Dating Myself

I've decided to start dating myself. I came to this conclusion on Saturday mid-morning after dragging my tired ass out of bed to take a walk in my neighborhood. I ended up outside a house that used to belong to Anais Nin, the renowned French writer of erotica. I couldn't see much of the house, but it was comforting to know she had once lived in my hood. I kept walking, working up a sweat on the steep hills. I started to feel better.

The night before, I'd felt like I was coming down with this mysterious multi-week cold/flu that all my friends seem to be getting. I huddled in bed with my iPad binge-watching Jessica Jones on Netflix when the front doorbell rang. I wasn't expecting anyone, and I couldn’t hear either of my roommates making noises about answering it. In my PJs and not in the mood for company at 9pm on a Friday night, I texted them. "Expecting someone?" One responded back right away that she wasn't home, the other didn't answer. The doorbell rang again and now someone was fumbling with the handle. My heart started beating fast. I put my iPad aside and crept out of bed with my cell phone gripped in my hand. I padded into the living room and could hear what sounded like a group of guys talking outside. I thought I saw one of them trying to peak into the window on the side of the house and then a dark shadow ran past the other window towards the backyard. I was shaking now, suddenly and viscerally scared out of my rational mind. I crept upstairs and shone my iPhone’s light towards my roommate's bedroom—the one I thought was home. The light was off, her door open. Not home. Now I was terrified. I crept towards the front door and instead of opening it, slid into the dark garage where I stood on a chair peering out the garage windows into the street. My roommate’s car was in the driveway and there was no sign of anyone outside. I couldn't hear voices anymore. I stood on that chair and shook for a good five minutes, my phone clutched to my chest. I imagined this group of guys casing the house, surrounding it, deciding the best way to break in.

I gingerly stepped off the chair and pressed my ear to the door in the pitch-black garage, listening hard for the sound of breaking glass or jimmying locks. My phone was now sweaty in my palm. Should I call someone? The police? And say what, “someone rang my doorbell”?? Why the fuck was I so scared? It suddenly occurred to me that I didn't know any of my neighbors and that I didn't have anyone to call at a time like this. No nearby friend who would drop everything to come be with me until I calmed down. This made me feel sorry for myself and I almost texted the guy I’d gone on three dates with to see if he was back in town, to let him know I was a damsel in distress and needed his manliness to protect me from whatever perceived danger I was apparently in. Men love that shit! I imagined winning him back with the scenario of the helpless female. Then I imagined the opposite, him feeling put-upon and thinking doesn’t she have anyone else to call? I decided instead to wait it out. I stood in the dark as my breathing gradually returned to normal and I felt the fear slowly dissipate. I decided I was safe and had invented the sense of danger. I returned to my room and finished the episode of Jessica Jones I had been watching (probably the reason I was scared in the first place—the show is terrifying).

The next morning, I had trouble getting out of bed. I watched more Jessica Jones and finished a bag of potato chips before 11am. I started having a general sense of FOMO, so I decided I should probably leave the house. At least take a walk. Exercise usually helps the feeling of ennui that often settles over me these (unemployed) days. Maybe it was Anais Nin's house or maybe it was the fresh air and endorphins, but I began to feel better and I made a sudden, inspired decision to start dating myself. That's right, ladies and gentleman, I decided to stop waiting for that mysterious man to come along and take me on cool dates, and instead to take my own damn self out on some cool dates. If I were dating me, where would I take me? I decided first I would take myself to see City of Gold, the new documentary about LA Times food critic Jonathan Gold. I know my fondness for food and how much I love Jonathan Gold, so I knew this date was sure to please me. Who knew, afterwards if things were going well and I still seemed interested, perhaps I could take myself to one of the restaurants featured in the film? That would be the perfect date for me! I felt better already. Why hadn't I thought of this before? Fuck these men. Who needs em? I'm an only child, I know how to play by myself.

City of Gold was wonderful, a love letter to Los Angeles with its vast mosaic of various cultures and cuisines. I decided Jonathan Gold is my personal hero, for he found the one activity he enjoys above all else—eating all the foods—and made a career out of it. Jonathan Gold eats everything. He picks restaurants the way I like to pick restaurants—democratically. He loves equally the highest-end fine dining meal at Providence (LA Times #1 Best Restaurant in Los Angeles three years in a row) as he does the street tacos from the Guerilla Tacos truck. Jonathan Gold is living the dream. He gets paid to eat and write about it! Sitting in the back of the movie theatre on a Saturday afternoon, watching this film—that was a really lovely date with myself. Afterwards, I thought about going to Jonathan’s favorite Thai place, Jitlada, which was not too far from the theatre, but I was due to meet Best Guy Friend and his girlfriend for dinner and another movie, Zootopia. I’m not in the habit of crashing Best Guy Friend’s dates with his girlfriend, but seeing as I’m now dating myself, this was actually more like a double date. And Zootopia, while not a movie I would have gone to see without them, I found absolutely delightful. I was so enthralled that I leaned over to Best Guy Friend in the middle of it and exclaimed in his ear: “This is a feminist parable!” To which he laughed at me.

The next day, Sunday, I went on a three-hour hike with my friend Paula in Topanga Canyon. As we often do on our hikes, we got to talking about the feminist injustices in the film industry and how we sought to remedy them, and soon we were huffing and puffing up the steep hills, red in the face with both exertion and conviction. After we had worked up an appetite with the exercising of both our calves and jaw muscles, we went to Milo and Olive for brunch.

“I’ve decided to date myself,” I declared happily, sweaty and red-faced.

“I think that’s great,” beamed Paula. Paula would also like to meet a man. She is a hot and sexy woman in her 40s who is incredibly talented, fun, smart, and amusing; she has a gorgeous house and an amazing ass. The fact that Paula can’t seem to find someone to date I find equally hard to believe as the fact that I can’t find someone to date. By all accounts, and I say this with the utmost humbleness and objectivity, we are both catches.

I think about the guy I went on three dates with several weeks ago. The last time I saw him he said, “I really like you and want to get to know you.” Then he cancelled our next two dates (because he was understandably very busy) and left town for two weeks without trying to see me before he went. I asked if he was doing the fade away to which he LOL-ed and replied, “No! But to be clear as day, I’m seeking a slow burn. I’m not rushing into anything. But I’m enjoying our time together.” To me it didn’t feel like what we had going was a slow burn. It felt like what so many of these flings feel like: hot and heavy in the beginning and then the flame gradually goes out. I had texted with him on and off since he’d been gone, but now I hadn’t heard from him for a whole week, and I feel like if you really like someone and want to keep the burn going, you don’t just forget about them for a week. Especially since in the beginning his attention had felt constant and intense, texting me the day after our first date that he was “still smiling” and when we had a date coming up on Saturday, rhetorically exclaiming, “Is it Saturday yet?!” I missed those days, I missed the attention and the sense of consistency, the lack of games. Now I was feeling the age-old pressure to not seem too eager, to not text first for fear of seeming more interested than him. How did this happen, I wondered. I wasn’t even sure I was attracted to him in the beginning. I felt like he had worked really hard to fish me out of the ocean and then, once I was caught and in his hands, decided to throw me back. Had I no say in the matter?

It didn’t help that I hadn’t been able to talk to him in person since that third and final date. My ex-boyfriend encouraged me to be honest with him and express what I want, what I need—but how was I supposed to do that on text when I didn’t even know if he was back in town or not? I had preemptively invited Best Guy Friend to come to Dan Savage’s amateur porn festival Hump! with me in case this guy bailed, but it was depressing to think I had to prepare for that. Preparing for disappointment. Why can’t I date someone who is true to his word, who doesn’t feel like a slippery fish who could slink away at any moment? And furthermore, what had I said to turn him off? Sure, I had tested out some feminist rants about abortion rights on him, but he seemed to be able to handle this aspect of my personality—he even seemed charmed by it. Was I really so deluded and unable to read the situation that when I thought he was watching me fondly, he was actually thinking, get me the fuck away from this woman?

I didn’t think so. But I honestly didn’t know what had happened. And the not knowing was making me nuts. I didn’t understand a guy’s impulse to work so hard to woo a girl only to lose interest in her after three dates. Why would he have treated me like this could develop into something if he knew he didn’t really want it go anywhere, or he wasn’t sure? Why not play it a little cooler and not say things like, “I really like you” and “let’s sail to Hawaii”? Or was this all in my head? Would I receive a text from him any day now stating, “I’m back in town and I want to see you!” Somehow I doubted it. It felt like it was over. And I felt once again disappointed, and tired of feeling disappointed by men. Was this what he meant when he said sex was a contract and women got hurt—was he warning me that I might get hurt? Is that what had happened?

“I just don’t want to start over with someone new,” I told Paula. “This guy already knows everything about me.” She laughed, but it was true. I was tired of small talk, of the whole getting to know you rigmarole. We had cut through so much of that, and that’s what I ultimately liked most about him. We got to the real shit. By the third date, I felt he knew all my secrets—such as they are. Was that too soon? Did I say too much? Did I show too much of myself? Was I just really bad at dating? I guess this was possible; I didn’t have a lot of experience. Or rather, I had a lot of experience with first dates and sex, but not so much with second and third dates. Was it possible I had actually become something I had been called once by a man: undateable? And what did that even mean?

I brought in girlfriend reinforcement to analyze our text chain. I showed my friend Cheryl how we’d had a flurry of flirtatious banter back and forth on Monday, and then I hadn’t heard from him for a week. On Sunday night, I was watching a great documentary called The Mask You Live In about the culture of masculinity boys are raised with in this country, and I thought it might interest him based on some of the conversations we’d had. I texted him the recommendation and didn’t hear back. Now it was Monday night and we still had plans to see the amateur porn fest on Saturday.

Cheryl expressed feeling lucky that she never had to date in the age of texting. She’s been with her boyfriend since back when people used cell phones to call each other, when people used to communicate, and if you stopped liking someone you couldn't just ignore their texts. I could tell by her text suggestions that she had never done this before, never played these games, and that she’d been in a LTR for a very long time. She encouraged me to ask him if he was still coming with me on Saturday night, seeing as we were now within a week of the date. I texted him and he responded: “Fuck I’ll be in New York! For work.” Although I knew in my gut that this was coming, it still blew my mind. I invited him to this event, he said unequivocally yes, I asked him when he wanted to go, he picked the date, then he not only made other plans, but also neglected to tell me about them? Would he have ever told me? I flashed back on something I had said on our second date.

“We shouldn’t make too many plans.” I said this out loud, as though channeling, as though warning myself from the future. I didn’t know at the time where this piece of advice was coming from, but clearly I’m more intuitive than I’ve been paying attention to.

Inexplicably, I found myself relieved by the confirmation that he wasn’t coming. At least I wasn’t waiting anymore. I had my answer. That was it. The end of the road. I thought about what to write back, I consulted my girlfriends. A sampling of my favorite suggestions:

“Third time. Not so charming.”

“Put a fork in you. You’re done.”

“You owe me $25.”

I decided to give it a beat. I didn’t want to respond in the moment from a reactive place. I wanted to be honest. But I also didn’t feel like writing him a novel via text with all my thoughts and feelings, about how I felt disrespected by his lack of consideration for my time, for my schedule. I also didn’t feel like calling. Somehow his lack of remorse made me feel like he really didn’t care to hear from me, and this made the thought of calling him absolutely sickening. Part of me wanted to never write back and to never talk to him again, but as we all know, I’m bad at letting things lie. I got into bed and tossed around. I couldn’t get comfortable. I wanted to express myself, but I didn’t know how. I opened my phone and deleted our text chain. Then I considered blocking his number, so I wouldn’t know if he ever wrote me again and therefore wouldn’t feel compelled to respond. Instead, I deleted his number. I lay back down. Still couldn’t sleep. I sat up in bed. Searched his name, he came right up—of course, the iCloud makes deleting numbers absolutely impossible. I wanted to keep it simple and sweet. Express myself eloquently and succinctly. Really get the point across but in a relaxed way that read: I will be over you in five minutes. “Wow. That’s disappointing,” was what I came up with. I felt okay about it. I haven’t heard from him since.

Growing Pains

“I used to consider myself like this agent of change for men in unhappy relationships. But I don’t know why I assigned myself that role. I don’t know why I made that my responsibility.”

“Well, that’s a very mature question you’re asking,” says the therapist. When she says this, I feel like a child.

“I haven’t been acting very mature lately,” I respond.

“You’re 29 years old!” She exclaims. I just turned 29. It’s a week after my birthday and I’m in a therapist’s office. It’s been a rough week.

The night after my birthday, I go to my local bar at last call and John the bartender is working. This time, from the moment I enter the bar, the game we have been playing no longer feels like a game. In fact, when I park myself in my usual spot in front of John’s register, he goes outside and I can see him talking to security. Moments later, a bouncer awkwardly comes to tell us it’s time to leave, which is unusual because we are always allowed to stick around after hours. I march outside to confront John and he explains, “You make me a bad person, I can’t be around you.”

He says that because of me he now has to, “lie to someone I love for the rest of my life.” He is referring of course to the fact that the last time I saw him, on Halloween, I sucked his dick in the women’s restroom. Since then, over Thanksgiving when I was up in the Bay Area visiting my parents, I met up with John’s Brother for dinner and sex. I had been excited to see the look on John’s face since my encounter with his brother—to see if he knew. I still thought the whole situation was hilarious. Apparently John didn’t know or care that I had seen his brother again—now he seemed only concerned about saving his own relationship by getting me the hell away from him. I tell him I want to be friends and we hug, pressing our pelvises together. He’s smirking under his resolve, and between telling me to leave him alone, he rubs his finger on my nipple, hard underneath my dress. Due to the mixed signals and because I can’t take no for an answer, I continue to push myself on him until he warily relents and lets me and my friends back inside the bar.

Later, I follow him into the storage room and suck his dick again while he’s distributing his coworkers paychecks in their cubbies. He says, “you really are crazy,” and drops a check on my head. Then he tells me he wants to “see something” so I pull up my dress, pull down my stockings and underwear and take my boobs out of my bra. I rub my butt on his crotch, and then he watches me as he jerks off to completion on the plastic mat covering the floor. These are the cliff notes. A long night of back and forth precedes this, a lot of John saying “please stop” and then, “I want to fuck you so bad.” It all culminates in this moment in the storage room, and then it’s all downhill from there. After he comes, John is visibly flooded with remorse. I feel bad for making him feel bad, and attempt to drunkenly convince him it isn’t a big deal and now that he’s come we can all move on with our lives. He looks at me like, yeah right. I follow him to the bathroom where he desperately tries to wipe the cum off his jeans. I tell him I don’t want to leave him alone, he seems so upset. He tells me that it’s not my responsibility. That’s true, so I walk away. John emerges from the bathroom and basically tells us the party is over and to get out. As we stalk outside, I see him yell at his fellow bartenders: “I’m so tired of no one listening to me. When I say everyone out, I mean everyone out!” He looks distressed and angry and sad and I’ve never seen him like this before.

It’s not until this moment that it dawns on me that this isn’t fun for John anymore. Maybe it never was. It’s a struggle for both of us, to be sure, but I thought that’s what was exciting about it—I thought it was a game. To him, I suddenly realize, the stakes are too high and my sexual whims are really fucking with his life. The moment I realize this is when I start to feel really awful about the whole thing.

I wrote a version of this story that was all chase scene and sex details. I gave it to my best friend to read and she wanted to know, not for the first time, what kept me going, what was I getting out of this? Why did I persist when John told me over and over in no uncertain terms that he did not want to cheat on his girlfriend? I justified my actions by telling her of all the mixed messages I had been receiving from him all along. The fact that when I touched him he told me to “keep it under the bar.” That between telling me to stop and enlisting my roommate’s help in keeping me away from him, he would lean into my neck and whisper that he wished we had a time machine bubble and could just have sex one time without any consequences. I told her about how I’d asked him how his sex life is with his girlfriend and he convincingly said it was good. To which I wondered, “so you just want variety then?” And he said, “I’m a very sexual person and I love women.” I told him it sounded like he wasn’t naturally monogamous. He asked if I was into girls, and said he wanted to see his girlfriend eat me out. I told him I am very sexually open and would try most things. He asked if I’d hooked up with my roommate, said he’d like to watch. I tried to express to my best friend that it was hard for me to listen to all of this stuff and then to walk away, that it’s my nature to pursue something to the bitter end even if I see the end looks dicey.

The next day I feel more depressed than I have in a long time. I spend the day sleeping and crying and feeling like garbage. I can’t stop playing last night’s events through my head and the look on John’s face at the end of the night is imprinted on my memory. I hate that my actions have turned this happy, good-natured guy into someone who looks like he hates himself. It was never my intention to make him feel bad, and that’s what I ultimately did. In a weird attempt to find some closure for myself, I go to John’s brother’s Facebook page (John is not on Facebook) and look through the photos of every single one of his female friends, searching for John’s girlfriend. He doesn’t have that many friends, so it doesn’t take that long, but it’s still insane that I do this.

What I discover only makes me feel worse: his girlfriend is really cool. Smart, funny, pretty, someone I might be friends with—a performer with plenty of online content I can absorb endlessly to feed the masochistic chasm that has suddenly opened up inside of me. I watch video after video and cry and feel even more sorry for myself, and also stupid, because for some reason I had assumed that his girlfriend was this mousy, boring person and now in the depths of self-loathing, I feel that I have discovered evidence that she is actually better than me.

I suddenly feel the unquenchable need to talk about this with anyone who will listen, but I also know that I am close to exhausting my friends on this topic, and I feel like I need to talk to someone who doesn’t know me. It is fascinating to hear the difference in perspective from the women in my life versus the men. My male friends, in particular Best Guy Friend and ex-boyfriend, are like, “boo hoo John, you got a blow job.” They laugh when I imply that I feel like a sex offender—both say he is a big boy and could have shut it down if he wanted to. The women in my life, by contrast, tell me that John sent very clear signals that he didn’t want to cheat on his girlfriend, and they all wonder why I persisted anyway. My social worker roommate rounds out the two perspectives by musing that because men have their sex organs on the outside of their bodies, it’s harder for them to control their urges, and that while his head was probably telling him to stop, his body was full steam ahead. This explains the mixed messages, and temporarily makes me feel better.

I decide I need to talk to a therapist. My best friend agrees.

“I’m very pro-therapy,” she says. She suggests I Google search “sex positive therapists in Los Angeles.” I don’t really know what to look for in a therapist, but this gives me a place to start, and finding someone who advertises themselves as sex-positive makes a lot of sense to me. My friend Paula recommends this woman who is into Jung and dream work and archetypes. She sounds cool and is nice on the phone so a week later I go in for a consultation. I am late getting to her office because I go to the wrong address and park and then walk around in the gusting wind desperately trying to find her and feeling sorry for myself and already like I might cry. I eventually find her and, within minutes of sitting down on her couch, I burst into tears.

“I know this is supposed to just be a consultation,” I gasp through the waterworks, “but I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

I tell her about Saturday night, and how bad I feel about what happened, that I don’t understand why I always have to push it so far. I don’t tell her about internet stalking John’s perfect girlfriend, or about the fact that I wrote him a remorseful letter and left it in the mailbox of the bar—a move that I now regret and actually went back to retrieve the letter only to find it was already gone.

“It sounds like you’re outgrowing this older version of yourself. This old idea you’ve had about who you are.”

I think about this, about the possibility of saying goodbye to this person who throws herself at men in relationships whom she’s decided are not happy. I wonder who will take her place. I haven’t seen the therapist again. I plan to, I just haven’t had time and the acute pain has subsided. Now I just feel lonely and tired. I wonder if I’ll ever meet someone and find a connection with a man that isn’t just about sex—the longer I go without it, the more distant it feels. I’ve stopped drinking for a month because I’m going to do ayahuasca at the end of January and you’re supposed to not drink, do drugs, have sex in preparation.

“You want to pack light for the journey,” the woman tells me on the phone. “You don’t want to be carrying any extra baggage.”

I’m hoping this journey will give me some clarity about where I’m going and what I’m doing. This final episode with John definitely felt like a wake up call. Even as I was sobbing on the bathroom floor on Sunday night, I had the sudden clarity that this must be progress, that something good must come out of all this pain, that I must be growing or it wouldn’t hurt so much.

Sex Club

"Do you know what kind of place this is?" The pretty young woman at the front desk asks us as we check in and pay the $30 "couples" membership fee.

"Yes," Best Guy Friend and I reply in unison.

Ron Jeremy is apparently an investor in the club, and therefore his name is used to promote the place: “Ron Jeremy’s Club Sesso Swingers Club.” I have to say my only hesitation in visiting Club Sesso is the Ron Jeremy affiliation. His association evokes a certain level of sleaze and creep-factor that, upon entering, I realize is not the vibe whatsoever. While doing my extensive Yelp research to find the best sex club in Portland, I discover that Club Sesso has 5 Stars and all the reviews are positive and enthusiastically written by women and men in relationships. There is a wholesome vibe to the reviews that initially attracts me, a sense that this is simply a sex-positive environment where like-minded people gather to have fun. The reviews are spot on.

First of all, when we first walk in, we are greeted by a friendly, tatted young woman who politely checks us in. Then Eileen, the “Madame” of the establishment, a petite 70-something woman with cropped blond-grey hair and a youthful spirit, materializes to give us the grand tour. She also asks if we know what kind of place this is. We smile and nod. She leads us into the small bar where several couples sip drinks and furtively glance around to see who has just walked in. There is porn playing on a small TV near the ceiling. The empty dance floor has two cages with poles inside and some multi-colored directional lighting. As new members on our very first visit to the club, our first drink is on the house. I order a Campari and soda. Best Guy Friend asks what they have on tap. I glance up at the balcony above us where one couple and several single guys stand separately peering down, assessing the fresh meat. I try not to hold eye contact with anyone for too long, but enjoy the intensity of their gazes. The sense that everyone is openly here for the same reason cuts through some of the usual bullshit of going to a bar to find someone to hook up with. 

I think there are a surprising number of people here for a Wednesday night, even one guy I find pretty hot who keeps making eyes at me as he passes with his girlfriend. I hold his gaze for a beat longer than usual. Eileen assures me that “this is nothing” and says we should plan to come back the following night for Gang Bang Night or Friday for Wet T-Shirt Night.

“School Girl Night is really fun,” she says. “All the girls dress like school girls and the men dress up like professors. It’s very sexy.”

She indicates the empty dance floor.

“On Wet T-Shirt Night, all the girls get in the cages. They love it.”

She informs us that her husband, who owns the club with her, has Parkinson’s so he doesn’t make it down so much any more.

“But when he does, I get up on that pole and I fuck his face,” she shares nonchalantly. I want to be this woman when I grow up. I feel immediately fond of her, not in small part because she reminds me of my ex-boyfriend’s mother, someone who has always been one of my grown-up heroes.

Eileen shows us the “complimentary dinner buffet”, reminiscent of a janky school cafeteria and I congratulate myself for ordering us a couple apps at the bar where we pre-gamed before coming to da club. She then leads us upstairs where there is porn playing on a bigger screen behind a bar with a mattress on the floor instead of a bartender. This is the first "play area." All the other play areas are small separate rooms equipped with a large mattress, several towels, and condoms scattered on the bed like chocolates. One smaller darkly-lit room has a sex swing. There are doors for privacy and windows where voyeurs can peek inside if the couples inside are kind enough to open the blinds. No one is having sex as far as we can see, but it's only 10 p.m. We can hear some distant groaning coming from one of the private rooms, but the door and curtains are closed and uninviting.

Best Guy Friend, who has frequented sex clubs in Germany where he says the rooms are all open and people fuck anywhere and everywhere, asks Eileen about this.

“Are there any rooms where people can have sex out in the open in front of people?”

“The third floor room is all open, but it’s closed on Wednesday nights. On Gang Bang Night, people really go for it up there.”

“Do people ever have sex in the bar?”

“Oh no. But on Wet T-Shirt Night, someone might get a blow job or eaten out in one of the cages,” Eileen informs us. Apparently we’re here on the wrong night.

Eileen tells us that it’s very important to stay active at her age, and says she pole dances regularly to stay fit. She shows us her muscular thighs and encourages us to feel how strong they are. We do. She talks joyfully about sex and pleasure, and about how the city is always trying to find excuses to shut down the club.

“Really, even in Portland?” I ask.

“People hate sex in this country,” says Eileen matter-of-factly.

Best Guy Friend, being German, doesn’t understand this mentality.

“America was founded by Puritans,” I inform him.

As a fairly attractive “couple” in the club, we attract a good amount of attention, and soon a pretty and flirtatious African American woman is hovering close and smiling at me. I tell her that Best Guy Friend and I are platonic friends, and she tells me, “I want to have what you guys have with my boyfriend.” This confuses me, seeing as Best Guy Friend and I don’t have sex. It makes more sense when I realize she has clearly dragged her boyfriend to the club, probably because she wants to hook up with a girl, and he’s not really into the experience. She points him out talking to another guy that I guess is trying to pick them up. She repeats several times, meaningfully, “I would rather hook up with you than that guy, I’m actually pretty into girls.” I play a little dumb because I don’t want to get sucked into whatever weird energy is going on between her and her boyfriend.

The hot guy and his girlfriend are still meandering around, him catching my eye every time he passes. I point them out to Best Guy Friend.

“Maybe we can swing with them,” I suggest.

“She’s not interested in me,” he says. She doesn’t seem very interested in the club in general and isn’t checking anyone out, or even really looking around at all. I wonder if there’s ever a case when one partner isn’t dragging the other one into this experience.

A young heavy-set girl with a long-standing membership to the club takes it upon herself to be our hostess for the evening. She also up-sells the Wet T-Shirt Night and encourages me to partake because: “you have great tits.” Still, no one is having sex publicly, which is slightly disappointing for a sex club. I’m struck by the fact that it’s probably much smarter to bring someone you're actually fucking rather than your platonic best friend (duh) and marvel at how even the couples who would choose to come to a sex club on a Wednesday night are still shy about doing it in front of people. I think about how my ex-boyfriend and I would have cleaned up in our heyday.

An attractive, wiry Israeli Dude introduces himself. He is from Tel Aviv and works in New York and is in Portland for business. He invites me and Best Guy Friend outside to smoke weed out of his Audi. As we stand there smoking, I complain that no one’s having sex and he says meaningfully, “If you want something to happen, you have to make it happen.” Best Guy Friend raises his eyebrows at me: a challenge.

When we return from outside, everyone’s spirits have lifted somewhat because “a girl is being tied up upstairs.” Our hostess leads us up the stairs to where a big-breasted woman is standing on the mattress behind the bar, her arms over her head, tied up and blindfolded. A large man with rainbow-colored hair is smacking her ample ass. She writhes with pleasure and anticipation as he teases her, methodically perusing a selection of tools he might use on her.

“This is called a scene,” explains our hostess. “When you’re tied up and blindfolded, your senses are heightened and you have no control, leading to a feeling of euphoria.”

“You’re the hostess with the mostess,” I say stupidly. Best Guy Friend laughs and rolls his eyes. The large man lubes up a dildo and starts fucking the woman with it, and I find myself giggling like an embarrassed school girl as I watch this very private moment made public. Soon the woman is untied and the scene is apparently over.

Club Sesso allows single guys in (most swingers clubs don’t), so there are a lot of random dudes slinking around in the shadows, watching and waiting. There is a sense that everyone is waiting for something to happen, and I get impatient with this. Flirtatious woman is still hovering nearby, so I try to encourage her and her reluctant boyfriend to grab a room and have sex so we can watch. I also attempt to volunteer our hostess. She says she’s more of a “watcher.”  Israeli Dude keeps repeating in my ear, “If you want something to happen, you have to make it happen.”

Finally, the hot guy and his girlfriend start getting it on in the corner of the upstairs room. Literally everyone in the club (mostly dudes) gathers around to watch. I feel almost uncomfortable watching them because everyone else is. My instinct is to give them their privacy.

“They want us to watch,” says Best Guy Friend, a sex club etiquette aficionado.

The hot guy puts down a towel on a couch in the corner of the hang out area and his girlfriend crawls on top of him and starts slowly moving up and down.

I suddenly realize that many couples must come here just to get turned on so they can then go off and fuck each other in private, rather than actually coming here to find someone new to have sex with. This idea bores me, and I decide to be part of the change.

Israeli Dude keeps casually suggesting, “we should just get a room.” I agree. We should. We start trying to negotiate which room, but I can feel every guy in the room watching me trying to pick a place to fuck, which makes me self-conscious.

“We should do the swing room,” Israeli Dude suggests.

“Okay,” I say. Go big or go home.

Flirtatious woman follows us, ingratiating herself. “Can I join?”

“Sure!” exclaims Israeli Dude. But I’m not sure I’m ready for my first public sex experience to also be my first threesome experience, and this girl’s cloying energy is kind of annoying me. She’s asked me about a hundred times what Campari is, and even after I’ve explained it to her and let her taste my drink and she’s made a disgusted face, she continues to ask: “But what is Campari?!”

“Maybe later?” I suggest.

“Okay,” she negotiates, “when you’re ready, give me a sign and I’ll knock on the door and you let me in.”

I vaguely agree to this plan and push her out the door. I open the curtains on both sides so people can watch. Immediately, a sea of male faces fill the two large windows. Best Guy Friend stands off to the side with an amused smile on his face.

We start to kiss and Israeli Dude tastes like beer and weed.

“You’re about to see a lot of tattoos,” he tells me.

He takes off my shirt and his own. We make out and try to negotiate how we’re going to have sex in this bed-less room we’ve chosen.

“Let’s get you in the swing,” he says.

Why the hell not? He puts my legs up in the straps and I’m amused by the fact that I’m now spread-eagle in front of a bunch of strange men. I can check that one off my Bucket List! He starts to eat me out, which probably looks sexier than it feels as I try to balance my ass on the straps so that I don’t unceremoniously fall out of this contraption. My skirt is still on and I try to free my legs so I can get it off. He tries to help.

“You need to take my legs out,” I inform him. I’m glad the guys watching can’t hear our negotiating from behind the glass. I imagine this is reminiscent of what it must feel like to shoot a porno. He frees me and I stand up. Skirt comes off. Now I’m standing in boots and a bra, and that’s it. I go down and start to suck on him.

Then, he gets me up against the wall and eats me out again, and he’s good at it and I much prefer this to the swing. I arch my back, aware of my audience. Best Guy Friend tells me later that at this point the guys outside were yelling for Israeli Dude to take off my bra, but we couldn’t hear them. Eventually, bra does come off and I bend over the straps so he can take me from behind. As he does this, I am facing the side window and can see many faces peering in at me. I avoid their gazes.

“What do you want me to do?” Israeli Dude keeps asking. At this point, I feel like I’m kind of done and ready to call it a night.

“I want you to come,” I say. He doesn’t.

I straighten up and we make out again. I lean into him, laughing.

“There are so many people watching us.”

He asks again what I want and I say, “I think I’m good actually.” There’s no way I’m going to come in this situation and I feel like I got what I came for.

We turn to our audience like, show’s over folks. I pull the curtains shut and start to get dressed but he won’t let me. He’s very hard and doesn’t want to stop. He starts kissing my neck and my breasts. I decide to finish him off, and I have to say the situation gets a whole lot sexier the second our audience is gone.

I hear banging on the door, which I know is flirtatious woman wanting to join in. I ignore the pounding, and he does too, or he doesn’t hear it because at some point he says, “I want that other girl to come in here and for both of you to suck me off.” Yeah, that’s not happening. Eventually I hear her being escorted away by a club employee as she pleads, “I was supposed to join them.”

I get dressed and head out. Flirtatious woman is nowhere to be found, and Best Guy Friend seems to think she and her boyfriend went off to have sex in a private room. I guess the affect of the club worked on them after all. The three of us leave the club and Israeli Dude offers us a ride back to my Airbnb. Best Guy Friend wants to walk and process the experience, so we say our goodbyes and head on our way. Best Guy Friend shares that it was interesting for him to see how I have sex. I’m pretty proud of myself that on my very first trip to a sex club, I found a stranger to fuck and did it in front of people. I find myself suddenly ravenous and so we do something I never do: stop at McDonald’s for a sirloin burger.

Romance

I had sex in an elevator. With a friend, a colleague, a guy who lives with his girlfriend. It was the second to last night of our collaboration on an all-consuming project that had us working long hours and forced us to get close very fast. We had been strangers a week ago and now we suddenly felt like old friends. That’s how it is on these kinds of intense projects. On this particular day, the flirty banter of the day before when we likened moving furniture to trying different sex positions, had escalated to some pretty touchy behavior. While we waited for the rest of our crew, I sat on his lap in the backseat of a friend’s car as he massaged my back and put his arms around my waist. The more he touched me, the more I felt like a cat in heat. My pelvis throbbed and I responded by digging my butt into his lap. He was big and burly and I hadn’t had sex for like a whole month. You do the math.

My friend Adrienne and her boyfriend were also working on the project and our plan was for the four of us to all go out for drinks after work. I heard Burly Man talking to Adrienne's boyfriend about inviting his girlfriend, whom none of us had met yet. I had to run a couple errands before I could meet them at the bar. I called him from the road to ask a work-related question.

“When will you make it to the bar do you think?” He asked.

“Actually I don’t think I’m going to come.”

“Why?”

“I just don’t really want to be the fifth wheel with the two couples. You guys are gonna start talking about real estate and I’m going to be like, why am I here?” Having had my fair share of experience as the only single person surrounded by couples, I now try to avoid this scenario at all costs.

“Well, I don’t think my girlfriend is coming to the bar.” I suddenly found myself in the awkward position of deciding not to go because his girlfriend was invited and then changing my mind now that she was being removed from the equation. Even to me, it sounded like I was trying to fuck this guy. And I honestly didn’t have any intention of actually fucking him, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the attention, the groping, the flirtation, and I wasn’t in any hurry to replace this situation with one in which I would be forced to keep a polite distance while he canoodled with his girlfriend. Who would want that?

I arrived at the bar and he gave me a big bear hug. It was delicious. Everyone else was a few beers ahead of me, so the conversation quickly veered towards sex. As Burly Man massaged my calves with my feet resting in his lap, I wondered aloud why he was allowed to massage my calves but not my breasts.

“Because breasts are sacred,” he said, half-jokingly.

“What if I do this?”

I sat up, took his burly man hand in mine, and put it on my boob. He squeezed. A ripple of energy went through my whole body.

“You better be careful. It’s been a long time for me,” I said.

“How long?”

I looked to Adrienne, who knows my sex life as intimately as I do.

“Like a month,” I raised my eyebrows.

“That’s a long time to you?!” He seemed almost offended.

Adrienne whispered in his ear, asking if he needed a safe word, if he needed to set some boundary he wasn’t allowed to cross. He hesitated, clearly reluctant to make any promises he wouldn't be able to keep.

“There will be no penetration,” I declared.

Between trying to help him set boundaries and safe words, Adrienne egged us both on, encouraging him to spank me while I was bent over the bar. I glanced around the room, which had filled out substantially since we’d arrived in the late afternoon on a Tuesday. Everyone was obliviously chatting away—was no one noticing the raunchy goings-on in the corner of the bar?

I sat on Burly Man’s lap and he grabbed my crotch. This surprised me. It occurred to me this was a new level of crossing whatever boundary he had or had not set for himself. He dug his fingers into me from outside my pants. I wondered if our friends saw this happening and were politely ignoring it, or if they really had no idea. I tried not to moan out loud.

“What’s going on down there? You feel ready to go,” he said.

“I am,” I whispered into his face.

Then our friends started making plans for us all to go back to their place. The guys wanted to invite Burly Man’s girlfriend to join us, clearly intending to put a stop to whatever the hell was escalating between us. I said if she was coming I would probably go home.

“I don’t think you want the two of us in the same room right now,” I scoffed. Clearly he hadn’t thought this through.

“If I’m alone in a room with her, I’m going to have sex with her,” he pleaded with Adrienne, pointing at me, looking genuinely worried. I have to say his lack of self-control was thrilling.

Adrienne made the call: “Why don’t you two come over for an hour, and then your girlfriend can come over. Or you can just go home.”

I laughed. We all agreed to this plan, knowing it was a lie.

Back at their place, we drank more beer and ate some pizza. I was tucked in with Burly Man and when I sat up to grab a slice, he unhooked my bra, bringing his hands around to cup my breasts. I took off my bra and put it on the couch. Adrienne picked it up and studied it, musing that she wouldn’t ever wear a bra that wasn’t padded.

We settled in to watch the latest episode of Silicon Valley and he grabbed my crotch again, again digging his fingers into me through layers of clothing. I wondered if he’d dig a hole in my pants. I glanced over at Adrienne and her boyfriend on the other end of the couch—was it possible they didn’t see what was going on next to them?

Adrienne got up to get some blankets. She put one on herself and tossed one next to me, as if to say: ‘Now you can have some privacy.’ The second the blanket was on us, his hand was down my pants and his fingers were buried inside me. I could hear fabric ripping, so I quickly and quietly unbuttoned and unzipped to make it easier for him. I tried not to moan as he dug into me. My breathing involuntarily quickened. I held the blanket aloft in an attempt to mask the aggressive movement going on underneath. I reached over and felt his crotch. His cock was hard in his pants. We continued to laugh at the appropriate moments in the show, but I honestly don’t remember a single thing that happened in that episode.

When the show ended, I reluctantly re-zipped and buttoned my pants.

“Okay, I’m gonna go,” he announced to the room. I went to the bathroom and prepared to leave myself. I got a text from a coworker with some annoying news and I was back in work mode. Well, that was fun while it lasted, I thought. We hugged our friends goodbye and the two of us walked towards the elevator, me staring at my phone, wondering aloud how I should deal with this issue. The second the elevator doors closed, he was on me. He kissed me, and I remember thinking that kissing was the biggest boundary crossed so far—one I thought we wouldn’t cross. He reached down my pants again and pulled up my shirt. I had left my bra off. He started sucking on my nipples as he fingered me. We hadn’t pressed any buttons in the elevator, so it just sat there. I waited for someone to walk in on us. He took his penis out. It was pink and beautiful and I wanted it the moment I saw it.

“We can’t do that,” I said.

“We’re not going to,” he replied.

And then he tried to stick it in me. Facing one another with my pants around my thighs wasn’t working, so he bent down to take off my boots, and I thought: fuck no, there’s no way I’m going to be the one who's completely naked if and when we get caught fucking in this elevator. Instead, I turned around to give him easier access from behind. He pushed on my low back, holding me down as he fully entered me. My face flushed hot and I felt filled with that old familiar feeling. After probably about five minutes, he pulled out and came on my back. I still had my purse hooked around my arm, and for some reason decided this was the moment to let it drop. I reached down into the convenient bag of clothing I had left at my feet and took out an old sweater. He mopped his cum off my back and then, seeing that some had spilled onto the floor of the elevator, I wiped that up too. 

I buttoned my pants, he pressed the Ground Floor button on the elevator, and we walked out of the building, stunned and grinning.

“So, that happened,” I said.

“No, it didn’t,” he said.

“What happens in elevators, stays in elevators.”

“I’ve never done that before… Cum that fast.”

I laughed. “Oh, I thought you meant had sex in an elevator.”

“Yeah, that too.”

He walked me to my car. We kissed goodbye.

“Okay, see you tomorrow. Bye!”

The next day at work, he asked me if I planned to tell our friends. He told me not to write about him (Adrienne had told him about my blog—I’m hoping he forgot the name of it). He told me we should do it again sometime. I asked if he wanted to go find an elevator. He told me I would meet his girlfriend that night. He laughed when I told him I thought she was probably really cool.

“That was like a dream. It’s like it never happened,” he said. Whatever helps you sleep at night, I thought.

We finished our all-consuming project and we all went back to our normal lives. I went back to my nights of watching TV in bed by myself, and was suddenly struck with a strong sense of loneliness I don’t usually feel. I watched a sad, romantic indie flick on Netflix called Beginners starring Ewan McGregor and just bawled my fucking eyes out.

On Saturday night, I went to Best Guy Friend’s apartment for our weekly ritual of getting high, eating dinner, and having deep stoned talks in the hot tub followed by watching a movie. In a stoned stupor, I told him about how I realized watching this film that I feel really starved for romance in my life, and that I’m suddenly craving it. I struggled to articulate what it was about Ewan’s portrayal of the character in Beginners that had so affected me. How the way he is with the French girl he falls in love with in the film is how I want a man to be with me.

“When he looks at her, he really sees her. He listens. He sees her whole self and appreciates everything about her. He wants her fully and completely. He’s sensitive and sad and sexy.”

We mused on whether this character was in the writing, or was it just the quality that Ewan brings to every role he plays. Then we tried to find a female equivalent for Best Guy Friend—a famous actress who brings something to all her roles that he could actually see himself in a relationship with. We continued down this stoned rabbit hole for awhile.

“Well, you can have that,” said Best Guy Friend. I didn’t hear him, and he pointed that out too. “You could fall in love next week.” I thought about whether I believed him. “I don’t know if that’s actually what you want though. You’re so busy. Do you have time for it?”

I don’t know if I have time for it, if love would derail me from my life mission right now. But I want to feel that again. That feeling of being in love. That all-consuming, I want you every minute of every day feeling. I don’t know if it’s healthy, and my logical mind says it sounds codependent, but there’s no doubt I’m craving it. It's been awhile for me. Sometimes I worry that my biological clock has started ticking, and that these feelings are connected to a deeper yearning. I am suddenly at an age where several of my close friends and colleagues have babies, and when I'm around said babies, I do feel a persistent throbbing in my ovary-area that’s slightly alarming. Every time it happens I have to remind myself, there’s time for that and now is not the time.