Bad Boys Bad Boys

I have always been a good girl. I still am. A rule follower, if you will - all about pleasing the teacher.

So I was something of an anomaly at the Red Lobster chain where I waitressed my first two summers of college. The servers running around the kitchen were about as different from me as you could get. The girls were loud, bitchy, and promiscuous. They had long acrylic nails, wore thick eyeliner, and took lengthy smoke breaks. They didn't like me. I think they thought I was snooty. Mostly I was just scared of them. The boys were potheads or thugs. They wore their pants low and thought very highly of themselves. They got into fights. I was shy around all of them, always more prone to recognize my own failure to fit in than anything else.

J was a line cook. He was loud and difficult and always in trouble with the managers. He had piercing blue eyes and ridiculously long eyelashes. He flirted with me through the metal rack where the cooks placed the food for the servers to pick up. I was surprised. And delighted. And confused. He was older - 23, and could've had any of the girls in there. Why was he flirting with the quiet 18-year old?

I'm sure that we can all imagine why right now, but let's remember that I was young and naïve.

I started looking forward to work, knowing that I would see him there. My heart fluttered every time I walked into the kitchen. I would catch his eyes and then look down, suddenly shy. I'd had a lot of boyfriends by then, and one for several years, but I was still a virgin. I knew the look in his eyes - it was pure lust. I'd never felt it directed at me. It excited me and terrified me at the same time. My boyfriends had been young and inexperienced like me. They had been sweet, shy boys that I met in band or on academic bowl (stop laughing - I'm serious). This guy - this was different. He'd been around. And when he looked at me, I felt suddenly naked and tingly and not quite sure what to do with myself. Being wanted that badly was like nothing I'd ever experienced.

It was intoxicating, and it scared the shit out of me. As much as I wanted to believe differently, I knew that J didn't care about me. And honestly, I think I knew that we had basically nothing in common. He had dropped out of college, had been in jail for drug possession, didn't really know his parents. I was…well, me. It was like my own little bad boy fantasy. I did relish in it for a bit. But after about a month and a half of my refusing to do the ultimate deed, he told me he was too old for that sort of thing. Virgins were not his style. Every so often I say a little thank you for my naïve good sense - it would've been an awful first time.

So we broke up. I went back to school. He called sometimes - he liked to talk to me on the phone. I assumed he was sleeping with other girls. And then I didn't hear from him for a while. About 2 months. I figured that was that - he'd met some other young girl and was seducing her. And then one night I got a call - he'd been in jail. Arrested for purchasing heroin for an undercover cop. Something finally clicked, and I realized that this was not the guy for me.

And I moved on with life. I dated other guys. I went back to my high school boyfriend. And then I dated girls. And eventually I met the babe. And I didn't think much about J (except of course to every now and then thank the heavens that I didn't have sex with him).

And then three days ago, I got a friend request.

Oh dear Facebook.

Yep, it was him.

First, I have to say, for those of you who don't know me in person, I have a REALLY common name. There are thousands of people out there with my name. In fact, on facebook, there are approximately 3600 people with my name. He must've really looked. I didn't even remember his last name - I mean, it's been 10 years!

So, I was shocked. Obviously. And then I thought - I bet he's the kind of person who wouldn't have any protections on his page. And, sure enough, I clicked on his picture and his whole profile came up. And then….

I was in NO WAY prepared for what I saw next.

The man is a radio evangelist.

Yes, you read that correctly. He's a DJ on a Baptist radio station. His page is filled with Bible quotes and admonishments to be Holy.

I'm still in awe. I keep remembering him saying, "Look, it's not that big of a deal. It won't hurt that bad. Just come on." THIS man is a radio evangelist.

Seriously?

I didn't accept the request. I think that's one person better kept a memory.

And thank goodness I've discovered what it's like to be lusted after by someone who actually loves me.

Joyeux Noel

In honor of spending Christmas in Paris with my little sister (who is living here this year), my mom, and the babe, I bring you a second rendition of English-French-English blogging.

It's afternoon here on Christmas. Breakfast has been eaten. Gifts have been given. Pictures have been taken (including many cheesy smiles with scarves and shirts and necklaces). Inappropriate sex jokes have been made. The babe has experienced her first Christmas morning with the gentiles. It's been good times.

We ran ourselves ragged in gorgeous Prague for three days beforehand, but we had a delightful time. We went to the Jewish quarter, saw the Prague castle, went into (somewhere close to one million) tourist shops, and listened to a magnificent concert by the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra.

Highlights from the trip have included my sister surprising us at the airport and scaring the crap out of me, all of us making fun of my mom for her corny sense of humor, me having to run back to the hotel without everyone else so that I didn't have an accident in my pants, mom getting yelled at by a scary slavic woman, all of us being shameful Americans and delighting in the presence of Starbucks (both for the beverages and the bathrooms), a ridiculously fast and terrifying escalator in the Prague metro (which the babe described as getting sucked into a vortex), and the babe and I sharing a tissue while we watched It's a Wonderful Life.

For those of you who read French:

C'est l'après-midi ici Noël. Le petit déjeuner a été mangé. Les cadeaux ont été donnés. Les images ont été prises (y compris beaucoup de sourires de fromage avec les écharpes et les chemises et les colliers). Les plaisanteries inopportunes de sexe ont été faites. Le bébé l'a éprouvée premièrement Noël matin avec les gentils. Cet a été de bons temps.

Nous nous sommes courus déchiqueté dans Prague magnifique pendant trois jours d'avance, mais nous avons eu un temps charmant. Nous sommes allés au quart juif, a vu le château de Prague, est entré dans (quelque part proche à un million) les magasins de touriste, et a écouté un concert magnifique par l'Orchestre Philharmonique tchèque.

Les essentiels du voyage ont inclus ma soeur nous étonnant à l'aéroport et à effrayer la foutaise de moi, nous tous nous moquant de ma maman pour son sens à la guimauve d'humour, me dois la course de retour à l'hôtel sans tous les autres pour que je n'ai pas eu un accident dans mes pantalon, maman obtenant hurlé à par une femme slave effrayante, nous tous sommes Américains honteux et Enchanter dans la présence de Starbucks (pour les boissons et les salles de bains), un ridiculement rapidement et terrifier l'escalator dans le métro de Prague (que le bébé a décrit comme obtenant sucé dans un tourbillon), et le bébé et je partageant un tissu pendant que nous avons regardé c'Est une Vie Merveilleuse.


And for those of you who have a sense of humor (back to English):

This is the afternoon here Christmas. The breakfast was eaten. The gifts were given. The pictures were taken (including a lot of mice of cheese with the scarves and the shirts and the necklaces). The inopportune jokes of sex were done. The baby tested it first Christmas morning with the kind ones. This was good times.

We ran ourselves torn in magnificent Prague for three days in advance, but we had a charming time. We went to the Jewish quarter, saw the castle of Prague, entered into (somewhere close to a million) the stores of tourist, and listened a concert magnificent by the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra.

The essential ones of the trip included my sister astonishing us to the airport and to frighten the bullshit of me, we all making fun of of my mom for his direction to the humor guimauve, has me the return race to the hotel without all the others for that I had not an accident in my pants, mom obtaining yelled to by a woman Slav frightful, we all Delight in the presence of Starbucks (for the drinks and the bathrooms), a ridiculously quickly and terrify the escalator in the subway of Prague (that the baby described as obtaining sucked in a whirlwind), and the baby and I dividing a fabric while we looked at this is a Wonderful Life.

This just in. Breaking news.

Virgin in the Volcano is clearly no virgin.* Or maybe she's a virgin in the I'm-still-wearing-my-purity-ring-and-I-haven't-actually-had-intercourse-yet-but-I've-done-everything-else kind of way. At any rate, the shit has hit the fan.

That's right folks. An anonymous source has informed me that Virgin suffered a debilitating wrist injury this past week while performing a hand job. The source claims that the injury was the result of a weekend viagra experiment gone awry.

The source claims that at approximately 4:00 pm on Friday afternoon, a woman fitting Virgin's description ran into the ER, screaming "OOOOH, MY WRIST!!!! DAMN YOU VIAGRA!!!! DAMN YOU!!!!"

Apparently Virgin's co-hort decided to try out a high dose of viagra in the hopes of spicing up some weekend frolicking. Much fun was had. However, after 2 days, the fun just wouldn't go...down. Virgin came up with the brilliant idea of...um...well, shall we say working it out for the poor fellow.

Hence, the wrist injury.

Way to take one for the team, Virgin!

*If you're completely confused by this post, check out the comments on this post and this one.

Deep Breath - It's a Long One

My dear friend T is very interested in reproductive justice and is involved in the reproductive justice group at school. A few weeks ago, she helped in hosting a panel about sex education. I watched videos of people who specialize in abstinence-only education doing their thing, and I participated in a sample lesson-plan for abstinence-only education. It involves a piece of tape that represents a girl being applied to the arm of a boy (which represents a sexual relationship connection). When he pulls the tape off, it’s not quite as sticky anymore now that his skin/hair debris is on it. The lesson, of course, is that every time you have sex with a different person, your ability to create an intimate bond is lessened. I have so many issues with this lesson that I don’t even know where to start. So I’m not going to. I’m just putting it out there as a jumping off point.

So this was all on my mind when I had brunch with my dear friend C the other day. I told her about the lesson. Turns out she’s got a client right now who teaches the sex ed classes at his Unitarian church. He’s about 65 years old, and she says they’ve been having these wonderful conversations about what he’s teaching and how he’s teaching it. Of course it’s comprehensive – he is a Unitarian, after all. And C has a new interest in it now. Because she has a daughter. Her daughter is only one, but it’s got C thinking about the future and about what she’ll teach her and how she’ll teach it.

We started talking about our own sex education – not at school, necessarily, but in our homes, from our parents. C’s education was the opposite of abstinence-only. Her mom’s basic message was “F*cking feels good. Enjoy it.” You might think that it’s refreshing in its honesty, but C felt like something was missing. She didn’t grow up with a lot of the hang-ups about sex that many people do, but she also didn’t get any messages about the intimacy that you can experience, about making good choices, about how sex is emotional and that sometimes there are emotional consequences. She wants her daughter to get those messages.

And we talked about my sex education. I don’t remember much from school. And I don’t remember very many specific conversations, but I do remember that my parents were pretty open and that I felt like I could talk to them about anything.

I wasn’t without my hang-ups. I grew up in a very religious community in the South – I went to Wednesday evening teen groups at the local Baptist church. I’m not sure who could survive that without hang-ups. One day I’m going to give my long-time high-school / college boyfriend a giant trophy for being such a trooper for the 5 years that we dated. Pretty much every time we took a new step forward in our physical relationship – the first time he went up my shirt, the first time he saw my boob, the first time….well, you get what I’m saying – I would end up crying and telling him that we could never do that again. Of course, a few days or weeks down the road, there we would be again, and I would feel a bit more comfortable with whatever it was we were doing. And there wouldn’t be anymore crying until the next thing.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think a high-school boy is owed anything or should get a medal for sticking with his girl when she doesn’t want to take the next step. It’s more that he was great through all of it, and it wasn’t like he was pressuring me or anything. I was going willingly – I would just have second thoughts afterwards. And then, I think, make him feel really bad about it. And it really wasn’t his fault. At all.

When we were 19, I decided that I was ready. To take the big step. And here’s the really important part. Here’s what I think is a testament to how great my parents were in this respect. I asked my mom to come into my bedroom, and I told her that I was ready to have sex and that I wanted to go on the pill. She didn’t jump up and down or anything. In fact, she had to take a really deep breath. But then she talked to me about it. About making sure that I was safe. And when I asked her questions about what it would feel like or whether it would hurt, she talked to me about that too. She talked to me about her first time and things that I could do to make sure that it was a good experience for me.

And it was. It was with someone who I cared about and who cared about me. Who was careful with me. I was ecstatic, and there was no crying afterwards.

Obviously that relationship ended. And I’ve had other relationships. And other sex. (And I definitely haven’t lost my ability to bond.) I’m a relationship sex person. It’s just who I am and how it works and feels right for me.

But the point is that I had the space and the permission to figure that out about myself. My parents never demonized sex, but they also never pretended like it didn’t have the power to be something really special. And I love that I got both of those messages. Because I think that’s where you get the ability to make the choice that feels right for you.

My children might be ready to sit me down for that conversation when they’re fifteen or sixteen or maybe even earlier. I don’t know. But I hope that I will have created an atmosphere where they feel like they can. And I will take a really deep breath…

What would Sandra Day think?

Because I am an incredibly blessed and lucky person, I have an appointment set up to meet Justice O'Connor next week and have her take me on a tour of the Supreme Court. The babe is coming along.

Though I haven't broadcast this information widely, those friends that know are super jealous.

In fact, two of my dear friends have offered to engage in romantic relationships with me in exchange for an invitation to join me in meeting O'Connor.

J said to me today, "I'll be your girlfriend too. I won't have sex with you because, well, I don't do that. But I'll cuddle. I'm good at cuddling. I'll let you touch my boob."

That's right. She offered a boob grab in exchange for meeting Justice O'Connor.

Unfortunately for J, I'm deeply devoted to the babe and keep all of my boob grabbing for her.

But, being the kind and giving person that I am, I wanted to put this information out there for any of you hoping to hook up with a lady. Supreme Court Justices are the way to go. Pick a Supreme Court Justice and set up a meeting! That lady will be offering all sorts of things in exchange for the opportunity to tag along.