucks because I can’t really hang with them at Happy Hour because I end up being the broke one.

And why is that my friend who is jobless, homeless, sleeps on their friend’s couch and keeps their clothes in a trash bag in the basement, always seems to have the most amount of sex?

And finally, Why is there always the jobless, homeless asshole in my group of friends? And everyone knows who the asshole is, even the asshole knows who the asshole is, but I’m friends with them anyway and I always have some excuse for why I’m friends with the asshole. I’m always like, “Oh yeah [anonymous], yeah she’s an asshole, but you know, we were Beer Pong Partners back in 2002…”

So it makes it okay for me to hang with the jobless homeless asshole who was my beer pong partner back in 2002.

In honor of Thirsty Thursday

Drunk dialing is great because 1) the person you chose to dial is either someone you don’t really know, hardly talk to or someone you sorta don’t like but you want to rub it in their faces that you are cool and out drinking with cool friends. 2) If you are the drunk dialer you are very honest to the drunk dialee – you reveal things about yourself that you probably would never mention sober. 3) Alcohol gives you balls to do the impossible, like calling the person you have a crush on. 4) It demonstrates you have social obligations (happy hour with friends/coworkers) and it proves that you aren’t the loser at work/school everyone tries to stay away from.

Now mastering the Art of Drunk-Dialing/texting is a very, I repeat very complicated thing. Take notes. Print it. Memorize it.

The Rules are as followed:

1)When you have the urge to dial, never put your drink down.
2)Scroll through your address book.
3)I would suggest to make a drunk dialing group in your address book (when sober)
4)Tell your friends that you are heading out for some fresh air.
5)Fresh air means fake smoking, bum a cigarette – huff and puff but do not inhale. I don’t want you to eventually die. I’d feel bad. Actually no. I don’t care.
6)With a drink in your right hand, cigarette dangling on your lip, maneuver the index finger and gently (you will find it very hard to hit the green button so try as many times as you want) press the TALK button and put the phone to your ear.
7)Tap your foot on the ground. It helps
8)If no one picks up – say “next”. And dial the next victim
9)Talk. Extensively. Tell them “dude, come to [name of bar] it is so packed, the drinks are cheap and tits are everywhere.”
10) They will have that awkward laugh and say “who is this”
11) Hang up. It’s not a good sign.
12) Remember that cigarette? Flick it. If you can’t, toss it.
13) Walk back in.
14) Have another drink and forget that shit ever happened.

Drunk Texting is similar to Drunk Dialing but if you are highly intoxicated do not attempt it. Texting can be done indoors. That’s the beauty of non-verbal communication. You can be on the Flusher [Hi C!] and they sure wouldn’t know.

1) Find yourself a victim
2)Got one? Then text away.
3) I suggest using T9 if not applicable to your communication device then you are screwed.
4)If you misspelled a word, don’t go back and delete it. Your wasting time.
5) Oh got a text back? Great. Never interrupt a conversation and say, “I am vibrating” it just sounds wrong.
6)Give yourself an excuse to reply. Just say, “it’s my mother” sure it will make you look like an idiot. But who doesn’t pick up when their mom calls. Right?
7)Walk away and take that smile off your face and text your night away.


There are certain people you should never text/call and they are: exes, your boss/manager, your parents, and your old buddy from Jr. High. Don’t call/text anyone whom you have not spoken to in months. It’s just rude. Although it would be ruder if you didn’t call them and ask them how their day went.

Anyway, I hope these were helpful.


Good Luck.

This morning I was trading e-mails with L.A. dude (because I have nothing else better to do - really), He has a girlfriend whom he adores and wants to eventually marry and procreate and have minis running around his white picket fence house in suburbia. Also he is parlaying this into a job as one of my non-paid therapist/counselors on issues of the same sex. As always, he was telling me to be bold and pick up the phone and I gave him a ton of reasons not to, which is one of my favorite things to do, next to working out and drinking wine.

He wrote “ it’s like going on a job interview, once the date is over, you need to follow up and thank her for having dinner and drinks.”

And because I am me: amusing, clever, charming and cute and all the nice words in the dictionary – combined with my boredom at work I had to write a sample of such a note.

Dear Madam –

Thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I enjoyed speaking with you about your life and how my skills and experience would fit with your unmet relationship desires. Your intrepid dream for the future, coupled with your very adorable smile and height, makes you exactly the kind of woman to whom I would like to offer my services.

I am sure that I would surpass your expectations if given the chance to assume the position of Girlfriend. I understand that there is a trial period what will range from several dates to many months, depending on a combination of said skills. During this period, I will be acting as a freelancer, keeping my options open to explore girlfriend alternatives to ensure that you provide me with the greatest balance of comfort versus excitement. Once this training period is over and we have mutually determined our match, I expect full benefits and an investment on your part in my future happiness.

Should you have any further questions about my qualifications which are not limited to, micro-waving, kissing, being supportive, making you feel like a WOMAN when you are really acting like a two year old spoiled brat, back-rubbing, laughing at your lame jokes, listening and displaying an above-average knowledge of beer and a basic knowledge of lesbian terms, feel free to contact me by e-mail, cell, text message, blackberry, IM, Morse Code, pigeon messenger or smoke signal.


I look forward to hearing from you.

Many thanks,

NYC.Lezie

I have a friend whom I kindly refer to as Jew. Actually I have another one who is Jewish but doesn’t get that title because I already call her Brooklyn. But anyway, Jew is a subway surfer, meaning, she doesn’t hold on to anything/anyone on the subway – I mean I don’t blame her. It is the dirtiest place in NYC – except for the public restrooms. Jew likes to look cool and she does actually. She rides the subway from Park Slope all the way to midtown without having to touch anything. That’s really talent because the average Jane would be flying across the subway car, screaming because she just broke a nail OR she might grab someone’s arm because the subway stopped short.

The other thing that Jew does that’s really fascinating is that she has the balls to dance – not stripper dance, because she doesn’t hold on to the poles, but like full hardcore, head bopping, feet sliding, shoulders leaning and finger snapping dancing. She is never embarrassed. She always says that NYC is the only city where no one truly gives a fuck about you. Everyone is either doing the same thing; reading/or pretending to read or they are eating an entire meal from the Chinese take-out. Speaking of eating full meals on the train – have you ever encountered someone eating a full meal on the train? See I understand if you are hungry and you are nibbling on chips or something small…but eating fried chicken wings covered in ketchup and hot sauce with pork-fried rice on the side is just rude (what if other people were hungry?). Jew is also the girl who will sing (not loudly but you can definitely still hear her) this girl evidently does not care what the world thinks of her.

I am also guilty of being a subway surfer – I have not yet mastered the not holding anything on our fine NYC public transportation but I am getting there – slowly but surely. I am also guilty of pulling out some major air drums or air guitar. But I do it a little discreetly – or so I think. I am the one who taps or bang the ipod on the side of my thigh, or the motion of striking the guitar strings. I have a reason though, and its only because I can actually hear a song and know the chords. Or I am trying to figure out the correct chords. I can split each instrument in a song and tell you exactly what’s playing and what keys they are hitting. I thank the one-hour session of music lessons everyday after school when I was a tiny tot. So thank you Madame Boire. When I play my air guitar, it may look as though I know nothing about music OR it may look like I know a shit load about playing music – it really depends on who is staring at me. BUT I will not dance on the train. I will occasionally bop my head but not pull out a whole Britney Spears – Hit me baby one more time dance routine. Remember the old Britney? Memories – really.

When I see someone who is like Jew, I just look intently for a little and see if they have talent (I love people who have real talent) and after a few seconds I go back to whatever I was doing. I don’t think people like Jew do it to get attention, I think they just do it because they don’t care what people think and also, because it is NYC. Imagine you pulled a Jew moment in eastbumblefuck? Or even better…the LIRR or the NJT??

Today I am not feeling too creative and so I’ll just write about my birthday and what the heck…it’s my birthday and I’ll cry if I want to…cry if I want to…

Woke up this morning to the lovely sound of the Amazon forest: monkeys, birds, rivers, trees dancing to the rhythm of the wind… ya know…whatever you find in the Amazon. It was damn worth it. I did pay 20 bucks for that sound of nature CD. By the way, remember when CDs used to cost 20 bucks +? I was recently at Virgin and I wanted to get a DVD and like I always do, I went to the music section to see what was new and my mouth dropped when I saw the price of CDs now – they are less than 14 bucks!!!

Anyway, I got up, turned off the sound and turned on my Ipod and went to the bathroom (I always listen to music when I get dress and sadly I end up dancing around my room in my undies looking for clothes to wear and of course I am always late). I checked myself out in the mirror and glanced over to my makeup section and saw that my parents left me a card. I smiled, I opened it and plane tickets slipped out and fell onto the floor. I finished the card in less than 2 seconds – my parents have the habit of not writing much. I picked up the tickets and I saw that they were open tix for the Dominican Rep. I’ve been there a couple of times to play tennis but I haven’t been there on vacation. So I get to go to DR for a weekend with someone (2 tix)…whom shall I go with??

Got dressed to Rihanna’s umbrella song – I am clearly obsessed. Its ok. I had it on repeat and I didn’t dance I was too focused on getting dressed – for once. FYI, I look amazing today!!! I got a couple of catcalls here and there on my way to work, which I responded with a killer stare. C’mon who else can pull off a white suit??

Got to the office – opened my door and there…beautiful white daisies on my desk. I really wish I knew who sent them to me. It’s the second time. Geez reveal thyself. Please.

I got a couple of cards from the office peeps…scored a free lunch with the editorial department and a free happy hour on the company. Then again, its always a free happy hour for me since I use the company’s card. Shhh…

My day is still going. I feel old but good.

Tomorrow I am turning 24. I cringe when I say it. I think about getting older – looking older with gray hair and winkles and veiny (is that even a word?) hands and then I think how much wiser I will be, or how amazing it would be to have achieved my goals or even perhaps looking like Meryl Streep from the Devil Wears Prada. I want to age gracefully. I am obviously exaggerating with the whole looking older – I am only turning 24. This morning I woke up and noticed how young I look. So that’s a plus. I am sure when I will wear my birthday dress tomorrow I will look in the mirror and cry with pity.

I’ve got a couple of parties here and there. This week and next week. I must know a lot of Gemini peeps. I have to make a casual appearance to two of them – 20 min max. BUT as far as personal parties – nothing planned. Hopefully no one will surprise me with some extravagant party like last year. This year I am actually not in the mood for any celebration. Party Pooper title gladly taken here with no shame.

All I really want to do is go sailing. I want to learn how to sail this year – really. I love water, I love boats, I love that rocking feeling when you are on a boat, I love the smell of the ocean and seeing the sunset on the horizon. Back in HS I dated a trust fund guy who owned a sailboat and he would sail for weeks at a time along the coastline. I thought he was the coolest person on earth. Yes-I dated a boy in H.S., I even went to the prom with him – because I couldn’t bring a girl (although I probably wouldn’t have asked a girl to accompany me) and plus he was my BFF and still is. We both went to different Schools – I was in NYC and he went overseas to some Italian boarding school (I wont give you his name – but here is a clue – His family make a very very very pricey Italian sports car) So we rarely saw each other and it was more of a friendship thing than anything. He was the first kid I knew who had a black Amex. My parents don’t even have that!!! Anyway – he is a cutie with a sailboat. I envy him. He is also the kind of guy who is just too suave…and all the girls (he only dates models now) fall instantly for him not because he has money or his last name (if you saw him on the street, you wouldn’t know he had money) but because he is a good-looking guy.

But anyway…big 2-4 tomorrow. Nothing to worry about I guess. When I turn 25 then I’ll start to worry and cry about being a quarter of a century old.

Monday is Monday I.M. Madness. I made that one up. My mind stays alert on two important things – emails and I.Ms



Morning Instant Messages:

Me: Omg!!!! One of my boss’ clients totally just did the sex eye to me. I kid you not.
L.A. Dude: duh! You know you are a hot lezzie!
Me: She wasn’t cute though. Bag over her head type of sex
L.A. Dude: You are my idol.
Me: She’s not THAT pretty. Come over and see.
L.A. Dude: I’ll grab some coffee for the entertainment.

Afternoon Instant Messages:

Brooklyn: u suck then u are not the all mighty lesbian god after all
Me: only in the bedroom


The In Between Instant Messages:

The Writer: Congrats on the Transgender article.
Me: mais, merde!!!
The Writer: huh?
Me: what?
The Writer: May I remind you that we are in America and not La FRANCE!
Me: ooOps, wrong IM darling.
The Writer: Thought so. So yeah, great job. I like how they gave you minimal credit for it.
Me: totally screwed me over but its ok I had a blast interviewing some of them. Did I tell you that one of the M to F is absolutely stunning? I could have sworn she had a real vag.
The Writer: FYI – The Museum of Sex Gala thing…what are you going to wear?
Me: uh…nothing really. A little lingerie thing from vickies. I am going to sell myself. Writing doesn’t cut it.
The Writer: you whore.
Me: only at events where the admission is a $1000+. At least I don’t go to Cattyshack and expect little Brooklyn girls to buy me drinks because I’m “famous” in the lesbian world.
The Writer: you whore.

L ast night when I landed at Newark, my reminder on my bberry rang frantically. I then remembered I scheduled an appointment with my gynecologist for this morning (Thursday). I absolutely love getting my vag. checked out by a hot medico italiano. I walked in early – 730am and of course I was the only one there. I really think the UES ladies sleep till noon. I spotted her and said (more like whispered) “buongiorno Bella!!!!” and she was in the greatest mood in the world said, “Come siete? entri entri.”

I get really nervous when I see her, not only she is the most attractive female vagina doctor I know, but she is Italian (+5 points) a vag doctor – she has seen mine countless times (-2points) she is young ( +6points) and she is hot, dark hair, nice teeth and perfect smile ( +2000 points)

She is cute and nerdy and the questions she asks are amusing and every time I make her wonder about me and how I abuse my vag – dirty fuckers out there…I only mean riding horses and my spinning classes at the gym.


Dr.: When was your last period?
Me: I don’t really keep track, but probably a month ago??
Dr.: [she looks puzzled] Even with your OCD about writing things…you don’t note down those days?
Me: eh..nope.
Dr: When was your last sexual encounter?
Me: what do you mean [smiling]?
Dr: [interrupting] sex..when did you last have SEX?
Me: you are getting a little personal here Doctor…non lo so.
Dr.: ok, how often?
Me: daily?
Dr: [Perplexed look on her face] I see.
Me: Well, does using a vibrator consider me having sex, I mean, its like me having sex with myself but in reality its me thinking about someone else, but seriously having major orgasms within seconds of one another. so yes, daily – well maybe I should say nightly.
Dr: wow [she laughs]
Me: I was only kidding. I don’t have sex with myself. It’s pathetic.
Dr.: I know, I’ve been seeing you for 3 years now, I think I know when you are bullshitting me. But just so you know, masturbation is healthy.
Me: Not good for my soul.
Dr: [Laughing] Well you know I have to implement safe sex.
Me: So when are you free?
DR: Stasera?

She loves me. I know it. Plus I have her number on speed dial. SCORE!

This led me to the other thought and I have encountered plenty of these situations. The writer and I have this inside joke about sex, we have both dated someone where damn, the sex just fucking sucked. Usually it was because the other person was droning. You can only put your best foot forward so much before you eventually lose all interest and fall asleep.

Which led to our catch phrase: If the appetizer doesn’t look good, then skip the dessert.

For a long time, we would use this in front of potential daters and they would have no idea what we were talking about. After a couple of times of bad sex with this one girl, The Writer had an opportunity for a threesome with her friend. I was like NOOOOOOOOO, the appetizer is no good! I witnessed the friend slobbering someone in the face like a bulldog salivating at the sight of fresh meat.Her reply and an amendment to the previous rule: But perhaps if combined with another dish, the dessert will be better.

I think we have all had those situations where the appetizer’s not that good. I mean if the girl’s going to treat the appetizer like an object, ignore the dessert, then roll over and not finish it, why even eat at all?

Bad appetizers/desserts has gotten me on the verge of anorexia.

S ince I wrote my last entry - like 4 hours ago, I sat at my desk and I got the idea that I needed a "fuck buddy". A little background about me, I am not a girl used to going without having sex. In my two-years out of college, I have always been dating the Pearl or another or had an ex on the side. The longest up until now that I have gone is 3 weeks, current running time 1 and 1/2 months.

Sex is a need akin to food; it makes you sick when you have too much and it makes you crazy when you don't have enough. When I get ass once or more a day (back in college – now I am a workaholic as some would say), I become positively stupid, every thought runs out of my head and all I can do is smile at everyone and everything. When I don't have sex, I become bitchy and desperate. Or moody and feel rejected, as my current state. There is a point, I am led to understand where you go so long you forget about sex altogether, now I have obviously never gone this long, but I will take everyone's word for it.

So back to my story, when I drink all I want to do is either make out or pass out, usually a combination of both, which is how I got my reputation as a tease. If I am not dating you, I am not fucking you; I will only use you for kissing and your bed. Don't bother trying, my answer will never be anything but no, and I have had too much bad sex to last a lifetime. My theory is one night stands are only acceptable if it is the Sports Illustrated Spokes model, who is a MODEL, and you wake up in the midtown Sheraton with no recollection of having gone there. That's obviously bragging rights. Other than that, Buyers Remorse is a bitch to deal with.

So for the past month and a half I have played the virginal act, no kissing, sucking, or fucking; and after a while this gets old. So I am not sure what came over me but last time I did HH (happy hour) I probably would have gone home with anyone, thank god I threw myself in a cab. So after some heavy drinking with the writer as well as a few other lezzies upon I dared one to put her hand down my shirt and made out with another on another dare (who does that?), I began my deliberation of who would be my new fuck buddy.

Now I have no clue how to pick a fuck buddy, but based on past experiences with a sexual relationship with an ex, I thought a couple of ground rules were appropriate. Personally I prefer recycling, because it’s comfortable and I don't have to increase my numbers and chances of more bad sex. To define my idea of bad sex requires background, I have been with extremely bad lovers, a girl who have pretty talked their way into my pants and then have not cared about finishing me or have any intention of trying. But I have also been with women who actually cared, which is why I prefer to hold out for these ladies. These are women I am usually dating.

How does one choose a fuck buddy?

1. First off, it can't be someone that my friends have met or will ever meet.
2. She can't be a tool or douche bag who is going to embarrass me in any way.
3. No weird fetishes like feet or something remotely related to that.
4. She has to be good with her hands.
5. STD free.
6. No personal information required, so as to not form any attachment.
7. Has to be free for drunk dials.
8. No drama, I don't want to hear about her ex or current girl she's in love with.
9. No falling in love with me, I know I am charming and it’s hard.
10. No bragging rights, if you tell people you have slept with me, I will deny it. I can lie, I took acting classes in HS.
11. I am a bathroom talker, so I will tell everyone about everything including technique used or not used.
12. No meetings outside the bedroom.


Then I went down a list of people who have actually propositioned me in the past two weeks. So no one I can see me doing such naughty things to – yet.

After this drunken train of thought in which I was determined to proposition someone. I was ready to make any number of phone calls and completely committed to this idea. I woke up the next morning and realized this would never work, I get way too attached to anyone I sleep with. I have decided to shelve this idea and rediscover it in two more years. That and I got a 4:30 am phone call from the Pearl while I was asleep, so self-confidence is back up (even if I don’t talk to her). I got her and dealt with her craziness, I can deal with anyone thanks to her.

T here is one thing that I enjoy getting in the mail these days besides coupons for my cigarettes, is my college magazine. It is where I have to read paragraphs after paragraphs about the graduates of the class of 2005 and the years and years below who are off doing spectacularly amazing things. I.e.: X '95 is currently Chief of Neurology at New York Presbyterian Hospital. X is currently engaged to Y (Yale '93) who is a lawyer at “idontgiveafuck”. Or to see who the hell is knocked up or dead.

I always proclaimed out loud, “what a total kiss ass bitch she/he is!!” within the first few pages. It is almost addictive as the New York Times Sunday wedding announcements. Yes – I do read them.

They probably email the alum office and say something like this:

“Good Evening/Morning Madam,

I would like to Announce to the Alumni Committee that I am chief of the neurology dept here at NYPH and I’ve graduated top of my class from Cornell with a quadruple-masters in blah blah blah and I’d like to be featured on your cover. Would you mind printing my name in bold – extra large Trebuchet MS and capitalize all letters in CHIEF OF NEUROLOGY DEPT AT NYPH? If I can be of any help during commencement, please do not hesitate to ring me. Thank you

Best,

Dr. Leslie B. DDS. RN. A.S.S. (Whatever they have after their names to sound smart)”

I’m sure the email is super long and describes whatever they do every day and probably embellish a whole lot to make it sound appealing to the future grads like they give a F**K.I have toyed with the idea of fucking with the editor of the magazine and pulling a sort of Romy and Michelle's by faking something totally outrageous. But since the editor is someone I interned for during my college years AND the school is Nun infested and I sure don’t want to be banished to hell. Well nevermind, since i'm already on my way there.

Yet secretly, despite my mockeries of the alumni magazine, I know I’ve yearned to see my name in the spotlight... but not for something lame.