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Every lady knows and loves and yearns for this guy. The One Who Got Away.
By definition, he’s not in my dah, but he’s been in my life for practically all of my 27 years.
We met – as it were – as toddlers in the mountains, where our families vacationed at the same rustic resort. There’s a photograph of five-year-old, platinum blond, chubby-faced me staring at him across a wildflower field. He had long, curly, silken dark hair and in the picture, he’s wearing a red t-shirt and looking back at me cooly, like a miniature rebel without a cause.
If you go up to the resort even now, there’s a piece of driftwood where we both wrote our names in magic marker, probably that same year. He’s a year older than I am, so his name is spelled correctly and mine has a backwards B and Y.
It wasn’t until much later that I consciously knew I was in love with him. I was 12-years-old, with knobby knees and ears that stuck out, but I was still a sun-kissed, freckled blonde and had happily evaded the awkward ‘awkward phase’ that had stricken most of my friends during this time. At home in the suburbs, I was making out against lockers and in his bunk-bed with Rob The Hockey Player, though refusing every day to ‘be his girlfriend.’ I had that compulsive desire for male attention (even adolescent, slightly be-pimpled male attention), but I knew I was saving up my “official” love life for someone truly epic.
That’s when I re-encountered him, The One Who Got Away, on vacation with my family in the mountains.
I’ve always been big. I stand about an inch and a half taller than the average American man, and about seven above the average woman. At my heaviest I clocked in somewhere around 280 lbs, fluctuating across the line of the “regular” and “women’s” plus-size clothes. My lifelong weight gain story is not unique or interesting. It’s the same combination of genetics, poor choices in dealing with my mild anxiety, and a general lack of discipline we hear over and over every time Jillian Michaels makes someone cry on The Biggest Loser.
My sexual partners have run the gamut: those who were attracted to or fetishized big women, those for whom size was a non-issue, and those who will sleep with anyone, attracted or not. There were those who worshiped my curves and called me beautiful, and some who wanted to humiliate me and call me disgusting. Of course there were also those who never became partners, usually because they just weren’t into a full-figured gal.
The worst are those who fall into the Venn diagram of men who will sleep with a plus-size woman, but don’t want a fat girlfriend. They are the ones who, at some point in the hookup/dating process, say that I should have known they would never want something more serious with me. Usually they dance around the topic until we land here: the fat, kinky, bisexual girl is fun to fuck, but they would never admit it to anyone else. In short, a great personality can’t always outweigh weight.
So… anyone else out there watching “Are You The One?” That is, besides me and 13 year old girls? Don’t judge me, alright. The show is addictive. It involves 10 guys and 11 girls all searching for their “Perfect Match.” If, by the end of 10 weeks, they all pair off correctly they win $1 million. (To split, I guess? That’s not much money divided between 20 people and accounting for taxes… but something tells me people old enough to be paying taxes aren’t exactly this show’s target demo.)
It’s easy to get invested in “Are You The One?” because there’s a mystery to solve: who is everyone’s perfect match? Also, that young man Anthony is not unattractive.
If you, like me, have been addicted to the American treasure/horror show that is “Bachelor in Paradise” this summer, you are familiar with this invitation from ABC.
At first glance, this may sound like a tempting offer. Who doesn’t want to find true love? Who doesn’t want to be on television? But I’m here to advise you otherwise. In fact, in order to prove why you shouldn’t go on “The Bachelor,” I’ve run the numbers.
Lana Del Rey isn’t shy about her sex life, and I can’t help but wonder if this makes her a role model. I like brave women who are truthful about their experiences, and Del Rey proved to be one when she admitted in an interview with Complex magazine that, “I have slept with a lot of guys in the industry, but none of them helped me get my record deals. Which is annoying.”
I find her comment both funny and real, but I could easily see how some people might think this is a damaging thing to say. I personally like how frank she is. A lot of people think Lana Del Rey is “fake”. After all, her nails are fake, her makeup is heavy and exaggerated, and her name isn’t even Lana Del Rey (it’s Lizzie Grant). But you know what? Elton John’s real name isn’t Elton John. Mick Jagger used to wear heaps of makeup. And David Bowie, as much as I adore him, lives as entire different personas every time he makes an album. But no one gets on their case of being “fake.”
“Why, yes, that’s correct: my magic number is like 1022, I think. I lost track a while ago,” Kirsten Knisely–outspoken 26 ¾ -year-old single white feminist, and author of her very own blog Love and ADD–said from the soapbox of her small apartment in the early hours of July 16. “I’m like a modern-day Carrie Bradshaw.”
This statement shocked the women of the Internet when it came in direct response and contradiction to sex expert Tracey Cox’s article, “No matter how many people you’ve slept with, it will always be too many’; Sex expert Tracey Cox on why women should NEVER reveal how many lovers they’ve had.”
Have you played The Numbers Game? That’s when your significant other (SO) asks you how many people you’ve slept with. It is a dangerous game.
But even more dangerous than the game itself is the advice sex expert Tracey Cox offers women on the subject:
Keep your mouth zipped even if nothing else has been: by putting a number on your sexual history you’re removing the emotion and the circumstances.
And don’t kid yourself: if you do blurt out a figure to your boyfriend, you will be judged – and not necessarily by the same rules he judges himself on.
Even if he’s slept with 300, your three will be two too many.
I think it’s dangerous advice for two main reasons: 1. it wanders into slut-shaming territory and 2. it promotes lying to your partner. Let’s take a look at the first point.
Nick had a pinky ring. That was probably the 7th of too many warning signs. But he had a pinky ring and he liked it and he would clink it against his glass and I hated it. I don’t think it was until tonight that I realized Nick actually liked his pinky ring. He wore it proudly, no hipster irony. Just some dickhead who sincerely thought he looked cool. Which would be cute. If he wasn’t a dickhead and if it wasn’t a pinky ring.
Nick and I had been hanging out for about 2 months. We dabbled in dating, had really bad sex once and sort of okay sex again then he went to Mexico for a week and then I went to Vegas and then I got sick and then tonight he invited me out for what would be our first hang in 3 weeks.
I’ve already fast-forwarded to the part where you find out he has a pinky ring, so saying anything to bolster his case is pointless now. But I will say Nick’s good. He’s not a bully. He doesn’t know how to dress himself and he took me on dates. He made me tea and complimented my bra and took me to a weird wrestling match once that would’ve been awful had I not found him terribly cute. But he’s also a dumb idiot who doesn’t understand people things.
Apparently, they’ve found a way to predict “The Marrying Kind,” according to a study based on…common sense. No joke.
The study, highlighted in The Atlantic, suggests that if you’re good-looking, fun, nice, and not super gross, you’ll have no problem finding someone to tolerate you forever and always. It also indicates that if a person isn’t totally great in one area, they can compensate in another. Groundbreaking.
After reading this not-so-new information, I sought refuge in the comments as I often do. I’m constantly seeking validation for my feelings, and the comments section is a great place to start. I was not alone in my feelings and, not terribly surprising, the commenters had a much more complex and interesting perspective founded in real life experience:
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.