Sunday, May 31, 2009

The Straddle

Well, happy Sunday, readers...I'm straddling my life right now by appearing to be dutiful real estate broker at open house (gobbling down oversized bagel with cream cheese) and writing about my sex life and the pathetic way I spent last Wednesday night, also known as my attendance at my first erotica/sex party.  Of course,  more on that in a bit.

You know, I like to be in tune with what the universe is telling me and I've been horribly remiss with any faux meditation practice that I'd like to pretend I maintain, but I have gotten a few signs in these last few weeks.  While Mercury Retrograde was clogging up technology and communication, a few things reached my antenna. First, things are not what they seem.  I can't elaborate on that, but you know what I mean.  Smells like a duck, walks like a duck, but lately...it's just not a duck.  Don't know why, but it's not.  I've also come to learn that it's often better to not procrastinate, because I've gotten fucked when I've blown things off and now is not the time for me to get lax.  This scary realization could also signal that I may be becoming an adult.  And, I'm getting laid far too infrequently--this is evidenced by the constant desire for me to "act out" and conjuring sexual fantasies about people who are inappropriate (the kid who made my sandwich yesterday at Subway) or just plain nasty (the customer from Florida who has aged VERY badly and has no nice feature except his eyes).   I have that sort of limp (no pun intended), pathetic lost feeling when it comes to waxing now--I want to have to keep it all neat and tidy, but it's like dusting the furniture when there are no guests for the foreseeable future coming over.  Why waste the energy.

If you know me at all, and I mean, actually know me, you know that there is nothing--NOTHING--I love more than the split of my life.  The mix and match of banal life and sexuality that you'd never expect from a Hebrew Academy graduate. You don't really picture me, clad in my Talbots clothes excited to walk to that apartment on Amsterdam Avenue and have rather sporty sex.  Masturbation isn't a word that I should really use, but I actually said it in front of a customer last week who seemed tickled pink (again, no pun) that I could say the word.  The next day he emailed me, and picked it up again--writing, 'When you're done masturbating, could you check these listings for me and tell me when there will be an open house?" I told him that I'd have to wash my hands first or I'd get the keyboard sticky.  He seemed to enjoy this banter and this is the rapport that I'm building with my client--an unprofessional and totally inappropriate line to walk, but good for some laughs.

So, my other 'job' has been in the sex world, which I admit that I miss.  I was good at writing the porn and thanks to our squeezed economy people want their sex free.  I think that generally they want free sex, but now it's not even much on the disposable income list.  Orgasms must be cost-effective which saddens me because I think that's an important economic indicator that NPR never really pays attention to, but I'm sure some economist would have something to say about what that really says about the economy.  It's one thing to take books out of the library, and to buy generic pasta instead of Ronzoni, but when you're skimpy on the porn and being forced to conjure orgasms from a free catalog, well, that's just damn sad.   Happily, I have one new project to complete and while the woman publishing it expected and wanted it to be real, it is 100% fiction.

Through a course of events that I prefer to skip, I was introduced to the world of sex parties.  Not introduced in the way that I was brought to one, but the idea was mentioned in conversation to me about a year ago.  I was disgusted and horrified.  Of course, it was around a year ago, I was disgusted and horrified by rather aggressive sex too, but everything has a season.  With my assorted body issues, I don't know that I could mentally get my head around being in a room and being look at that way, but I do know that 3 seconds into the act, I would be thrilled and excited that there is an audience.  However, it's not happened, so we'll just talk about what DID happen.

I decided, in the same way that I chose to call my IRS auditor, to go to the top on the whole sex party idea, and I was steered to a website that catered to high-class sex parties.  What makes these, "high class", I think, is that they are expensive and beautifully hosted.  And, I organized a lunch with the hen of this roost to find out more about what she does.  It was hard to schedule lunch and in the process we bonded a little over our dogs and other mundane things.  When we finally did meet, she saw that more cautious side of me--the Talbots side who is afraid what people will think, the one who doesn't want to offend and seemed boxed into her boundaries and shy.  Our lunch was short, she was somewhat of a complainer and also confident and completely secure in her skin.  She made a few notable comments and here they are in no particular order.

1) She has never heard anyone communicate any insecurity about their physical appearance or their body or having any inhibitions about exposing their naked self to a group of strangers.

2) In response to my assuring her that I wasn't interested in stealing her business model, she told me that it simply wouldn't be possible to do that--because she has a 'winning team' and it's her family.

And, knowing my excited apprehension about going to her party, she was sensible enough to ask me to do an erotic write up about the party.  I violated her rule by having an expectation, which was to have a night that I could write off--with strangers, with no real consequences and no repercussions.  I was going to the party with my friend, Adam, not a lover at all, and no one to be embarrassed in front of.  With my past of being a freelance porn writer, I constructed a story in my head for days before the party.  I'd never gotten up the gumption to be with a woman, except for a drunken make out with a college friend, only  to cause a stir in a bar, and tonight would be the night.  I wanted groping in a dark corner, fingers, hands exploring with soft curves of woman, tongues in and out of each other's mouth--and I wanted it to be a real story with a woman who I'd never see again and an experience that I could leave behind easily if I chose to do so.  And, I didn't want to be the only one doing such things.  I wanted sexual acts all around me--I wanted to see couples dry humping on couches and strangers squeezing each other's nipples through layers of gauzy blouses.  I wanted the sexual energy to be completely palpable, yet just out of reach until people hastily hail cabs and rush off to fuck like bunnies.

I wanted it to be that. And in fact, the imagination of this scene garnered a physical reaction from me of desire.  My skin even felt prickly and hot, and I wanted to it be something so different that even me, who often feels like she's seen it all, would be aroused and compelled. And, it was the opposite. In fact, when I think back on the whole night there is something about it that makes me laugh.  I laugh partly because I was so nervous, expecting that I would be pushing my personal boundaries beyond my comfort level and partly because it didn't push a fucking feather further.

Adam and I hadn't seen each other in a long time because he defected to LA, breaking my heart since he would no longer be around to work out with me or  teach my exercise classes, so he asked for some time before the party to get a drink.  We didn't know what we were in for, so I wanted to proactively calm myself and invited a bit of Jack Daniels to the party.  At the Maritime Hotel, our pre-game, we both nervously drank our whisky and Adam was fingering the condoms that he'd stuck in his pocket.  He admitted that he had to buy them on the sly when his wife wasn't looking and like a nervous teenager, dispose of the box in a garbage can on the street and stuff the contents in his pocket.  He thought he'd use at least one, and I started looking at women at the bar trying to gauge my idea of "attractive", as if I was sharpening a skill set that I hadn't used in a long time.

to be continued....

Friday, May 08, 2009

The Auditor

Well, it's been quite a week and it's been explained to me that I must curtail my 16-hour sleeping days and actually return to the world of the living. My world, as you well know, had gotten very small and contained only me, my dog, my bed and some ice cream. There was work that would pop in now and then, but mostly, I kept my boundaries. The nonstop rain helped my cause and when I'd get up, with the best of intentions to go out and be in the world, I was redirected to my bed and pillows.

I do want to thank the 'longtime listener and first time caller' for writing in a very sweet email. It was exactly what I needed to hear.

So, the audit was Tuesday. I have to admit the by Monday, I'd sort of let go of the whole thing--like just before a test when you realize that your brain simply will not hold anymore information and there is no point in studying, so you might as well just watch reruns from the 1980s and fuck the rest of studying. You let go; your hand loosening around the tightened coils of the safety bar, and you start thinking about life beyond the test, beyond the semester and beyond school. That's where I was on Monday. My friend Amy classified this as me being 'in acceptance.' And, it felt peaceful.

By Tuesday, I'd slid back from my evolved 12-steppy place and was back in panic mode and fueled by a long list of errands that I had to do, including the very long train ride to Bay Ridge to see bitchy, white-trashy managing agents who would give me some contrived runaround on an apartment that I was trying to rent. And, I got the first call from my accountant.

I'm not sure why I was nudged to take my 2007 taxes with me on errands that had nothing to do with my audit, but I threw the blue folder into my bag which proved to be the smartest thing I did all day. By the time I got to awful managing agent's office, I learned that I needed to fax two of the documents in my bag to the accountant who was mid-audit. The women in the office were kind enough to show me to their fax machine and, using my hand as a rolodex, since the fax numbers were scrawled across my palm, I sent through three documents, thanked them, and walked through the rain--which was more like the heavens pissing on earth--a mile to a train stop and during that walk, contacted an old stock broker who called an old operations manager to get copies of my IRA contributions and then had to call my awful old boss who I loathe more than any other human being I've ever met for a letter from him explaining that they filed the wrong 1099s for me, which is the entire reason that I was audited. Hateful boss, who is a staunch Buddhist practionier, is the most passive aggressive person I've ever met who pays nearly everyone in his life (seriously) and believes that he is a holy relic.

And, I dialed my accountant back to report my progress. The phone rang several times and low and behold, the auditor answered and seemed very excited to introduce herself to me and find how exactly how I was doing. I'm not sure how she expected me to be doing--SHE WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF AUDITING MY TAX RETURNS. She actually seemed surprised when I said that I was stressed and told me not to worry--and I'd learn later that she worked with my accountant to help find deductions that she could count against what I would later owe--the amount, I still have yet to learn.

Despite this wonderful luck, I still returned to my cranky status.

Meanwhile, things in my romance life seems to require some cleaning up and I wrote a letter to an old lover who was not entirely out of my life, and nudged him along on his merry way and signed back up for online dating, which I was quickly reminded is a deep, dark and ugly place. You can't do much but look at other people's profiles, try to understand why they chose the pictures that they chose, or the monikers even (one guy is called, "studboy4"?) and then have sympathy when their essays are pained, and invariably, exactly the same as the random profile before. Everyone is looking for exactly the same thing, and I have a strong feeling that it's not what they describe they are looking for--it's a particular kind of sexiness, a certain flavor of humor and a temperature of wit. And of course, it's all really indescribable.

I was starting from scratch on this profile, so I dumbed down my essay. I realized that my error in my old profile was that I tried to seem too cool, too low-maintenance, too boyish. I talked about my love of gangster films, my long afternoons reading Ayn Rand and mornings (pre-dog walk) listening to NPR. I tried showed that I was varied by talking about business school, culinary school, working in a law firm, at the NYSE and traveling through Asia and the photo that punctuated this profile was a black and white picture that showed dark eyes, unruly hair and my attempt at a dangerous smile. No go.

This profile was simpler; I used basic adjectives and safe identifiers including that I had a dog and am in sales. Nothing that any guy online reading my profile would have to stretch to think if he could deal with. I skipped my appreciation for Woody Allen and snarky senses of humor and also skipped my upcoming lunch with Palagia, of sex party fame. I kept is short and chose a picture where you could see my whole face, still in black and white, but more tame and appropriate. They think that I'm new meat, so I'm getting loads of attention--none of which, I realize, I want. Frankly, my heart still beats too fast when I walk down by the low-80s. I hear the thump, thump and feel my blood pressure rising as I walk past the church where I met Fritz on that cold winter night in December 2007. It's no accident that this is part of my nightly walk with my dog. I'm putting up a show for myself in recreating this profile, because I know that I won't go out with all these people and feel terribly guilty when I sit at my computer, pretending that I am better than these guys who are looking for their princess who "will look cute in a baseball hat with a ponytail sticking out and look sexy in a cocktail dress the night before."
And, as I make fun of them, pity them and cast them aside, I get offended when they do the same and realize that we are all the same.

For now, to my mother's dismay, I stick with the girl I love most....the scariest pit bull in the West.

Friday, May 01, 2009

UN Peacekeeping

I just glanced at my blog and I have to wonder if anyone is out there or if I am truly writing this for myself.  If I am just writing it for myself, well, there are worse things and I am going to force to be glass-half-full about this and just be happy that I'm back writing, which admittedly, feels good.

So, to whoever is out there, and whoever isn't out there, I'm back to that place that I've been many, many times.  The place where I'm staying in bed a lot and my room is starting to smell like person--you know, that kind of human odor that hangs in a room when a sick person has been in there too long.  I propped open my window and put a screen in to air it out, but I should probably change the sheets too.  I'm eating a lot--and I mean--A LOT-- carbohydrates.  I seem to be in the cracker stage.  For a while I was in the cookie/ice cream stage and then I progressed to the portugese white bread dipped in blood orange flavored olive oil.  Yesterday my friend Sarah and I went to Trader Joe's and now I'm in the rice crackers/pita crackers phase.  I made a container of raspberry jello and ate most of that, but that's not really many calories, so not very fun.

In addition to my excessive carb eating, it's important to note that I've given up on wearing matching clothes, and am eating mostly in tupperware which is the culinary equivalent of wearing a tee-shirt that is way too big for you.  I am trying to keep the dishes at a minimum and not adding up the collection in my room.  I do daily trips of dishes back to the sink.  Between of all of this, and trying to stay on my game with my clients, I am sleeping a lot with the puppy who is really rolling with it.  I find that my time with her in the dog park, now that she's adjusted enough for me to zone out there, is really my best time a day.

I admit that for me, being audited by the IRS and having work dry up, or be at a snail's pace, is one of the worst things that could happen to me.  I could deal with physical pain, which I can cope with, and I'm excellent as a broken hearted girl, but money issues cripple me and make me feel like something is sitting on my chest.  In some ways, I can be like a financial anorexic and being audited makes me feel like a weak victim.

The reactions to the audit have been interesting as well, and something that I need to write about.  I think if I'd told people that I had a disease, there would be exclusively sympathy.   I would have done nothing to procure this disease but just been a victim.  But, with the IRS audit, there is some suspicion that I've done something wrong and there is a certain amount of not wanting to get to close to me--depending on the person.  I had to ask a photographer for a invoice for a photo shoot done years ago and she said the following, "Before I put my neck on the chopping block for you, I need to check with my accountant and my lawyer."  The dramatic factor in that sentence was palpable.  This photographer, as I'd learned, was almost afraid that being audited by the IRS was like a disease that she was worried about contracting.  From most other people, there seem to be three sort of reactions: 1) suspicion that I've done something wrong and finally gotten caught. They'll say, "Oh, I never mess with things like that." or, "Well, I keep excellent records, so I've never been audited." 2) No big deal. "Eh, your accountant takes care of it--it's just money." and 3) Indignation, like "Bernie Madoff stole BILLIONS of dollars and they are going after you?"

I've seen articles that the IRS is increasing the number of small businesses they are going after via audit these days and yet decreasing going after bigger companies.  I'm not exactly sure what Joe the Plumber would say about this--or why this is happening.  I don't make much money and anything that the government will get from me will be payed in drips and drabs so I hope that no stimulus package relies on my extra contribution.

While my mother certainly didn't raise a victim, I certainly feel like one--and I'm pissed.  And, the part of me that is a little scared of the KGB reputation of any government is afraid to really speak out about this, but I'm pissed.  I'm pissed because this auditor googled me and needed to know about my life and not just my financial life.  I'm pissed because she'll probably just be a fucking straphanger all morning, with her pre-packed lunch in a reused Victoria Secret bag and is probably one of those people who shakes her hand and is "just doing her job".  I picture her shaking her head--blameless.  What sticks with me is that she googled me--that she's blameless yet interested in peering into my life.  I have my annual GYN appointment in October; perhaps I'll send her an invite for the pap smear portion and she can look into my most personal orifice as well.  

Between the last paragraph and this paragraph, I climbed back into bed.  I ate polenta with tomato sauce and cheese for dinner and chocolate pudding--and now I feel fat and full.  Like a sinking ship and I'm starting to wonder what's going on.  NOW, after a six weeks of this, I'm STARTING to wonder what's going on.  What's wrong with barely doing my work and spending all my time in bed with my dog.  My little puppy reminds me constantly that she is putting her energy on a shelf for me, because the second we get out of bed, she jumps around--happy to be free and running.

There is a scene in the movie, American Beauty, after Kevin Spacey is shot when Annette Benning is on her knees in the closet, holding onto his clothes--pulling at them and screaming.  The weight of her grasp on the sleeves of clothes is holding her up.  Just by looking at her, you can feel the tension in her arms, and the tight grasp of her hands around the arms of his jacket or the thigh of his pants.  The cloth bearing the weight of her horror and she clings to it.  In that moment, it's all she has, and she lets out a scream-an animal sound that I've made before in pain.  And, that scene, frankly, is the best way to describe how I feel now.  That I need material to hold me up and to scream a muffled, animalistic cry into patterned clothes. There is barely any work, there is a lover nine blocks away who might as well be 900 miles away and more debt looming in this awful economy.  There is fat and fullness keeping me stationary and I'm so short-sighted, that I cannot even appreciate my fortune that I am not in another part of the world--that I am with food, with a home that is not being foreclosed and have a job that I love, though its bearing nearly no fruit now.