So I’m still in NYC. I’ve learned I have a penthouse apartment waiting for me in September, a performance intensive with Broadway’s best in August, and experienced a passed out trip to Coney Island compete with vomit on my suede jacket. Everything’s just comin up roses, I say! A friend of mine who can sing really pretty and I met on my previous trip to NYC (remember the handsome cast of TROUBLE who danced me into lustful oblivion? Yeah he was one of those) was having a show on the Lower East Side. I decided to try at being cool with the Lower East Side kids to celebrate all my fortune (They're rich, I have a penthouse. Sames) so I went.
The Bitter End
The concert was great and fun and whatever. The band was totally adorable (I was into the drummer. I think I’ve mentioned this before) but they couldn’t go out with us afterwards because they had to take all their instruments home. Oh how this night could have been so drastically different if I would have said “the drummer’s not coming? Me either (see what I did there?).” But I didn’t. So me, Singer, and another close friend went out for a few drinks after the show. Don't worry, mom. This blog doesn't end in a threesome. That's later.
I remember after my second glass of wine thinking “Wait. Is singer hitting on me right now? See, I don’t expect dreamy men to hit on me. I mostly assume they will think I’m a smelly weirdo. Then I remember they don’t yet know about my obsession with One Direction or my healthy bowels so they probably just think I’m cute. Anyway, homeboy was totally hitting on me. Another glass of wine please?
We get in the cab and he does that thing where he tells the cab driver to only make one stop. Like they do in the movies when one of the characters is totally trying to get laid. Yeah it actually happens. Was I about to get laid? Wait. No. Virgins can’t get laid. Virgins get initiated to the sex club and sometimes it involves blood (or so I have been told by Health Class and youth group leaders...cuz they know). This is not happening. But it was. And I went home with him.
Knowing what I know now about NYC real estate, this kid had it made. He lived in this beautiful basement apartment in the Village with sound proof curtain cuz #singer. But I didn’t really care about all that. All I knew is that this guy was totally going to make a move on me and I wouldn’t be able to reciprocate because…you guessed it: I had been walking around New York City all day and my feet were almost as disgusting as my healthy bowels. Yeah guys I needed to wash my feet before sexy times.
So there I was. In this rich kid’s apartment washing my feet in his bathtub. Luckily he had girl roommates so I could wash myself with something other than Old Spice #coverblown.
So honestly all I remember is walking out of the bathroom with squeaky clean feet and then making out on his couch. This was nothing different than my maybe not so sober experiences in Missouri. You make out a little and then fall asleep before they can pressure you into anything: The Virgin Tactics. Anyway, Next thing I know we’re on his bed and he's asking if he should get the condom (so one time I remember my older sister telling me “That's not how sex works, Mattie. You aren't just like ‘let's French kiss then DO IT.’” Apparently No one had told Singer this. Because that's exactly what happened). PAUSE. WHAT IS A CONDOM? IVE NEVER EVEN SEEN ONE SHIT WHAT DO I SAY?
You make out a little and then fall asleep before they can pressure you into anything: The Virgin Tactics
That's what I said. I said yes. In that split second I thought to myself...what if I say yes? What if I try this sex thing and decide I don't want to do it anymore? I just want to know what the big damn deal is. I can do this. With basically a stranger. Plus my feet are all clean! Can't let sexy clean feet go to waste. Oh shit. He’s waiting for an answer.
So yeah I washed my feet before I lost my virginity #JustLikeJesus
Then I guess we were “doing it." ... THIS is it. THIS is what everyone made such a huge deal over all these years? Well let me tell you something, church people. Sex is not THAT great. Especially not your first time. I mean, actually a lot of times it's really not that great. WHAT IF THIS WAS MY HUSBAND. What if this is the guy I'd chosen to spend the rest of my life with and the sex was like "Okay. Here we are doing a thing. Together. I think." In that moment, I felt very good about my decision. YOU LIED TO ME CHRISTIANS.
I guess it ended quickly. I don't know. I think I blacked out.
Post Traumatic Sex
When we (he) finished, he made his way over to a desk to place his face on a humidifier. Again #singer. That's right, no time for cuddling. He had to dehumidify. He was totally exasperated! (Men are the fucking worst) Then he picks up his phone, “Oh hey. Drummer texted me. He says he thinks you're really cute. You want me to hook that up?”
Shut the front door.
WAS THIS DUDE FOR REAL? He just took my Vcard (not that he knew that but still! REWD) and he was already trying to pass me off like a track baton??? Is this really how things work in New York? People are heartless. So yeah. This guy took my Vcard and then gave my number to his buddy while he dehumidified 5 minutes after. What is my life (okay in hindsight maybe he thought he was doing something really nice for me? Drummer was great!).
After he finished fogging his vocal cords and totally offending me, he crawled back into bed. “Hey just FYI. I really don't like cuddling.” OH MY GOD WHERE IS MY BIG BROTHER TO PUNCH THIS ASSHOLE. Also I don't want to cuddle with you, Mister! I want to never see you again. But of course I did not say that. Because I'm nice.
Me: Should I just go? I mean like…
Singer: No no. It's late. You shouldn't be out this late
Me: I think I'll be fine. I'm a big girl.
Singer: No seriously stay.
Me: *I hate everything*
We start to doze. And his final words.
Singer: Am I the second person you've ever slept with?
Me: I don't want to talk about it
And then we never spoke again.
The next morning I woke up super early in order to avoid him and walked myself to the nearest Duane Reade to buy a $50 pill I didn't need because we used a condom (But I bought it anyway because no one was ever honest with me about the effectiveness of condoms when used by two consenting adults not teenagers in a Camry). Then I just reflected. Okay that's not true. I called one of my church friends and stood in Port Authority telling her about the entire experience. “How do you feel?” She asked. And here's the part that really blew my mind:
I didn't feel anything.
Yet another lie they tell you in church: You will leave a sexual experience with someone who isn't your husband feeling terrible about yourself. Nope. I didn't feel dirty or guilty or used or like an obliterated tomato. I felt like Mattie Jo. And I also felt like that guy was very impolite. I didn't have some strong attachment to Singer. I didn't desire to see him ever or tell him ever. I didn't want to be his girlfriend. I wanted to wash down my plan B with some french fries then go see a Broadway show. But I didn't do that either. I went to Brooklyn to visit aforementioned Julia (the one I stayed with during my first visit) to tell her all about my sex scandal. And ate some pasta.
I wanted to wash down my plan B with some french fries then go see a Broadway show
So I went back to Missouri a new woman. LOL. Not really. I was the same Mattie Jo who visited the City all those times before. Only this time I was leaving with a little secret I wouldn't share with anyone for at least a week (tehe). I now carried with me a whole bunch of truth I was brave enough to discover all on my own. Including but not limited to:
Sex is not that big of a deal. Don't get me wrong, sex is wonderful and should definitely be experienced between two (ADULT) people who trust and care for and respect each other. But it is not the pinnacle of life as our church leaders led me to believe. There are a lot of things I enjoy more than sex (like finding Winnie The Pooh gifs on the Internet. Pure joy). At the end of the day, sex is just sex. It's messy, beautiful, and sometimes boring. But it is not something to define yourself by doing or not doing.
Sex is complex. Sex is not a strictly black and white issue. “If he's your husband, you can have sex with him.” Sexuality is incredibly dynamic and complicated. And to water it down to something that can and should only be experienced between a man and a women who are going to be together forever is just plain silly (not that sex between man and wife isn't complex. What I'm saying is this is limiting sexuality as a whole). There are women who go their entire lives having mediocre sex because no one actually allows them to explore what they enjoy. And they're slut shamed for being curious. In church I was taught I couldn't even masturbate without feeling like the Good Lord was upset. Which leads me to my next point.
Saving yourself until marriage and most sexual teaching of the church is female oppression. Women are the superior sex and every man knows that. If we figure that out, Hillary Clinton might be president. Okay but seriously. Even married women in the church speak out about how shameful they feel for having sex. It is MANufactured scriptural slut shaming and last time I checked, Jesus was not down with this. Remember Mary Magdalene? The woman at the well? The woman he saved from getting stoned to death because she had an affair? Jesus is the OG Feminist Hipster in town that all the chicks want cuz he gets it. And finally, what I set out to really discover…
You are not your virginity status. In church, they tried to teach us that we’re so much more than our sexing (but not our sexting. That’s allowed. JK GUARD DEM EYES). That we don't need to have sex with a man to be valued. That we can avoid being “used” if we don't hand out the goods. Now, let me just say, I am totally down with all these ideas. You're right church. I am more than my sexual offering. And a man should absolutely value me for me and not my sex things. But ironically, by telling me to withhold for however long necessary, I heard that my ability to withhold made me good or bad. Valuable or sloppy seconds. Worth a great husband or fuck boys.
I would like to say I walked away from this experience and felt totally liberated from my chastity chains, but that is not true. Despite the fact that I KNEW I wasn't my sexy time tally chart, I irrevocably held a belief that I was a bad person for giving it up. I believed I wasn't worth a great guy. I believed I had nothing to offer the world (I know it sounds dramatic but it’s true) or a decent partner. Which led me to roughly 3 years of dating total fucktards. Because I thought that's the best I could get. I'm in a better place with all of that now, but that's another blog…
I write all of this because I want any woman who feels dictated by such a silly social stigma to know you don't have to. You can actually choose to do your research and call bullshit on the information that has led you to an oppressed life you don't even know you're experiencing. Did you know your mind doesn't know the difference between a truth and a lie? If you hear a lie long enough it becomes your truth. So change your truth. And finally, take it from homegirl: really small penises do exist. That is unfortunate for the men, but it is not your problem. Unless you marry them without checking that shit first. Then it's totally your fault I warned you.
P.S. Very appropriately, the song I sang at my showcase is entitled Let's Make a Sex Tape. This is also the name of the Facebook album from this trip...