Posts tagged sex

Oh hi there friend. Messaging me on Facebook at 4:00 in the morning, are you? I bet you have one thing on your mind, don’t you? I mean we haven’t spoken in a while, not since that one time we hung out, and that time wasn’t the greatest. You remember, right? You don’t? Well let me enlighten you.

You invited me over to your apartment in the middle of the night knowing full well that I was already mildly intoxicated and that I’d thought of you as totally hot since we met—what, maybe three?—years ago. You would have known this because I’d actually asked you out. You know, on arealdate. I’d asked you out several times over the course of our loose friendship. I was excited to finally hang out with you one-on-one, so I came over. We proceeded to drink more beer, smoke some pot, talk at length, listen to Neko Case, and sorta fall into bed together. There was haphazard kissing, you didn’t seem to be that into it, but we both took off our shirts and pants. It ended with me blowing you. Well, not really. It ended with you falling asleep in the middle of me blowing you. Let me tell you, that’s only happened to me one other time and it was just as annoying and upsetting with you as it was the first time it happened.

You explained the next day, in a rather roundabout and evasive way, that you had some issues to work out and you really weren’t that in to me. I got the message—that I was a drunken and regrettable hookup—and haven’t really talked to you outside of the occasional comment on your statuses on Facebook.

So why are you, when you said before that you didn’t find me attractive and don’t want to date me, now asking me to come over to your apartment? Why are you telling me you threw a party, your friends are gone, and you’re drunk? Why are you asking me to come over and “curl up in bed with you”?

Also, since you’re so interested in me all of a sudden, why haven’t you noticed that I am in a relationship? I suppose since I drunkenly blew you once I’m forever the backup slut? Oh, but only whenyouwant it, of course. Also I’m mad I didn’t get invited to your dumb party. I would have liked to have gone to a party. My night sucked.

Now I just sound petty, and no one likes a petty whore.

A real boy won’t care what the size of your bra is, how large your thighs are, if you have a big butt, and a sign in your belly. A real boy is going to notice your smile, the way you put your hair in the back of your ear when you are nervous, in your smile, the way your lips move when you are talking, in your hysterical way of watching horror movies, in your weird way of running, in your little obsessions, in your exaggerated gestures and in the way you pronounce his name. A real boy is going to love you for what you are, not for your outside.

I’m sorry, but this may sound harsh.

A real boy is going to notice the size of your bra. He’s attracted to your breasts and will notice them. He’s going to look at your thighs, and he’s going to check out your butt. He likes that. He likes the way a woman looks. If he’s attracted to you, he’s going to want to look at you. He’s going to care what the parts of you he likes look like. He’s going to appraise and judge them. He’s going to imagine running his hands down them. He’s going to wonder what it feels like to touch them. If he’s a good guy, one that’s worth more than just a random fumbling in the backseat of a borrowed car, he’s going to notice more. He will notice your smile, your laugh, and your random personality quirks. He’s going to like that about you. No, he’s going to love that about you.

SEX IS NOT FUCKING EVIL.

You know what is evil? You know what is holding you back? You know what makes everyone want to punch you in the face? This shit. Life is not a fucking movie. Life is not dinner, long walks, and matrimony after two months of hand holding. People want to fuck people they like. Plain and simple. It doesn’t matter if you’re fat, or if you’re skinny. It doesn’t matter if you give it up on the first date, the fifteenth, or until marriage. People want to fuck people they are attracted to. Own it.

A man is not an asshole for thinking you are sexy. You are not a slut for being proud of yourself for a man thinking you are sexy. If all you are in life is an endless trek towards the coital bottom line, then you may have a problem. Otherwise, you’re good. Holding out for a white knight that walks up to you and gives you a flower for nothing more than the tinkling bell of your laugh, expecting him to not notice the curves of your body, is naive and short-sighted.

And you’ll die alone.

Also, I’ll laugh.

(Source: togetherthroughthestormss, via idletxxn)