The Respectful Rule-Breaker

He showed up looking adorable with only an hour left of my birthday celebration.  My roommate invited him back to our apartment to continue the festivities.  Of course this meant pizza, pizza rolls, and pizza bagels from 7-11 and a homemade quesadilla.  I announced to those that returned with us that only he would be allowed to sleep in my bed and, as if a dog reacting to my not-so-subtle commands, he followed me into my room.

            “I’ve read your blog.”

            “Well, then you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

            He stripped down to his boxers and crawled into bed: a non-verbal agreement that he accepted what he was, in fact, getting himself into.  Although, looking back, I think it was all just part of his game.  He quoted my blog back to me:  “I know you wonder what it’s like to kiss guys you know.  Do you wonder what it’s like to kiss me?”  Lucky for him, I was.  He repeatedly questioned my comfort level, seeking permission before doing or touching anything for fear he might “break the rules.”  (I let him get away with breaking a few.)

            As in most cases, I would have been content letting it end there.  My roommate, however, castigated me for succumbing to my baser instincts and insisted that I give this kid a real chance.  Two weeks later, he returned.  We watched Jersey Shore and discussed his dream of ultimate fighting.  I asked him to show me his best moves.

Pinned to the living room floor, it was a scene straight out of a movie that would have me sick to my stomach with jealousy.  But in real life, it was too cute, too intimate for someone new.  I pushed him off and berated him for the idiocy of ultimate fighting, referencing the Friends episode in which Monica’s boyfriend chases his dream of becoming the ultimate fighting champion.  And gets his ass kicked.  Shocked that he had no idea what I was talking about, I whipped through my Friends coffee table book until I located the episode and forced him to watch it.  A glimpse into our future.

Exhausted and not in the mood to make out with no real end in sight, I turned on another episode.  Rachel finds herself in an uncomfortable situation when Chandler continues to tell Rachel’s boss he will call and then doesn’t.

            “Have you ever done that?  Told a girl you would call and then you just don’t?”

            “No.  I just don’t say I’ll call.”

            No sooner did we fall asleep than I felt his early-morning hands.

            “I know what you’re doing.  I don’t do morning breath.  Give me ten minutes, then I’ll brush my teeth.”

We finished making out and another session of rule-breaking inquiries.  I rested my head on his chest.

            “So…do you just not touch penises?”

I laughed.  Said nothing.

            “Do you want to talk about it?”

            “No...but thanks?”

            I walked him to the door; we hugged and he gave me a kiss.

            “Well, I’ll see you around.”

            And he hasn’t called since.

Mom and Dad's Sex Therapy

It’s the age-old question.  Would you rather walk in on your parents or have your parents walk in on you?  For me, there is only one clear answer.  Perhaps that’s because I’ve actually walked in on my parents…twice.  I know the horror.  Or maybe it’s because if my parents ever had the opportunity to walk in on me, it would ease their concern that I am going to die alone, marry someone who isn’t Jewish, am a prostitute or a lesbian.

I feel that most people, even those who are oddly open with their parents, tone down their promiscuity when talking to them.  If anything, I should talk mine up.  I choose, however, not to discuss my “sex” life at all, leaving the door wide open for curiosity and concern.

Growing up more or less an only child, my parents took extra precaution in sheltering me from the world, from sex.  Perhaps too much extra.  My dad once banned my older, male, gay cousin from sleeping in the trundle bed in my room.  I wasn’t even allowed to watch Friends.  When I finally decided to hide upstairs and watch it anyway (the most rebellious thing I could think of) I got caught.  Instead of a traditional punishment, which would have been welcomed with open arms, I received this:

 “As a young woman, how does it make you feel that sex is everywhere, all over the media?”

I walked away.

Now, at 25, I’m finding my parents’ expectations to be confusing, contradictory.  As a child, they refused to expose me to things I would eventually encounter, ultimately just adding years of overprotected fuel to the awkward fire.  They raised me in an environment assuming, magically, I would transform into a confident, acclimated adult.  Guess I proved them wrong. 

Unfortunately, they seem to be facing the consequences of their actions as much as I am.  Now, because my sheltered childhood manifests itself in the single, sexually inexperienced 25 year old I am today, they constantly (uncomfortably) push me towards dating, hooking up, sex. 

Two summers ago, I went back to Los Angeles to get my tonsils out.  Settling into the hospital bed and stunning in my backless gown, the nurse requested I complete one final pre-surgical test: a pregnancy test.

            “Oh, no.  I’m not pregnant.  I’m a virgin.”

            “Okay, that’s too much information.”

            Really?  I feel like it’s just enough information.  Not only does it pertain to the exact task at hand because, if I’m not mistaken, it’s almost physically impossible to get pregnant if not having sex, but also, you’re a nurse.  Virginity makes you uncomfortable?  You know how to insert a catheter.

I told my mom about my charming interaction with the nurse, thinking she would agree that it was both hysterical and a little rude.  Her response? 

            “Yeah…you really need to get that taken care of.”

Taken care of.  Like a wart or a parking ticket.

The week before my 25^th birthday, my mom came to visit me in Chicago.  Happy Birthday to me, she actually carried with her onto the plane an article she printed off WebMD about involuntary celibacy.  Thanks, mom. 

Yes, it was like looking through a window into my soul and yes, it was a little too coincidentally also titled “Sexless in the City,” and yes, I may or may not have contacted one of the professors quoted in the article.  But still.

            And then, my 25^th birthday.  Ignoring the fact that I have completed nearly none of the things I wanted to by the time I turned 25, apparently, my father had his own list.  Like a good dad, he called to wish me a happy birthday, secretly just hoping to retrieve an unnecessary amount of detail on what my plans were for that night.

            “You should just grab a boy at the bar and make a kiss.”

            “Make a kiss?  Thanks, dad.  That’s great advice.”           

            “I just want you to find someone.”

            Little does he know, I’ve mastered the stranger-make-out, but it doesn’t change the shock value of having my 72-year-old father grant permission, encourage slutty behavior for fear I’m not putting out enough to meet someone who will want to date me.

            Maybe my parents’ sudden onset of urgency in my dating/sex life is because they’re starting to worry about grandchildren; maybe they’re worried I will never be happy, or maybe they simply think I have no social skills.  That is a question I will never ask but, like everything else, will probably receive the unsolicited answer to anyway.

The Boy Who Rejected My Virginity

I don't remember how it started or even the first time we kissed.  All I know is that he is always all-too conveniently off again with one of his two on-again/off-again girlfriends every time I am back in Los Angeles.  I don’t question it.  The only trip we didn’t hook up was when I decided I was more into his friend and ignored his advances.  We somehow found a way to move past it.

In January, I had a Bar-Mitzvah back home and, if for no other reason than attending an all girl school left me with no male friends in LA, I asked him to go with me.  Every woman at the party approached me, excited to meet him, some a little too excited as though shocked by the fact I actually had a date, and either straight to his face or whispering behind his back, peppered me with the questions that plague all single, Jewish girls.

“Are you two dating?”

I told one woman that we weren’t dating; he was just pretty to look at.  She agreed, that it’s always nice to have some eye candy.

“Why aren’t you dating?”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Is he Jewish?”

“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

            And the oh-so uncomfortable, but obvious, observation, “He’s so cute!”

           

I am short of breath just thinking about it.  Even my mother was a fan and convinced herself the long-distance factor was the only reason we weren't dating.

He and I went out after the Bar-Mitzvah and ended up back at his apartment.  True to form, he still shared a room with his college roommate.  Not an apartment, a room.  He turned on the “noise-blocking” fan, a move I was familiar with, and then turned over and went to sleep, a move I was not so familiar with.  I spent the rest of the weekend slightly confused (and still fending off my mother's questions) so I was surprised when he showed up at the bar I suggested for my last night in L.A.

I wasn't sitting next to him or being particularly attentive and my friends from high school didn't approve.  They nudged me and made comments and then, what should have piqued my suspicions, began whispering amongst themselves when one of them asked me to go to the bathroom with her.  Once she had me locked away, she revealed their scheme: her boyfriend was going to take the boy (he met 20 minutes earlier) to do a shot and have some “Man Talk.”  I know in high school, I was the biggest loser and that I've never had a boyfriend and that even, perhaps, I haven't totally gotten rid of some socially awkward tendencies, but I do okay for myself.  I don’t need a stranger’s help getting some and certainly not when it comes to this particular boy. 

Extremely embarrassed, mostly offended, and slightly angry, it turned out man-time was the kick in the butt the boy needed to resume aggressively pursuing taking me home.

           

            We stepped outside and there was suddenly this unspoken urgency in the air.  Tonight was the night.  He knew it, I knew it, my friend’s boyfriend knew it.  The ensuing car shuffle was not unlike the scene from Clueless after the Val party.  None of it made all that much geographical sense but everyone had one goal in mind: to get me laid.

My friend dropped us off at the boy’s apartment and only then did we discover that his house keys were with his car keys that were with a friend who took possession of his car during the shuffle.  He was frustrated; I felt uncomfortable, guilty, unflatteringly desperate.  All we could do was wait.  To further set the mood, we took turns peeing behind an air conditioning unit.  It was all just so romantic.

Finally inside, he pulled out the sofa bed and I felt relieved I wasn’t going to be sharing my first time with his roommate, who I admittedly have a tiny crush on.

"I'll get naked if you get naked."

"Okay."

This had never happened before.  Maybe my shirt came off once; maybe he unhooked my bra.  It was all very PG-13 until this point.  

Things were moving along as he put in a request for another activity we'd never done before.  Unable to maintain composure, I giggled, blushed.

"There's just a lot happening right now."

"I know."

We continued making out.

"I could get a condom."

"Okay."

I watched as he sauntered into the kitchen and reached into the first drawer.  Charming.

He put it on and…nothing.  Nothing happened.  He rolled off, leaving me, at the very least, bewildered and embarrassed.  It was silent for a minute, then I jumped in.

“Umm…”

I’m articulate under pressure.  He seemed as confused as I was so I asked him questions to try and work through this.

“Do you have a girlfriend?  Is it because I didn’t do something you needed to get ready?  Is it because I’m a virgin? 

            No.  No.  And, no.

“Please don’t freak out.  It’s not that big of a deal.  And I don’t live here; I won’t be offended if you have someone else.”

With no real answers surfacing and not in the mood to continue our game of 20 questions, I chose instead, to answer the text messages I had been getting every 30 seconds from a friend who had just arrived from San Diego.  The constant beeping alerts were annoying when I thought there was going to be a virginity lost, but when that plan failed, they became a relief. 

I sat up, began putting my clothes back on, and asked that friend to please come get me.  Immediately.

“Don’t do that; don’t put your clothes on.  Don’t go.”

“Yeah…I’m going to.”

“There’s still time.”

“Right.  I’m not so much in the mood anymore, but thanks.”

“Well, there’s always next time.”

Wrong again. 

As if this wasn’t humiliating enough, perhaps next time you can reject me before I’m completely naked and you have a condom on.

The next morning I received a text from him, jokingly admitting he had “f***ed up.”  Well, at least he f***ed something.