I walked past him and quickly glanced at his right arm. The veins running along his forearm down to his hand popped out on the skin surface. I loved them so much. To me, those veins screamed manhood and masculinity louder than anything and reminded me of good sex faster than anything. I knew he would be dominant. I knew he would not wait for me to tell him what to do. He would do whatever the hell he pleased, not because he wanted me but because he wanted to feel his dominance, his power, his entitlement — the entitlement of a man with popping out veins, of a man women look at and bet sex would be good with him, and I’d let him do it, submitting to him, happily getting used by him (because I’d be using him too). I’d do anything to have that sweaty, rough, consuming sex those veins promised, again. To one more time (and many, many more times) get high on having those strong veined arms wrap tightly around me, on feeling the weight of a grown man’s naked body on mine.
My eyes followed him from one corner of the bar to another until he stopped at one girl tragically not me. I saw him flirting with her, touching her, moving closer to her face and trying to put his mouth on hers. I knew I shouldn’t have been bothered but I couldn’t stop watching. I felt incredibly jealous and inconveniently aroused. I guess it was because my imagination had just gotten more real. I was literally staring at the real-time build-up to my dream sex which they would probably have at the end of the night, and that girl could have been me. I was so close. I mean not only was I about 10 feet away but he was also admittedly fucked up drunk and from my experience, when you are fucked up drunk and have a dick, you would pretty much grab anything that you can stick that dick into. But I guess my theory had a hole (no pun intended). It could’ve been the case that when you’re fucked up drunk, whether you have a dick or not, you grab the thing that you want the most. In retrospect, it made perfect sense. Anyway, he didn’t choose me. I felt hurt and rejected, though not by him but by those beautiful popping out veins. I wondered if I was ever good enough for them.
It’s dangerous to get fixated on something organic and random like veins because it leaves you with very few choices. You end up wanting people for the wrong reason and even though you know so clearly that they’re not right for you, you can’t really just stop wanting them. Why? You’ve already chosen them before you even meet them. Their attention is suddenly one million dollars and your entire self-esteem is determined by how much of it you can get. And it’s never enough. It gets to a point where your mind and being is so set on it that you let them get away with anything as long as they give it to you. You start treating yourself horribly and going against your own principles as withdrawal hits you like a brick and you become desperate. It’s also dangerous because it confuses the hell out of you. You have no idea whether it’s love or lust, whether it’s just sex or something more and even when (and most of the times) it’s clearly just sex and objectification, you’ve far long crossed the chill line that what it is doesn’t matter anymore (instead you just become crazy). It’s like addiction except that it’s not drugs but people — a very specific kind of people that you’re addicted to. It ruins the rest for you because any other kinds of sex with any other kinds of people would just feel like settling. By then it becomes too late to go back.
I know for a fact that that night I couldn’t go back. My thirst for him (and those veins) had grown significantly especially after 4 beers and 2 shots of Tequila (Oh, Tequila, why am I not surprised?) I felt like shit (and progressively shit, thanks Tequila) seeing him trying to kiss that girl. I mean she was pretty but not all that. Most outrageously, she didn’t even reciprocate him. How dare she? See, it’s frustrating because she didn’t see his value the way I did. She didn’t understand how precious he (or those veins) could be to someone (me). Basically, she didn’t deserve him. I did. I should’ve had him. We could’ve had one happy-ending night pumping dopamine and I could’ve high-fived myself the next morning for getting laid like I’d done a month earlier. Seriously. One month. I didn’t want to have to count any more day because I was sick of mentally coming back to that encounter with each drink I had, each cigarette I burnt and each porno I watched. It’s just depressing and pathetic. I want to get on it again. I want to have more sex.
Alright. In case I’ve come across as a sex addict, let me explain. I’ve been questioning myself lately what is a good life for a 22 year old and I’ve come to a conclusion that a good life should include having as much great sex as possible. Not just good, but great, healthy sex. The sex that satisfies you, empowers you, makes you glow like a fucking walking LED and doesn’t leave you feeling dirty and shameful. It’s especially important because as a woman I’ve never felt like I was allowed to have this kind of mentality before. I was getting mixed messages left and right telling me what to do with my own body, how to feel about what I do with my own body. And throughout this journey to figure the truth out, I ended up making terrible choices on who to have sex with and the sex was never that good, never really about me. But I’m 22 and I’ve finally decided that it’s time to stop this. It’s time to act based on my own thinking and step up and do what’s good for myself. It’s liberating to even have this monologue and feel okay about whatever I choose to do with my body and my vagina (which is by the way none of anyone’s business) and to admit that just like any average human being, I want great, healthy sex that makes ME feel nothing but positive.
But I know. It’s not easy. Okay, frankly it’s bloody hard given this uncontrollable addiction to popping out veins (which are actually a sign of fitness but m’kay it’s weird to say it out loud like that) and countless other very specific characteristics required for sex to feel good and worth it. Because what happens is that the people who possess these specific characteristics are often not compatible with me or not that interested in me, and consequently, the sex, while great, ends up being unhealthy. Trust me. I’ve tried to train myself to get excited by signs of stability and set “interested in me” as the first and most important criteria but it didn’t work like that. Okay. Go on dates with someone keen. Checked. Have sex with someone emotionally invested. Checked. And really at first I did feel like something was changing in me and I was so hopeful about it. But the more I forced myself into it, the more I felt empty and distracted and the whole thing was reduced to merely a physical activity like riding a bicycle and it was just sad. It couldn’t have been right. These guys deserved better and I did too. I couldn’t help but find my way back to those popping out veins again.
Sometimes I’m very, very afraid that I might be a classic example of girls who bend over backwards to fuck alpha men in their twenties and lose their shit when they hit 30s and would grab any good-natured, resourceful beta to start a family. I can’t let this be true because this concept of classifying men as alpha and beta is absolutely against my core values and incredibly disrespectful to the man I’d eventually be with. Especially, I would hate myself so much for ever falling victim for my own biology (which makes me dead set on fucking alpha men). I’m a smart human. I should operate on a higher level than my hormones and chemicals no matter how powerful they may be. I should know when an attraction is irrational and stop myself before my mind gets all wrapped up. Though maybe it’s okay to want to fuck the ‘wrong’ people too because after all, when I come to think about it, I wasn’t looking for a relationship with these people. The whole time I was focusing on sex. I saw their value in sex. Thus ironically enough, I was actually rational and doing the right thing by going after them. The only thing I did wrong was that I confused sex with romantic relationships. I mixed these two together. I should’ve kept them separate and adjusted my approach and expectation accordingly.
However, of course, for men this is much easier. For women, we have to deal with this bitch Oxytocin and once it floods our brain and the man doesn’t seem to give any more shit than ‘Hey it was fun’, the line between casual sex and romantic relationships gets blurred for us and it forces us to feel like a worthless piece of shit. There is really no way to win especially when most of us are not exceptional beauties that automatically drive people so crazy no rules matter. Truth is, rules apply to the best of us. There’s only a safer way to play the game which is by being more selective and patient and strategic. At least in my case, I don’t think I’m cut out for casual sex. Admittedly, the high from having sex with a charming, sexy stranger I’m fixated on is like nothing else but the comedown is so proportionately destructive that it’s not worth it. I have to quit it like I quit Tequila. It’s about sex but at the same time it’s not just about sex. Sometimes I even suspect that it isn’t about sex at all, at least not the act itself. It’s more about power, about validation, about wanting to know that I’m good enough to be chosen by the people I choose, about feeling deserving of the beautiful things in life like those popping-out veins. It’s about me and how much I actually love myself.
I looked at him dancing fooling around with random girls and suddenly I didn’t know why I even wanted him. Why I would ever let him have power over my self-esteem. Yes, I thought he was beautiful. I loved the veins on his arms, I still love them now and I will keep loving them, but not more than I love myself, not enough that if I didn’t have him, I would doubt my own worth. That night I didn’t stay out waiting for him to pay attention to me. I went home because it was time to go home. I did cry like a loser on the train though because I still wanted him and those veins in and out of bed. I did write a long, drunken note questioning whether it was all because I wasn’t hot enough for him. I don’t know. Maybe so. But anyway why would it matter? The key thing is, I felt (and feel and am) valuable. This should be an unchanging fact. Even though it’s not always easy to remember and believe this, I’m trying each day. I’m learning to do the right things, to have the great, healthy sex I owe my younger (and older) self.
Looking back on the journey thus far, I have to say 22 is such a wonderful age. I used to think after all the shit I’d been through, all the emotional drama I had sworn off, there was no way I would make stupid mistakes again. I believed (and wanted to believe) that I had learned to love myself and would only do good for myself. I was so damn sure I would never ever fall for any of the following: Fuck boys, emotionally unavailable boys, taken boys, immature boys, rude boys, mean boys, uninterested boys because I’d been there before and I knew better than that. I was also confident that I was not like other women, that I was totally capable of enjoying casual sex for what it was as I made my own goddamn decision with my body and I had nothing to regret. But I was wrong. For one, I’m a woman and I’m made and not made for certain things. I should embrace this more than anything else and work my ways around it instead of stubbornly burying my face in denial which would only hold me back. Secondly, I still make mistakes and it feels worse now because I have no excuse. But what I didn’t realize and didn’t give myself enough credits is that even though I make mistakes, I’m now quicker than ever to bounce back. I’m more and more in control of my actions and feelings. I smell male BS faster than lightning speed. Try me.
As it turns out, living a good life is no joke. It takes lots of thinking, reflection, adjustment and even digging deep into my darkest issues that I may or may not be ready for. I guess I can only take things slow and figure life out little by little. Some day I will go home, turn off the lights and cry and tell myself millions of nasty things and believe I’m not good enough for those men and those veins, not good enough for happiness. I will wish I was prettier, richer and basically anything that would make people want me unconditionally and eternally. But some day and many days like today, I will not need that wish. I will feel okay in my own skin. I will accept better people, have better sex (then high-five myself real loud). Isn’t a good life all down to a good feeling?