Chocolate, Coffee, and Cigarettes
Jane Smith
Love bites, and if it doesn’t, he’s doing it wrong. There’s something to be said for the lost art of real sex. Not that trash you see on cable real, but that sex that makes your back arch, stomach twinge, knees bend, thighs quiver, chest rise, mouth dry, and has the magical ability to move the bed across the room when you aren’t looking. Whether it’s sweat swapping or stunt fucking, there doesn’t seem to be enough of it going around.
One Sunday afternoon, not so far in the distant past, I was hanging out with my best friend, who I’ll call Lisa, so she won’t kick my ass, and her roommate, Jessica (who won’t mind if I use her real name, because she loves the free publicity). The second winter storm in less than a week had just started to wreak its havoc, making it too damn cold to go anywhere, much less even think about it. We stayed in our pajamas, watched Desperately Seeking Susan , and consumed an entire large pizza with extra cheese and garlic with no guilt. The conversation turned to men, only second to the new spring clothes, makeup, and what that too skinny, too pretty bitch we all love to hate was wearing at the show last night.
Lisa has been in a three-year relationship that seems to be losing steam. Her biggest complaint being that he doesn’t seem to do her like he used to. Their sex has become seemingly mandatory and planned, getting it once a week if she’s lucky, leaving her six days of the week to moan and complain about how lame it was. The days of having spontaneous sex on train tracks, in cars, on kitchen tables, in the shower, up against the elevator wall – over. Gone and forgotten like the deep wet kiss that changed that no to a yes.
And now on to our heroine, Jessica, a freak of the week and you gotta love her for it. She’s not a slut and isn’t even close to being a whore. She is, in fact, one of the few divine girls that embrace the idea that women are entitled to have sex with whoever they want, whenever they please, and however they choose. Her stories make your stomach pang with the emerald green envy.
On this particular day she was giving us her oh so dramatic blow by blow tale of the boy she met in the laundry room. He was only in town for the weekend, staying with a high school buddy. Here’s a tip, guys: being from out of town is a tremendous turn on. There’s absolutely no hope for commitment or the mandatory follow up phone call, etc. Girls love that shit. After Jessica and Mr. Clean chatted for all of twenty minutes, they ended up having sex in that same laundry room for two hours. She even showed us the black and blues on her back from the change dispenser, that bitch. Oh to be a Jessica and have sex with no guilt, worry, or regret; all of my specialties.
Myself, celibate. Hate it, but nonetheless a choice made in the name of sanity and self-preservation. I’m by no stretch of the imagination an ice queen, I just got really tired of rolling over and looking at a man that left me emotionally barren. Don’t know what I was thinking wanting true love instead of hot sex, stupid girl. But as a result of that ill-fated resolution, it became a personal mission to hold out in the name of love and fulfillment on a different level. So I now live vicariously through the stories of my girlfriends’ sexual escapades, wincing too often with contempt when they bitch about how they’re getting too much of it; please go to hell with that one.
Think about it a lot, turn it down a lot, and miss it too much. Sometimes wondering if I should just say yes to a one night stand just to get rid of the torturous frustration that keeps me up at night or wakes me up too early in the morning. Drink a lot of coffee, smoke too many cigarettes, and Ben & Jerry are my boyfriends. Oh, the joys of being a grown up and doing the right thing. I know he’s out there, just hasn’t found me yet. Whoever he is, hope he’s been saving his strength, because God knows he’s going to need it. ◼
