Unprotected Sex

You are in the throws. You are ready mentally, physically, probably not emotionally—but you can deal with that much. All of a sudden, you’re done. You’re exhausted, it was wonderful, or it was not. Either way, you realize… you did not. I repeat, you did not. Use protection.

As a woman, there are a few MAJOR things we think about. Me, meaning. me, but I can attempt to speak for some.

  • You wonder about how many other dumb*^$ women he’s been with that he didn’t care enough about to make this same mistake with, while you try to still tell yourself you’re special.
  • Maybe, you think, since we just went half on a baby/half on a life together that he has deeper feelings for you than he realizes… fast forward—the reality—that man hasn’t thought about nor gauged the reality of what has transpired, nor is he worried one frikkin little bit.
  • Now, you need to have the serious talk with him because you probably want something serious depending upon how good it was… (aka where is this going? What do you want? Why didn’t I think of this sooner?) Apparently, we’re not in Kansas anymore.

And panic shoots through your thoughts. You develop a schizophrenic holy fuckery reaction, then you add in—how can I take this back? And your worry that the things you can no longer change are causing you to not think straight so you second-guess the belief you had in your suave accomplice, and beat yourself over the head with a textbook. Ok, last one was just me.

I’m compelled to write this blog because my bestie (poor baby) fell for an artist. I tried to tell her, you know I did. Us artists are wayward. We care, boi o boi do we care, and then we wake up one day and we don’t. We just don’t.  You must be able to change as fast as we do, or you are left, back there, the same. Having been on both sides of the “overwhelming infatuation” spectrum, I know this much. Apparently the guy she fell for was a strikingly handsome-sweet-talking, and pretty well-known graffiti artist. She’d been raving about him for the last few months, their connection, they’re both uncomfortable in opposing transitive positions in their lives, and the fact that they both like getting drunk and having a good time. A few months going in, he told her he wanted a relationship and they (without protection), erh erh erhmed.

Day before yesterday’s yesterday she not only calls me with the news, but she also calls me with him flaking out on their plans together and he has since changed his mind about the relationship. She cried these—big—screaming—hollow tears into the receiver as I shopped for my tampons at Target. Lol. It was not funny, but that last part was.

Many of us have made this mistake, I included. I learn once again from the recoiling of the feelings inside of me when she told me this, and from her deep moans of sadness and regret in our male-bashing session.

“You were wayyyyy too good for him and you knooooooow he didn’t deserve you anyway, losers I tell you!” I say to her.

But the truth is, it can’t be avoided, really, eventually you have to trust someone, or you’ll always be alone and that will eat you up s-l-o-w-l-y. Eventually you want to be careless. You tire of the “safe” way. You are aware of the consequences, and you pay the price anyway.

I have a reason. I rush it. I love the rush. I love not knowing somebody so completely and that blind trust that you’re ok—your hands in the air—when the coaster could derail and send you flying into a broke-necked oblivion. Why? Because I’ve heard stories of friends who met a person then just “knew” it was right, got married, and three kids later they’re happily pushing their sugar-infested germily brats on the swing, at the top of the hill, on the acre of land they just bought, with the maid that comes on Wednesday evenings. Because I know people who met and fell in that kind of love, and it isn’t easy but they haven’t given up on it. Because I’ve been reading too much Italo Calvino and in his Six Memos he tells this Chinese story:

Among Chuang-tzu’s many skills, he was an expert draftsman. The King asked him to draw a crab. Chuang-tzu replied that he needed five years, a country house, and twelve servants. Five years later the drawing was still not begun. “I need another five years,” said Chuang-tzu. The King granted them. At the end of these ten years, Chuang-tzu took up his brush and, in an instant, with a  single stroke, he drew a crab, the most perfect crab ever seen.” —Italo Calvino, Six Memos for the Next Millennium

I think making love is that perfect drawing that may take years to perfect. I think that when it comes to sex I often put it off because of fear. Because I don’t have the right brush (lol). Because I need five years, a country house, and a dozen servants. Or because I need a book deal, a PhD, and o yes, servants would help out. Because I want more than what I’m afraid to discover that man won’t ever be able to give to me. Because it all has to do with the perfect stroke, and in order to really feel that perfect stroke you have to be open enough to receive it—without anything protecting you, as catshit crazy as that sounds. And best of all because, the time when I let go before, I got no where.

I told my best friend (and I really hope she doesn’t kill me for writing about this, I love you girlie) that I was so sorry that this happened and that I would get her a glass of wine as soon as she came back into town. What a good friend I am. Then I asked her. “Why didn’t you use protection?” Her answer was as silly as I thought.

“I don’t know.”

I currently want to lock up the whole idea of trust in people, and throw away the key forever.

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