Little Bits of Pixie Dust

Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thourougly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO, what a ride!!"

Thursday, January 01, 2009

Sexual Healing

The first man I remember feeling something for was Davey Jones from the Monkees. It was way past their time, but reruns of the show were on Nickelodeon everyday when I got home from school, and I fell in love with Davey. My parents found vintage posters for me and I pasted them around my room. I had vague fantasies of the two of us getting married and walking on the beach, while the song "Daydream Believer" played in the background. I was probably around first or second grade, so my imagination didn't go much past this. Then one night, my parents told me excitedly that they had tickets for a Monkees reunion tour and they were taking me! I would get to see Davey Jones in person! I was absolutely overwhelmed with this news, and quite honestly felt like I couldn't take it. I didn't understand some of the feelings I was having, and I panicked. I made up some lame excuse about not wanting to go to a concert yet and fled to my room, where I gazed at my posters through a veil of tears and hugged my Cabbage Patch tightly. I never went to the concert.

In the sixth grade, I discovered the meaning of the words "crush", though at the time I would have told you it was absolute true love. I was totally obsessed with a boy named Doug, and spent countless hours in my room listening to Boyz II Men songs and writing his name over and over in my diary. I wanted to kiss him in the worst way, and I felt my knees go weak when I was close enough to get a whiff of his scent; lots of cheap cologne and that slightly sweaty boy smell. This was the first time I ever thought about actually kissing someone, and how it might feel, and how I really, really liked the way he smiled. The day Doug moved across North America, he told me that he had always had a crush on me, hugged me breathlessly, and walked out of my life forever.

A couple years passed in a blur of different boys, different lip gloss, first kiss, stomach dropping, knee shaking, uncertainty. Then Chris came into my life. Chris was my first long term, "serious" boyfriend. Chris and I made out a lot, and then one night we were in my basement. I was wearing a gray ribbed knit shirt and jeans, he was wearing a hoodie. He sat on my dad's workbench, and I sat on his lap. His hand uncertainly crept up my shirt, and I giggled in an embarrassingly high pitched way. I was sure that any minute I would hear the door at the top of the stairs open and hear my mom's footsteps coming down the stairs, just in time to see her daughter turn into a hooker. Or something. I didn't know what to do with my hands, so I stuck them down the front of his pants. My face burning, I touched it. Ah! I touched it! I didn't know what to do with it, so I just laughed again.

Surprisingly, Chris and I stayed together after this encounter, and worked our way up the sexual ladder. Until we broke up, and I started dating someone else. R- was gorgeous and had the ability to reduce me to a puddle of helplessness with one look from his huge brown eyes. I had never been attracted to someone like this before, and I loved the way it felt when his fingers roamed over my skin and I grabbed his curls. We did everything but together, and then had a messy breakup.

College was, well, college. More boys, lots of beer, keg parties, naked boys running down our hallway at night, roommates giggling at the sound of a bed creaking overhead. I met Tim smack in the middle of my partying, and felt he was the One. In Cancun, on Spring Break, we consummated our relationship, and I kissed my virginity good-bye. I was twenty years old, and I was a little tipsy. I didn't see what all the fuss was about.

Tim obviously cheated on me, because he wasn't the One, and in between Cancun and breaking up I tried to avoid sex at all costs. I just liked doing everything else better. Tim didn't give me any complaints. I thought that it was completely overrated.

A* came into my life about a year after Tim broke my heart and I was ready for a change. For once, I just let myself go and embarrassingly soon after we started dating I discovered EXACTLY what all the fuss about sex was. I don't know if it was because A* took the time to please me, or seemed to genuinely care about how I felt, or just true love (I know, gag) but I was hooked.

However, I had some very funny ideas about sex and how a woman shouldn't really want it that much and shouldn't be too loud or shouldn't want to try different things, I don't know where it came from but I did, so I would never initiate anything with A*. We had a really good sex life.

Most times when people have a child, they lose their sex drive. I was the complete opposite. As soon as I shot that kid out, I wanted to go at it. I waited about two weeks after birth until I told A* I thought it would be okay to try. We did, and it was great. More than great.

Now we enjoy an extremely healthy sex life, and I was having a great time last night as we rang in the New Year, until we heard a distinctive grunt from over the baby monitor and time stopped. We held our breath and listened, hoping against hope that silence would reign again. It didn't. We smiled grimly at each other, pulled our clothes back on, and went and got our son.

Our first minutes of 2009 were spent giving kisses and tickling, but not of each other. Things have changed so much over the year, and that's just fine with me. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Happy New Year.


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