I’d stay up until 3 or 4 a.m. the room lit with a pink glow, filled with the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. I was 16 when I joined Girlpunk.net. This all-girl forum quickly became a window out of my small town. It made me feel like the life I wanted was possible—punk shows, wild clothes, sneaking into clubs. These were the girl friends I always dreamed of. Dream girls who I would trade studded clothes with, and dance all lanky and cool next to. Girls to fall asleep with, side by side. Keep reading »
This weekend, I was running errands in my neighborhood when I bumped into someone I slept with in the last year. (Narrows it down, doesn’t it? Ha!) Immediately, I felt overwhelmingly flustered. In fact, I may have spoken some form of gibberish. After exchanging pleasantries — his sensical, mine, not so much — we went our separate ways, but I found myself weirdly shaken up. It was the sort of thing that I would have previously associated as a sign that I had romantic feelings for that person; my shaky hands an indicator of nervous sexual energy, and the vague nausea in my stomach would have been called “butterflies.” I would have relished that feeling, called it “thrilling.” Wondered when I would see that person in a naked capacity again and, Oh! Did he feel it too? Ah, the mystery. Isn’t that what makes romance so exciting?
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Last summer, I fell in love with my boxing teacher. I never kissed him. I never spent time alone with him. Though I did have mental sex with him at least a thousand times, and was only left with goose bumps and a weakened mind.
The first time I went to class, Mike wrapped my hands and told me he’d seen me around. He smiled his glowing smile and I thought he looked nice. I couldn’t put my gloves on, but he was more than happy to help. Keep reading »
We met on Myspace. He emailed me the day after my birthday, introducing himself and complimenting my smile; I was charmed. I also happened to be single, alone and slightly adrift in a foreign country so our correspondence needed no fanning to burst into something heated and volatile. Three weeks later, I was on board a train from London to Manchester, England to meet him. By that point, even if he’d turned out to have a flesh-eating disease or a penchant for hardcore porn, I probably still would have been smitten. Keep reading »
I recently spent the weekend in bed with a terrible stomach bug. At the stroke of midnight on Friday, I began puking my brains out, and what didn’t come up as vomit came out the other end. The next day, I thought the worst of it — the diarrhea — was over, but I was still happy when my boyfriend Nick showed up with supplies to calm my still-upset stomach. We hung out in bed, watching cartoons, while I drank ginger tea and tried to stop passing gas. One particularly gross fart sputtered forth and I sat very still. Keep reading »
It was over a year ago, last January, when my boyfriend of almost four years said, “So I have something to tell you” over a Friday night dinner in Chinatown. My appetite instantly evaporated and my stomach suddenly ached with anticipation over what would follow those words. Immediately I thought, This is the break-up dinner, and my mind whirled into a frenzy of what could be wrong when I thought we were so happy. We caught a cab and went back to his Brooklyn apartment, quickly saying hi to his roommates and disappearing into his room to talk.
Sitting on his bed, I prepared myself for the worst. Did he cheat on me? Did he lose his job? Just looking at him, I couldn’t tell. He wasn’t mad, but he wasn’t happy either. He’s usually calm, but at that moment he was nervous.
“So, I’m moving to Hong Kong for work,” was the next thing I heard. Keep reading »