Saturday, May 30, 2009

What’s Left Behind After Sex

Since coming to Chicago in August I have been leaving a trail of my possessions at different guys’ places. And it’s not to leave my mark or anything I just genuinely forget my shit everywhere. When I weigh the option of seeing them again with what it is I have to retrieve, I figure I can live without. I started to notice a correlation between the things that are left and the sex. Some sex isn’t memorable or special at all, like two out of my billion bobby pins. But sometimes sex means something and I’ve left more valuable things that are close to my heart.

It’s not just possessions that are left behind after sex; my self-respect will fall under his bed and I’ll never see it again. Or my hope to find a real man gets twisted in a ball at the bottom of his sheets and lost there next to a lone sock. Guys have left things at my place too and I haven’t deemed them important enough to return. So thanks for the Tupperware!

In my first week in Chicago I slept with a French tourist who I happened upon at the annual Rubber Ducky Race. He had this sexy scar on his eyebrow from ultimate fighting and his accent was too good to resist. At the end of the race he caught a rubber ducky that was thrown up to the crowd and gave it to me. We took it home right away so it could shower off the disgusting river water. His ducky was not so silly looking or flimsy as the rubber duckies bobbing in the Chicago River. He had the most enormous beautiful cock. After returning back to France he left the rubber ducky and also a map of Chicago which I found quite useful since I had just moved and hadn’t acquired one yet. I used this map to show the city around to an ex-boyfriend who came to visit soon after.

My ex quickly got bumped up from sleeping on the floor to sleeping in my queen bed. He had DE, delayed ejaculation, probably the only medical condition I will not donate money or run a race in the pursuit of a cure. He made me cum multiple times before he did.
So I slept with an ex and all I got was his Lincoln Park t-shirt that he forgot to pack. I wear it alone to bed sometimes and when I masturbate in it, I’m reminded that my vibrator batteries wear out a lot faster than he would have. (And those damn batteries are impossible to find- a conclusion that I came to since I couldn’t find them at Isam’s Food and Liquor across the street.)

Then there was John. John was in a rehab for rich kids up in Evanston. He was black with striking green eyes that got me hooked. We’d fuck in his room that was like a five star hotel suite. I tried to quit him several times but kept relapsing. I’d find myself stopping in after errands or anytime before his midnight curfew. A nice thing about seeing someone who isn’t allowed to leave without supervision is you can pretty much count on them always being near their bedroom. One day I swung by to have sex after purchasing a drying rack and promptly forgot it there. That week I finally got on the patch and kicked my John habit, never to see that drying rack again. It’s all terribly ironic because John never made me that wet in the first place.

I met someone new which always helps in the quitting process. It’s like trading cookies for cigarettes, diabetes for lung cancer. It’s not exactly good for you, but it’s a step up. However my plan for casual sex was foiled when I actually started to like this new guy. He had a good sense of humor and I loved the way he loved dogs. We spent a few weeks hanging out not touching at all, not even an accidental arm graze. One evening we were watching movies after I had a root canal operation and I couldn’t have felt less sexy. I couldn’t feel my entire face. Miraculously I ended up in his bed. I wish I could have felt his lips on mine because I bet it was damn good. When we had sex, (just an hour before the November Sunday Night Sex Show), I wanted the sex between us to be amazing because to me, he was the most amazing man I’d met in Chicago. He borrowed a book of mine, The Prophet that my grandmother gave me for graduation. I’m really close to my grandmother but wow she’d be shocked if she knew the things I wanted to do to him. When I wrote her letters I didn’t exactly go into detail on how much I loved it when he came in my mouth. Khalil Gibran, however, I don’t believe would be appalled in the slightest, based on his illustrations. I could feel him lose interest in me and so I did the sophisticated adult thing and got drunk at a friends house and dictated an email that she wrote to him saying I could never see him again. I wished I had waited to get my grandmother’s book back but there is never really the right time to act irrationally about someone you like. I pictured The Prophet collecting dust on his bookshelf with my grandmother’s handwriting inside and my heart being used as a bookmark. He did write back: “Thanks for the fun times!” Like I’m fucking Sea World or some amusement park. We’re glad you enjoyed your stay.

Feeling the sting of rejection I ignored better reason and agreed to a New Years Eve date with a guy named Nick I met at a party. He was incredibly intelligent and I do like a guy with something going on upstairs but it’s also nice if he has a well-built staircase. This guy’s staircase was not made out of chiseled marble. Nick’s staircase was more of the kind you’d find leading up to the old servants quarters in Paris: narrow and made of wood that you think will break at any step. So instead of mounting a gorgeous staircase leading me into 2009, I slipped on lime juice and fell down a flight of stairs (the kind of stairs I’d want to fuck- hard and tall). It hurt like hell and I seriously injured my ass. I spent the rest of the night in his bed with a bag of frozen peas on my butt since he didn’t have an icepack. I could hardly move without shooting pain up my spine. Despite my throbbing ass, I guided his hand down to finger me and it felt unbelievable. Completely forgetting my broken butt, I let myself succumb to the pleasure of his finger and tongue on my clit. The next morning I limped away, leaving my contact case on his bathroom sink.

I was surprised by how it wasn’t easy to replace him or the contact case right away. Where the fuck can a girl find a CVS and a good fuck in Rogers Park? Wine glasses worked as a temporary replacement for both: filled with wine during the day and contact solution by night.

To date I haven’t had sex since the Bush administration which has been good for the inventory of my stuff but I’d trade a set of headphones or panties for an orgasm right about now. I’m not too concerned- I’ll be leaving something somewhere with someone in no time.

And one of these days I’ll go out and get a new drying rack,
but they should know that they’re never getting me back.

-by Maime