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Sticky's 7th grade boyfriend dumped her for "moving too fast" and things really haven't changed for her since. She currently resides in Los Angeles and writes about the men she's had. You'll find her in the smoking section or wherever champagne is served (but it's easier to follow her on Twitter) @stickyisaslut
Hey ladies, yeah, I’m talking to you. So listen up… we all know how to hide. We all know how to throw our hair back in a messy bun or a ponytail, throw on an oversized sweatshirt and baggy sweat pants and hope that the world doesn’t notice us. We all know how to be quiet and blend in, solely to get stuff done. But what many of us women don’t know is how to do the opposite: we don’t know how to shine.
You know those girls. Perhaps you knew her in high school, or college, or she works with you. You might even be her… The girl who lights up a room when she enters it. A girl who, no matter what she’s wearing or what she does to hide or blend in, never really does. Her presence is always felt and her aura is luminous. Why? Because she exudes confidence.
I thought for a really long time about what confidence is and where it comes from. The dictionary defines confidence, specifically self-confidence, as the “belief in oneself and one’s powers or abilities.” I think this definition says a lot. Confidence is not just the belief in your physical appearance or belief in your mental capabilities. It is the trust you have in yourself because you know where you excel.
A few years ago I lived in this small beautiful beach town in central California. I worked a lot and I played a lot and had one of those jobs which required me to wear a suit every day. That meant the men I worked with were in suits too. It was an ideal situation for me.
Each morning, and a couple times each afternoon, Z would pass my office. I would stare at his masculine form and gorgeous face on a daily basis, and always looked forward to his deep sexy voice saying “Hey Nicky” as he’d wave at me outside the window of my office and then go about his business. He was super tall, Hawaiian, and just perfectly yummy. He was 100% MAN and had this “island” accent too, which didn’t hurt let me tell you.
I was now officially on the prowl. I have never pursued a man who 1) I lived next too, AKA a neighbor (you don’t shit where you eat kids, trust me), 2) a friend had slept with, because I’m not so into sloppy seconds, or 3) I worked with. I was all for breaking one of my rules for Z though, with his irresistible caramel colored skin and deep blue eyes.
I’m disoriented and tongue-clumsy. My mouth cannot form sentences and I’m muted by my own confusion as I fall into invisible melancholy. What day is it? Where am I? What is this I’m feeling? I try to please everyone and the result is always disappointment and failure, to myself and the to lot of them.
I can’t commit. I can’t make promises. I can’t listen so instead I feel. I feel wildly and loudly and I feel between my legs and wet against my neck and I feel it whisper into my ear.
He says so many things but I can’t listen so instead, I feel. Urges, wants, obsessions, sins, flesh. I can feel it all and I swallow it whole as I take him, all of him, into my throat, into my body, into that place where my heart should be, but it’s not. It’s not there anymore well, not much of it really. A void, a scab, some scar tissue maybe. Nothing worth wanting.
My empowerment comes from various sources. Sometimes it conquers evil. Sometimes it has an intellectual or spiritual breakthrough. My empowerment sometimes seeps through my pores, releasing the toxins of my bad decisions. I inhale and exhale smoke and though I’m killing myself, I am in that instant, stronger.
I’m officially off those anti-depressants now. I lasted six whole months with them. Six whole tear-free, stress-free, unassuming, perfectly shallow, I-feel-better-than-ever months. But anti-depressants are just like liposuction. The weight is still there. You haven’t really lost it. You haven’t really gone through the process of losing the weight and feeling new again and earning it. It’s fake. The whole thing was. Though I’m not going to be one to knock the drugs that helped me. They served their purpose and stood with me through a hard time and they worked… very well.
But see, I’m not a pill person and I don’t do well with prolonged happiness all at once. I prefer my good times to be genuine and for my bad times to feel like something. I never want to be a person who just goes through the motions, of life. I figure we only have one life. Well, depending on whom we speak with that fact could vary, but really, the only thing we can be certain of just like I’m certain you’re sitting there, reading this, is that we are alive. I also feel like that’s a lot to wrap my head around so I’m going to stop while I’m ahead.
Now that I have established that I am alive, what am I going to do about it? I’ve taken some time to think about how I’d answer this question and when I finally figured it out, only one word came to mind. Love. I just want to love and be in love and feel love as much as I can while I’m alive. And of course, being the sort of woman that I am, I like to indulge in love through sex.
Newton figured out that for every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction. What a smart man he was. I rarely think about the negative consequences to my actions, though there have been many instances when something happens that I would have preferred not to happen.
Sexual promiscuity sometimes results in my least favorite human emotion: shame. Shame is that sickening sensation you get in the pit of your stomach that travels up to your heart and suddenly you feel like less of a person. It’s a horrible feeling that makes you want to hide in your bed forever and eat icecream. Shame can be coupled with guilt. Like the shame I felt waking up in the morning next to a man who was not my boyfriend with hickies on my neck. Or waking up next to a guy after a one night stand, only then remembering that one of my closest friends has the biggest crush on him and if she were to find out, she’d be crushed.
Shame can also come out of nowhere, as in the shame you feel when your skeletons decide to exit your closet and throw up all over your life. This is called “public” shaming. My first experience with this type of shame happened my freshmen year of high school. I was not the victim, but watching two of my very good friends go through it was awful.
I consider myself an honest person. Open to all perspectives and frames of mind. Rarely am I shocked, offended, or bothered by the opinions of others. Opinions help you to gain knowledge and perspective and insight into things and people and that’s a good thing.
I received an opinion this weekend from a man that was quite different from what I’m used to hearing. He told me “Darling, I love who you are; I love everything you stand for and I wish you the best, but I think you just might be one size too big for me.”
We all get them. We all occasionally (usually drunk) send them. Sometimes they make us laugh, make our heart skip a beat, make us nervous, or just plain pissed. I am talking about the out-of-the-blue, for-no-good-reason, totally random texts from an ex. Sometimes it’s more than a text. It could be an email, or worse, a voicemail.
It seems that no man can really call it quits with me, even when I get dumped because I did something wrong. Even if I did something really wrong.
I had already parked the car, touched up my lipstick and applied lotion to my legs when I realized I was planted directly across the street from my ex-boyfriend’s house. He lives right off the boulevard near popular bars and restaurants and one in particular was the decided location of my first date with a much older gentleman.
I quickly hopped out of the car and scooted my way down the damp street in my five inch stilettos and inappropriately short red dress and prayed I would not run into him. Even if I did, I was too busy to bother as I was already in a tremendous hurry. I’d rushed home from work and went straight to friend’s house for a quick cig and a game of catch up, then headed back home to throw on a cocktail dress and sexy panties and, somehow, I’d made it to dinner by eight o’clock, sharp.
I met Eddie at a bar in Hollywood during the final Celtics vs. Lakers game. I was certainly not at my best, though I rarely am when watching basketball. It’s probably the only time that I am not man hunting. Instead, I am watching the game and cannot be disturbed aside from the occasional shit talking or celebratory high five.
Through all the cheering and shot taking, I couldn’t help but notice Eddie pull up on his motorcycle outside of the bar. He was tall, extremely muscular, and had this ashy blond hair… and he was covered in tattoos. I suddenly became very aware of the fact that I was wearing sweat pants with “Lakers” written across the legs, a gold tank top, a purple zip-up sweatshirt and obnoxious Laker flip flops that I purchased during the finals the year before. Not exactly the epitome of sexy.
However, I wasn’t about to let this guy go. He was quite possibly the most beautiful man that I had ever set eyes on. I decided to give it a shot, so as he was dismounting, I went outside for a cigarette. When I saw him up close, all I could think of was “Oh my God, it’s Jordan Catalano,” (yes, that’s a My So Called Life reference youngsters).
We struck up a conversation (yes men, it’s that easy) and I gave him my number. I didn’t really think he would use it, but to my surprise, I received a call from him three days later. He told me that when I walked away, he became mesmerized by my ass and had been thinking about it for days. He asked if I was busy and suggested I come over. A casual encounter? Ok! I laughed and told him that my place was probably a lot nicer than his and suggested that he come to me. To my surprise, he called my bluff and said “I don’t think so. Just come over.”
Sex is an odd activity at times. Many different things can happen as a result of one night filled with good sex. Sometimes they’re good things, sometimes bad, and sometimes they’re just sad. That’s why I am reluctant to call this a One Night Stand story. I just haven’t come to terms with it yet. I’m still sad.
I’ve never been one to fear bad sex. There is no manual. No right or wrong way to do it. Everyone is different and we all have our preferences. The odds of finding someone with identical sexual desires and tastes is nearly impossible.
Recently I slept with a very kind guy. Smart, yet introverted, and not the most socially well adjusted guy. But really, those are my types. I like the guys whose exteriors appear cold or standoffish but who, when you get to know them, are wonderful one on one. The attention they give you is genuine because they don’t know how to be fake.
It’s a trend nowadays: men bitch and complain (which is really chauvinistic and immature and terrible) about needing to avoid the “friend zone.” I hate the concept, and I think men should shut the fuck up, but I do agree that in essence, it exists. There are men whom I know very well, who I’m sure would love to sleep with me, and who I find very attractive, that I do not want to have sex with. I probably will never want to have sex with them. I’ll concede that a way of conveying that, a way of saying that there are attractive men out there who I don’t want to sleep with (because sorry my entire existence doesn’t depend on sex and getting the sex) would be called a friend zone as in, I am your friend and want to continue to be such. Like a no parking zone, except not cars but men and not parking but sex!
I was 20 and meeting my girlfriend in Hollywood. I’d grown up with her and had known her family for years. Her big sister was a porn star and was throwing her annual birthday bash at a club on Hollywood and Vine, so of course I was invited.
When one is faced with the challenge of what to wear to a porn event, keep in mind that you can never go wrong with lingerie and false eye lashes. I was sporting this amazing cherry red bustier with a face that could kill. I was young and didn’t want to look out of place, so I paid extra attention to my ensemble. When we pulled up in my friend’s sister’s purple Mercedes with a license plate that read her porn name, I knew the party had started.
We were escorted into the club by who I later learned were male actors in the porn industry. When I walked through the door, I entered another world. I was one of the 5% of women in the room without fake tits. As I slowly looked around the club, I began to see some of these impressive tits. There were camera crews and photographers everywhere interviewing these girls, and I suppose the attention excited them because they began pulling their boobs out for the cameras. Then other girls would grab them and suck on them and flick at nipples. I learned at that very moment, porn stars tend to get naked when they are with other porn stars. My underage ass grabbed a cocktail from the bar and made my way around the room.
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