.sticky.

i opened my eyes yesterday morning at 9 am. it was a monday and i was already late for work. even though i was naked and under no covers, i was hot and sticky. my apartment is a vortex for heat, trapping sunlight on hot days and circulating dead, heavy air all night long.

standing upright brought the room into focus with the unrelenting clarity of a hangover on a hot day. i walked over to the couch, sat down between last night's underwear and an empty condom wrapper, and started to cry.

now i'm running laps around last night's events, thinking the same thoughts over and over. "i blew it," i keep thinking. "never fuck on the first date. you should never have invited him in. you should never have worn a skirt. skirt means easy access. skirt means his hand can go from your knee to your pussy without a button or zipper to intervene.'

i never meant to have sex with him. not from the first beer to the snap of latex against hard dick. i only intended to go on a date with a man i met at a bar. and at that, a seemingly nice man, twitchy and nervous and insecure. i gathered this from the static of arm hairs on end and the rhythmic rise and fall of his adam's apple as he asks me for my number. oy, i thought, here's one i'm going to have to handhold and look out for.

it wasn't just his general air of hesitance that led me to think he was a safe suitor, a shy gentleman. he talked about feelings, music, pets, and childhood. he talked about the social dynamics of his band-mates and dwelled on hurt feelings. he had pale, red hair and an accompanying fragile complexion. he's the kind of guy you want to slather with sunscreen and lead gently to a shady tree with a good book and a slice of watermelon.

so the date was good. i'm gradually starting to have a point of comparison, seeing as this is now my fourth date in a month – my fourth date ever. i scribbled a list in my head as we talked, in a cool bar on a hot day, and drank pabst that we took turns buying. he rolled his own cigarettes with drum tobacco and i pulled camel lights one by one out of the little box. it was obvious that we were lighting cigarettes at a manic pace, both of us obviously nervous and needing something to do with our hands.

i took notes on two pertinent categories: good traits and bad ones. thanks to lonely optimism and first date best behavior, i got rolling on the good list right away: nice. definitely a nice guy. soft-spoken, straight forward. attire: good. ringer t-shirt and jeans; not pretentious, highly appropriate. grooming: good. he made a lot of eye contact and i liked that. granted, eye contact makes me nervous as hell, but it is nevertheless a ballsy move and demonstrates character. it's at least cooler than staring at your beer and mumbling.

bad: he's from utah. that can't be good. parents, divorced. described his dad as "a handful." can't have been a very positive role-model. but gotta give him points for a sensitive, humorous description. one for the good list. no siblings – only children are not good at sharing or compromising, that's bad.

lives alone, that's good. in a band that is apparently real and has sold cds and plays shows, very good. cute, but in a chubby, boyish way. that's good. men who are too masculine apparently scare the shit out of me – if i'm attracted to someone with a penis attached, he's generally chubby, scrawny, or otherwise innocuous.

i didn't have my guard up. i had a three pabst's, and they were pints, not twelve ounce bottles. for me, that's like sucking down a whole keg. i finally relaxed and noticed that the cigarette had stopped shuttering between my fingers. i was laughing and breathing naturally.

we walked to another bar, and as soon as we stepped onto the hot street, his warm arm wrapped around my waist. he was my height, no taller, so this gesture lacked the easy drape of tall men, whose long hands land conveniently on a woman's hip. what his arm lacked in ease and stature, he made up for in intensity. his grip was solid and forceful, and it surprised the hell out of me. his kiss was the same. we kissed on the corner, at the stoplight, and missed the light change from red to green to red again.

he drove me home after. (owns a car, good.) he parked in the back of my apartment building and we made out in the front seat for long enough that he turned off the ignition. it was almost midnight. on a school night. i was dizzy and dry-mouthed, drunk. i invited him in.

i said, "maybe you could come in for a little bit." because, in a little bit, no damage can be done. he said, "a little bit. okay." i thought a little bit meant a little bit of making out and a little bit of talking. we'd kiss without the impediment of a stick shift and the eyes of giggling streetwalkers.

he wasn't in my apartment for more than five minutes when he took out his dick. he was seated upright on my couch, a cat behind his head on the windowsill, when i heard the zip and snap of him undoing his fly. then i think he put my hand on it. i really can't remember. i was surprised, but sloppy-surprised and slow to react. i thought: i don't think this is appropriate. i was stuck like an ant in a bowl of syrup and trying to decide what to do next when i heard him say, "do you want to sit on my cock?" his hand was in his back pocket while the words were still in his mouth, and then i heard the slap of latex on taut skin.

all i could think was that i couldn't waste a brand new condom. taking that sucker off without filling it up with cum seemed impossibly rude and bitchy. i didn't want to make him feel stupid and presumptious. pulling out your dick and slapping a condom on it certainly falls into the stupid and presumptious category, but i was terrified of making a guest in my house feel that way.

i actually thought, "well, i let him finger me. so i might as well." i thought about all the ways i'd accidentally consented: the skirt, the invitation to come inside, kissing in a bar, kissing in the street, smiling. i climbed on and felt nothing. it lasted three minutes. first i was on top, but then i felt lightheaded and i just stared at the cat in front of me on the back of the couch and felt self-conscious. so i laid down and he finished. he got up and i listened as he flushed the toilet and ran the tap water. he came back over and said, "i'll call you in a few days." i said ok and watched, still on my back on the couch, skirt still around my waist, as he let himself out.

.some company.

I wouldn’t mind some company today. Not that I didn’t enjoy my two-hour afternoon walk, blisters and all, to the library. I just don’t know if walking alone is what I want to do with my weekend. Maybe I want to spend it with someone else.

But I spent Saturday with somebody else, a boy and a dog, and I couldn’t help but wish that I were alone. It was beautiful, sunny, warm, green and lush. We climbed a trail in the Columbia Gorge, walked under waterfalls, dipped our feet in a stream. My legs moved effortlessly. My lungs gulped humid air with the ease of somebody who doesn’t chain-smoke cigarettes. My skin sweated and stung under hot air and flying bugs. The setting was ripe for blossoms and nettles and romance.

But we didn’t kiss at the top of the trail. Instead, we worried about the dog swimming too far into the falls. The boy hunted for tobacco in his knapsack and I shivered in the cool shade and moist air of the stream.

Our conversation hovered over the same few topics we’d discussed already on two previous dates. “Have you been to Seattle?” he asked me. I told him, not for the first time, “Yes, I’ve been there. I’m from there.” We talked about tequila shots he’d had the night before, his hangover, my job. It’s a shame to burden a Saturday afternoon with awkward conversation.

I’m not genius. I rely on my computer to check my spelling. Despite my degree in English Literature, I don’t read much. I don’t read hardly at all, unless you count blogs and InStyle Magazine. Every time I sit down with a book, I’m overwhelmed with panic. Why don’t I know all of these words? Why aren’t I engaged in this story, the characters? Why do I still hear the street noise, cars, cans rattling in carts of homeless collectors? I can’t stop listening to the cats snoring. My nails need to be pulled apart– let me get the clippers. I need a haircut and a pedicure. I’m so fat. I wonder if other people think I’m as fat as I do? It’s impossible to concentrate with the din of worry rattling inside and around me.

If I can’t pull it together to finish a book, how can I allow myself to judge someone for his lack of fascinating conversation?

I think wit requires two minds and two tongues. I may be funny and sweet, wicked and insightful around one person, and a stuttering Napoleon Dynamite with another. I don’t think our lack of banter yesterday is a fault of either party. We were just not on par with each other. It’s like playing tennis with a golf club. Both of us are well equipped; we just can’t play a good game together.

It’s a disappointment. And it makes me wonder if I’ll be a flaccid, lazy partner to anyone. Frankly, the funniest and smartest people I’ve ever known have not found me as challenging and interesting as I’ve found them. Maybe I like someone a few steps a head of me, smarter, faster, wittier, who can kick my ass. Maybe it’s the same principle of too-cool bartenders and rude urban waitresses: we crave superiority and unattainability. It makes you that much better if I’m this much worse.

It can’t be that everyone who turns me on, I bore to death. If that’s the case, I’m back at square one, asking bigger and more terrifying questions like, “how long will it take my cats to eat my face after I die alone in my apartment?”

I guess the thing about being twenty-five is that I have unlimited access to hope and optimism, whether I have to get it from Sex and the City dvds or a bottle. I know I can weather a lot of misses until I get a hit. And in the meantime, hiking in the gorge makes for a beautiful afternoon alone or with any character.

.play nice.

i don't know why it is easier for me to talk to women than men. i am a different person in the company of women. women are easier to be with, most likely because i am well practiced in talking to them. i grew up with a sister and i spent four years at an women's college.

with women, i am myself. i am offensively honest, babbling, and insecure. i'm a chandler with my incessant attempts at humor, a monica with my neuroses and lurking competitive urges. i'm trusting and fearless in my friendships with women. i'm compassionate and concerned.

with men, i'm another person. i'm sweaty-palmed and shy. i'm angry and on the offensive. i'm jumpy, armed, and ready to fire. my self-consciousness overcomes, and i'm never pretty enough, cute enough, bubbly enough. i don't know how to put on makeup, let alone which color blush to buy at the store. i battle my own belligerence as well as my fear of saying something that might put them off. i don't know how to be a girl.

why not just act the same around everybody? why not make the same jokes, tell the same anecdotes about my cats and rattle off a list of hypochondriacal self-diagnoses? it's a nasty catch-22, because everybody tells you to be yourself. but myself isn't as cute as it should be. i never touch a boy's arm and throw my head back at his witty jokes. i always try to pay the bill.

is it that women expect less of me, or have expectations that are more realistic and well rounded?

is it that men expect me to play the girl, to listen more, and to talk less?

maybe i'm just mean. maybe i'm just abrasive. maybe i'm looking for a reaction from men that i don't need from women. maybe i want adoration, arm-grazing, and chivalrous concern. i don't know how to be cute-sexy or sexy-sexy or funny-sexy or maternal-sexy or any of those things. i'm not coy. i'm not graceful. i'm not a lady. i threw up a little bit in the shower this morning brushing my tongue and told all of my co-workers about it first thing over coffee. i bite the shit out of my nails, and the tips of me are consequently crusted and stubby.

i don't own a push up bra. i don't own a low-cut shirt. my jeans are all baggy. my shoes are birkenstocks, and i finally went out and spent fifty dollars on a pair of peep-toe wedge heels a few weeks ago. i've worn them twice: both times i've wobbled, stumbled, and wanted to shrink into my shirt collar. i felt like a whore.

but where does it get me, the bitter, bitchy accusational tone i take with all of these unassuming suitors? it certainly doesn't make men feel flattered, funny, or necessary. my default behavior around men is emasculating.

perhaps it's a power dynamic in play. my sour attitude announces: no sir, you don't get to be the big man around me. it wards off condescension. it's a verbal moat that drowns men who aren't ready to give me the power, the upper hand, and the check. maybe i just want to be equal.

but it's a tall order, in my head. i want equality and flirtation. i want to make the jokes and call the shots, but if I have goose bumps you better give me your jacket. is it a wonder i'm single?

just beyond those cranky conversations with men i don't know, just a short drive home and through door number 33 in my apartment building is quite a different person. it's me, on the couch, alone. the first thing i do is crack a beer, kicking cats from under my feet and turning on the radio. i keep an ashtray by the window and i don't usually go more than a few days without crying.

i saw a dove the other day, alive but lying in the gutter. i pulled my car over and rolled down the window to offer help to the group of folks who had picked up the wounded bird. it was docile, and i assumed it was domestic. we put it in a bush, with the encouragement of the bearded man in army green who stroked the bird's belly with his thumb and assured me that the bird would rather recuperate or die alone and in peace. so we left it. i rolled up my window and drove away. and i wiped my eyes as i started my engine, still seeing the round, soft shape melt like vanilla haagen-dazs on gray asphalt.

it's alone, on my couch, with my beer, that i lean back into cushions and hold my gut against these vivid assaults that i face every day. i can tell the story to my girlfriends, tell them how i cried about the dying bird and how every time my dad calls i'm afraid it will be for the last time and how the sight of children in rain boots makes my stomach drop out from under me. but these aren't the things i say to boys.

maybe it's about vulnerability, and i'm just not comfortable picking my scabs in front of men. maybe the very experience of trying to impress, but trying so hard not to try so hard, and wanting so much to be wanted, maybe it feels a little more exposed than i can handle and it's all i can do to wield callouses like weapons. maybe my behavior around the opposite sex is more defensive than i even realize.

but in a world where doves die in gutters and friends are our most precious currency, it's worth figuring out how to be sweet to people instead of vicious.

.that teenage feeling.

i think i must be doing well, overall, in my life because i feel as new and dumb as eager as i did when i was thirteen.

i've been listening to music lately. i've been doing the kind of music listening that i used to do in my childhood bedroom, with the beige carpeting and mirrored closet doors. with pink bows stenciled on white walls (really) and magazine cutouts of kate winslet and tori amos scotch-taped to the walls. i had a million tea light candles and one window, and i used to hang my head out of it on summer evenings and wish i were somewhere outside. i used to play ani difranco so loudly that the neighbors could hear and there was no doubt in my mind that someday i would get out of that room, out of that house, and into the world.

i was an exceptionally miserable teenager, and that's a bold statement considering teenagers practically have a monopoly on misery in the western world. i didn't even do drugs or drink to deal with things. i did homework and cried. but i maintained a tenacious optimism the whole time i lived under my parents’ roof. my life may be dull now, i thought, excruciatingly so, but when i get through this i'll be thin and happy. i'll have friends and lovers, photography and sewing, independent transportation and no bedtime. i'll be the only person holding the remote control.

but it went beyond the simple desire for adulthood. i really thought that the world was magic and that i had a little bit of fairy dust inside. i thought i had the fucking golden ticket. i was going to write well and to live passionately, someday.

i don't know if college or my early twenties disappointed me. i've never been unhappy, but i can't say i've been satisfied for the last few years. employment has been shockingly elusive and it's not so easy to make friends as an adult. i have been in relationships with people who have loved me and trusted me and cooked me dinner, and it felt like having a ziploc freezer bag suctioned around my head.

i moved a lot. i switched jobs. i made friends. i ended relationships. i got cats. but that secret vault of hope and wonder seemed to have shriveled up. i wondered, for a while, if it was a vestigial organ in the cubical world, pointless and a waste of space. or maybe it was fleeting, like baby teeth, and reserves the cavity while we wait for adulthood to fill in. i didn't buy new music for several years, and i was sick of those old tori amos cds. somewhere between cashing the paychecks and paying the rent, i must have given up a little bit.

and lately, i've been turning the stereo up louder than apartment walls can handle. i've been begging friends for songs, for cds, for recommendations. i've been checking calendars at local venues and getting excited about up and coming shows. i've been jazzed to dance around my bathroom floor in my spandex running pants and sing into a beer bottle. i've been winking at passing drivers on my way to work. i've been talking to strangers. i've been crying at the chorus of bob dylan songs.

i guess a logical mind might think: insane. off her rocker. unstable. irrational.

but i sit behind a cubicle every day and make spreadsheets. i pay rent and car payments and insurance payments. i floss my teeth and eat my veggies. i am polished and buttoned down in black pants and pointy shoes. i dress up every day for work, and i blow-dry my hair. in one respect, in the most internal life i live: i would rather weep and sizzle like a raw wound.

i'm happy to admit i'm having a teenage revival, but i would rather have hope than stability. i would rather cramp and seethe and vomit into my own hair than sit on my couch another night watching tv reruns.