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
It was three days later and the rain had finally stopped. I did not hear from my beautiful, intelligent, wizard-tongued Casanova. Instead of twiddling my thumbs and mentally guessing what was up, I sent him a text to let him know that I’d like to see him again. I was direct and honest, and impatiently, I waited for a reply.
Two hours later, no reply. No reply five hours later, nor six. Finally it was nighttime and I heard my neighbor at my front door. Before he could step into my living room, I was already bursting at the seams. “You know, that guy I hung out with on Christmas never called me again.” I am a woman and we use extreme terminology like “never” when it’s only been a few days. But deep down I knew.
There is something simple and beautiful about a woman’s bedroom at night when it’s dark. The silent dance of the single black flickering candle in the corner. The sound of the heavy rain falling outside, muffled through the tightly locked windows. The bed, perfectly made, with blankets still untouched because two lovers were too eager to turn down the covers. The color of naked skin peeking through shadows. These are the times I am so thankful to live alone. No need to close the door. No need to quiet the sounds of pleasure. No need to put pants on when taking a break to roll a joint and pour a glass of wine.
I was already tipsy, having just arrived home from the Laker game on Christmas Day. Eager to keep my buzz going, I began to think of my bottle of Cab in my kitchen. After coming for the second time, I decided to pause and offer him a glass. He refused, but I had one anyway. As I sat on my bed, naked aside from my bra which we never got around to removing. I began to roll a joint on my Bible, which was conveniently sitting next to my bed. I don’t think Jesus would mind. Marijuana is much safer for you than cigarettes after all.
As I lick my perfect joint, seal it, and wait for it to dry, he says, “What just happened?”
I woke up this morning to the sound of the rain lightly playing on my window. The soft hum of water falling on the earth is mystical. It takes me back to being a child… when I would watch the rain for hours and wonder if it would wash away all the ugly things in the world. I love waking up easily and unforced. I beat my alarm clock by fifteen minutes.
It had also rained the other night when he was over. As I laid there, completely under his control, I listened to the same sound play against my window in my dark room, while one black candle flickered in the corner. This morning I am consumed by thoughts about how passionate it felt when he was here in bed with me. I recalled the memory so well that I could not resist the urge to touch myself. I rarely masturbate, but when I do it’s usually because I’m thinking about a really erotic moment shared with someone. I always touch myself to thoughts of things that have happened. I’m sick like that.
I hate sad guys. So much of my time with men has been wasted on sad guys. You know who you are gentlemen. You’re the ones who pout, wine, over-apologize and under-appreciate. The ones who are somehow more severely tortured by life’s ups and downs than the rest of us. You are products of the Emo movement, and have never taken off your eyeliner. To top things off, you’re still overtly cocky because you likely still get laid a lot by girls, like me, who constantly fall for that shit. The only thing worse than a sad guy is an angry guy. The guy who always seems to have a chip on his shoulder and who could just explode at any time. The one who picks fights when they shouldn’t, and who often crosses the line and almost always offends. I hate these men the most.
Jack was a pissed off guy and I never really knew when he would snap. However, he was also a huge tool so I wasn’t too surprised by his behavior most of the time. I have no idea why I stayed with him after finding the collection of “panties from exes” in his room, but I did. The sex was really good and young girls can sometimes become transfixed when we find the perfect penis. I’m sure that had a lot to do with it.
“My ex girlfriend is coming into town for a few days. I didn’t know until yesterday, and she said that she has no one to stay with besides me.”
I looked at him. He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t flinch. He was serious. I’d been seeing Jack for about a month and he was going to let his ex girlfriend stay with him for the weekend.
“Jack, I think you should leave.” I was twenty years old and didn’t have the know-how to question him, so I decided to let him go.
A week passed before I heard from him again. I was actually surprised to hear from him at all. He told me that he and his ex had slept together (surprise, surprise) and that he felt horrible about it. He said he was thinking about me the entire time and, “just knew that it wasn’t right.” Like any 20 year old girl who is given the choice to either end things with a locally famous musician, or forgive him and hopefully move on, I took him back.
All was going smoothly until early one Saturday morning in 2005. Jack had spent the night at my place and we were happily cuddling, fully prepared to sleep in ridiculously late, when I heard a text message alert from my Motorola Razr phone. I peeled myself out of bed and walked over to the dresser. “Oh…my…god. Is this some kind of joke?”
I know this may come as a surprise to you (ha ha), but I developed pretty early for a girl. I had mature urges at a young age. This is the reason I became a slut at 13. I remember the day. I remember the boy. I remember all of the tiny details pertaining to me crossing over to the dark side. My virginity was something that I was terrified to lose, but because I was sexually curious and very attracted to boys; I literally did “everything else.” And I did it way too young.
I was in the 8th grade. My church had this trip scheduled for the middle school kids to go up to a big camp on a lake for a “Christian” retreat. There would be snow, activities, worship songs, and hundreds of boys from other schools. I was dying to go. After weeks of begging and deal making, my parents agreed to let me go on the trip and I was thrilled. Because I went to school in the middle of nowhere, it was hard to interact with kids from other schools in other areas. This would be my chance to meet some public school boys. After all, the first Christian school boy I dated dumped me for tying to kiss him and I did not want that to happen again.
After hours on a bus, we arrive at the camp and head up to the cabins at the lake. It is beautiful. We’re given time to settle into our cabins and explore the camp. As I’m walking around with the girls from my church, I spot this boy. He is wearing a t-shirt with dozens of tiny holes in it layered over a gray thermal. His jeans were slim and tattered. His hair was bleached to the whitest of blonds, and his dishwater blond roots were slightly visible around his face peaking through his black beanie. He was so dangerous looking and so cute. I wanted to go over and talk to him, but the church girls were with me and I didn’t want them to know I was on the hunt for a bad boy. We continued towards the lodge to get a cup of hot cocoa. I sat in the dining hall for a while watching the snow outside fall through the large windows overlooking the lake.
The other girls left to go snow ball fighting, and I decided to hang out there and stay dry and warm. This was a great idea because a few minutes later the beautiful boy walked through the door. Magically, he came right over and sat next to me. We flirted. I found out his name was Evan and he was there because his friend convinced him to tag along. He figured it was a chance to get out of town so why not. I remember asking about his shoes. “They’re not such a good idea for the snow, don’t you think?” I asked. He told me they were Chuck Taylors, and that they were great because you could order them from the J.C. Penny catalogue for $17.00. They were the only shoes he wore. This was 1998. He was a true rebel. Evan was pale, had adorable pink lips and sorta looked like a young Macaulay Culkin. Then a bell rang though the camp, echoing through the wilderness, letting everyone know it was time for church.
When I returned back to my car after my date last night, I broke out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. I haven’t had that sensation since I was twenty and tried Salvia for the first time and, just as Ariel in The Little Mermaid was filled with her voice again after Ursula is defeated, I too found my voice. For the life of me I could not fight back my hysterical reaction to what the events of the evening actually were. It was so easy!
Sometimes I have to laugh at my life, and apparently sometimes I have to really laugh at my life. How utterly funny it is to think about the fact that just a few hours ago I was typing away at my desk, fully prepared to get off work, sit through traffic, meet my bestie at the laundry mat, and maybe squeeze in a beer or a joint along the way. Certainly not a bad Tuesday, but a rather dull one nonetheless. Instead I ended up meeting an older man for drinks and one thing naturally led to another and I think I may have found what I was looking for.
I’m not sure if there is a delicate or feminine way to say that right now, I am terribly, horribly, uncontrollably sex hungry. Two months without sex and finally I have it, and suddenly the Pandora’s box which is my vagina is open and wreaking havoc on the greater Los Angeles area. I need to meet men, and I need to meet them fast.
It’s not that I was unsatisfied by my experience this weekend, it’s just that there was certainly nothing substantial or of note to report… aside from one minor detail. I slept. We went to bed around 4 a.m. and slept until 4 p.m. the next day. I don’t think I have ever slept for 12 hours in my life. It was really good sleep too.
McSteamy is not an Installment, nor is he a One Night Stand. He is a boy I started making out in the eighth grade and finally, after having lost touch with one another for five years, we rekindled our old flirty flame and boned down.
It’s Friday. It’s the weekend. It’s time to play and fuck and curse and walk (not drive) and dance and do some mild drugs and get a little drunk and take photos of ourselves doing so. It’s time to sin and ask for forgiveness then sin again and not care.
Say hi to a stranger, bum a cigarette, take a bubble bath, do something strange, something interesting, something different so when Tuesday comes around you can think to yourself, “This weekend was great, can’t wait for the next one,” and we can be thankful that we are alive and kicking and screaming and laughing and crying and orgasming, even if it’s alone while in our rooms buzzed off cheap wine and tears.
Eat something you shouldn’t, email someone you shouldn’t, take a walk on the wild side and be thankful you can walk at all, and if you can’t walk, shit that sucks, I’ve been there, I know how it feels… but perhaps you can “roll” somewhere or just look outside and imagine and at the very least, masturbate.
It’s Friday. Time to forget about work and forget about stress and suits and ties and books and lies and instead think about yourself, and your loved ones. Ones you know and ones you’re yet to meet. Because we’re alive and well and breathing and thankful and beautiful. Yes, we are.
He said to call him when I was close so I did. I drove around the block three times before finding the entrance to the hotel which was hidden behind tall bushes to separate itself from the boulevard.
“Great. I’ll meet you in the lobby,” he said, excitedly. Part of me was excited and part of me was exhausted. I felt as though I was going to work, except I worked somewhere fun and cool and beautiful. But hey, work is work… otherwise they would call it something else.
He did indeed meet me in the lobby holding two glasses of champagne and smiling from ear to ear. He looked handsome. Black suit. Red tie. He’s tall too, and commented on how much he loved how tall I stood in my favorite red stilettos.
It’s 12:30 a.m. and I’m sitting alone at the Hollywood and Vine subway station. My train is scheduled to arrive at 12:36 a.m. No one else is around, aside from one back guy who looks like a dancer and a Hispanic couple, wasted, singing songs to one another. It’s bright and clean down here.
I recently realized that what I hate most about Hollywood is driving out here on the weekends. Parking, if you can find it, is expensive and unreliable. Now I’ve learned that parking my car at Universal Studios and taking the subway over, or rather, under the hill is effortless and takes away all of the frustration maneuvering around Hollywood seems to inevitably bring. The only downfall is that I have to take off early to catch the last train which comes in approximately three minutes from now. I’ll probably end up driving over to my old neighbors’ place and smoking pot for a few hours before hopefully hearing from Philippe and spending the night between his warm black sheets and equally warm arms. I sleep quite well next to him, which is surprising considering his extreme snoring issues.
I blew off two dates last week. Dates that could have, and likely would have, paid but for some reason I just couldn’t go through with it. I choked both times, minutes before I was supposed to meet them. My gut just didn’t feel right about it or something. Maybe that was it. Maybe not.
I’m starting to lose hope for love… For me. My guts hurt. I can pretend to be cool, and I can appear to be tough but I ain’t made of stone.
I’m still wearing the same dress I wore last night when I met him. It’s been months since he approached me on that rainy night in Washington DC, and he’d finally made it out west to see me. As I waited at a bar, right off the beach in Santa Monica, in nervous anticipation, a great sadness came over me like a dark, cold cloud. It’s the 4th of July and in a few minutes he will be here, I thought, and all of our flirting, all of our sassy text messages and in-depth phone conversations have culminated to this one moment. The time had finally come, and I was sad.
This morning as I left our hotel room, a bit hung over from too many vodka shots and a bit sore from rough, tough sex, I realized why I’m sad. What will come of this evening spent together? What will come of our endless close-down-the-restaurant dinner, long walk on the beach, playing like kids in the sand, kissing under the stars, and all-night love making? Absolutely nothing. Andrew has proven to be a wonderful distraction these past few months. A fantasy, man, oh so far away. Perfection just out of my reach. I was free to fantasize about him. Free to build him up to some unattainable level of manliness that would be impossible for anyone to achieve, and I could do it because he wasn’t real. Until now. This feeling is as real as the heat from the pavement under my tired, flip-flopped feet.
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