caerula's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- part two of the big-ass anniversary entry, or What (didn't) come before I'm officially off the healthy eating plan this morning, since breakfast is orange hostess cupcakes (the chocolate ones make me sick) and Mountain Dew. There are really only so many slim-fast shakes you can drink, and I hit my limit today. Couple days break, and I'll be back on plan. I brought an actual lunch today too, that I can chew. Imagine that. It is working however, so I won't stray too far. I've lost nearly ten pounds in the past 8 weeks or so, which is more than a pound a week, so that works for me. And soon I will be able to start excercising again, walking and gardening at least, which will get things going even more. Coincidentally, btw, I started actually losing weight about the same time I started the glucophage, which is apparently doing its fine work to regulate my hormones and return my sex drive to normal. Judging by the activities of the last couple of weeks, that, at least, is working. About time. Actually, I shouldn't say "return my sex drive to normal." I've never had a normal sex drive, or much of one at all. In 4th and 5th grade, I was sexually abused (without really having a clue what was going on, and I still can't go into details) by my step-grandfather, a person my now insane grandma had married when I was in 2nd grade or so. Didn't tell anyone for years (things hadn't progressed to learning about good and bad touching in public schools yet, we were just taught not to go with strangers, because of course no one in your family would do anything bad to you), not until we realized said scumbag was emotionally and physically abusing my grandma and my dad and aunt took it upon themselves to get him out of the house, which they did, successfully. I don't know what they did and don't care to know. It came out then he'd done the same to my sister Kitty, and my older cousin Tee. Nothing was ever done to him, which still makes me angry, but he's dead now and I hope rotting in hell. Needless to say, scarred emotionally for years. Then, while my friends in high school and college were losing their virginity right and left (and up and down), I just didn't get it. I'd blocked out most of the stuff from the SOB who hurt me, but the few kisses I had known had not been terribly exciting. My first boyfriend, my freshman/sophomore years, was as shy as I, and we never progressed beyond holding hands and the occasional saliva-exchange. My senior year I had the bad fortune to hook up with a guy who slobbered, which turned me off kissing for a loooong time. Couple of years later, I had a six-week or so relationship with a wanna-be cop, a mall security guard. We met at a Halloween party, and it lasted through January or so, when he decided to use the time-honored tradition of "just stop calling" � leaving me, btw, to make a fool of myself by calling him so that he was forced to actually dump me. The one good thing about that relationship was that he was, at least, a good kisser, found that my neck is a major erogenous zone for me and he actually touched my breasts, and I though AHA! That's a good spot. (Thanks for that, if nothing else, Jon). And, well, maybe,I decided, there's something to this sex stuff after all. Then, Spring Break 1992, I went on a Carnival cruise with a friend from work. And narrowly escaped being raped, although stupid me didn't realize exactly how narrowly until later, because I was stupid and na�ve and went down to the beach with a guy I'd only just met, who probably had me worked up from the start � shy, innocent-looking, drinking pina coladas, friend who gets bored and goes to bed early. I was flattered, and stupid. And was only saved from rape because some people strolled by on the Jamaican beach, and I took the opportunity to struggle up and flee, although without my underwear. Let's just say my first experience with anything that approached actually nakedness was less than perfect. So that put a damper on things for a while. No boyfriends, no nothing for well over a year. In 1994, I took a summer tour through Europe before my last semester of college, this time a group thing I signed up for with a friend of mine from school, another Jennifer (my life is littered with Jennifers). We were almost always with the group, even when we went out to English pubs and scary Italian discos, so I never felt unsafe. And that was also the first time I got drunk enough to realize that it breaks down some of your inhibitions. Yes, if you're doing math on your fingers, I was actually 21 before I ever got drunk. But I made up for it in short order, believe me. The first time I got drunk was on a beach in Cannes, drink cheap French wine (which doesn't taste any less like cheap wine just because it's French, in case you were wondering) and sangria. What better place or atmosphere to spend your first night totally smashed? The ocean the moonlight, you're on the French Riviera for goodness sake, why not get ridiculously drunk and stupid on the beach? There was around 20 of us, the oldest maybe 23. And our tour guide, Cyril, who was probably in his 30s, from Austria with an exaggerated Schwazeneggeresque accent. Here he his, very cute, foreign, speaks several languages, shepherding around a group of 20 18-25 year olds, all but two of whom are girls. Definitely girls, not yet women. And we all got drunk on the beach that night, including Cyril, and sang Italian pop songs and the entire Billy Joel oeuvre, starting with "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant", but no one knew all the words to any one song, and we went and peed behind rocks while other girls stood in front of us and sang something in Spanish (they were Cuban, from Florida) to cover the sounds of pee hitting rock. Why we didn't just go pee in the ocean, I don�t know. It was right there, after all. We were all in bathing suits and shorts, anyway, and ended up in the ocean at one point or another no matter what (me, being me, still shudder to think that at least one of us could have drowned -- Cyril was a fun tour guide, but not one with the best judgment). And we played truth or dare, and I was really really drunk but really didn't know it since I had nothing to compare it to, and someone dared me to take of my shirt and run down the beach, and I DID. And everyone applauded, and I was all proud of myself. Now, I left my bra on, and I was far thinner in those days (although I still thought I was fat, weighing all of perhaps 125), but it still took some gumption, even drunk. But I did it. And then we got even drunker, and stayed up all night rolling around on the beach, while Cyril lay face down in the sand and yelled, in his best Ah-nold voice "There is a sandstorm! I will protect you! Gather around me girls!" while we laughed hysterically. Around dawn we slowly made our way back to the hotel, with Cyril yelling "I am the tour guide! I will find the hotel! I will protect you!" Is it anyw wonder we all had huge drunken crushes on him? Not a fun busride into Italy the next day, let me tell you. A bus full of hung-over girls trying to sleep. That evening, after a long bus ride which mostly allowed us to recover, we bussed in to Monte Carlo for the evening, and hey, a bunch of blond American girls wandering around Monte Carlo? We got hit on everywhere we went. I remember dancing at a disco with a guy who claimed to be Italian, but I seem to recall that his name was Bob. We were very popular dance partners And I clearly remember the absurdity of seeing a bunch of French and Italian stud-wanna-bes, and a few actually Italian studs, dancing to the Grease remix, Duran Duran, INXS. We went to Florence, where we discoed and saw the Duomo, and then on to Rome, with lots of nuns, shopping, the Sistine Chapel, and gelato. We rode on the bus some more and took a ferry to the island of Capri. Ah, Capri. So very beautiful. We stayed the town on the top of the mountain, Anacapri, which required a harrowing bus ride up single lane dirt roads. Very scary. And the four or five of us who hung out together � the two Jennifers, the Cuban girls, and a gorgeous dark-curly-haired chick of Israeli decent, who looked like she belonged in a James Bond film � hooked up on the beach with a bunch of a Italian guys, whom we then let talk us into taking us down the mountain to the town of Capri to some kind of club thing. Scary car ride down the mountain in dark and rain, with nine of us in a teensy Italian car. Gee, can't imagine how we all ended up sitting on the boys' laps. That night was probably the most exhilarating experience of my life up until that point. We ended up at at a dark little-hole-in-the-ground club, and we girls started making escape plans, and then this little band started playing Italian folk songs and suddenly we were all up standing on chairs and tables, singing words we didn't understand and dancing and doing high kicks � and so was everyone else in the place, that was the awesome thing. It was the most incredible night, and I felt like I could do anything, so I did. I kissed the cute guy named Massimo who had been eyeing me and oh-so-accidentally brushing by me all night. Kissed him right there on the table top, to Italian folk music and cheers from friends on both sides, and quickly learned the Italian word for kiss. Bocio, bacia, boci, something like that, although Geni could probably correct me (si, signora?) Needless to say, I got lots of bocia or whatever that night. And other things, which Massimo later told me in halting English, "were not like a gentleman." And the awesome thing was, I was not drunk, I was not lonely, I was having a blast and felt completely in charge of the situation. Massimo, needless to say, was an awesome kisser. The language barrier was NOT a problem. And he didn't do I think I didn't encourage him to do � very gentlemanly. I remember him tucking his shirt back in and making sure I was all buttoned up as we walked back up to my hotel, so that we would look like nothing had happened, "and your friends will not embarrass you." Hah, my friends were waiting up to hear the gory details! No, we did not have sex; I think have mentioned before that I was still virginal (technically) until I got engaged. But we had fun, and I finally felt cleansed of the nasty rape attempt � I was smart, I was careful, I had fun with an adorable Italian boy I knew I would never see again. Cool. Massimo, I think, was crushed that we were leaving the next day, and came by my hotel in the morning to get my address so he could send me a postcard. And he actually did � so we exchanged postcards back and forth for a couple of months, and then that was that. No tears. It was great. So then in September of 1995 I left for grad school and met the boy who would truly for the first time break my heart and make me feel life was not worth living and no one would ever love me. Let's just say it started out great, ended up nasty. We were friends first � met in a poetry chat room on the Internet, and communicated exclusively by email for the first month. He had a wicked sense of humor, intelligent, witty, adorable (think a slightly shorter and less cute Dean Cain), sent me emails that had me ROFL, he was an English major in undergrad and could recite Shakespeare and Eliot to me � in short, the guy of my dreams. He was four hours away, in law school at Emory, and about four months into what I'd thought had been a near-perfect relationship � I was thinking engagement rings, even � he told me that he just loved me and missed me too much not to be with me all the time. There's boy logic for you. I can't see you whenever I want so it far better not to see you at all. For crissakes, it was a four-hour drive. Truth to tell, turned out he was having way too much fun in Atlanta with his law school friends to want to drive home on the weekends, to see either me or his family. We kept up a fumbling email correspondence for a few months, until he met someone at Jewish singles get-together, and the truth finally hit me. It wasn't that he didn't have time for a relationship, with all his important law-schoolyness � he had his life all planned out, and he, Mr. Jewish Lawyer with political ambitions, couldn't have a WASPy wife. The clue was when they got engaged, and he said something smarmy about "heart, head, and family" all being in agreement. He was a Mama's boy, and Mama wanted him to marry a nice Jewish girl. So he did. And looking back, despite thinking this was my fated-to-be-with Prince Charming, we really weren't very compatible. Yes, we both loved English lit and could read poetry to each other for hours, and then fool around for hours more � we had great sexual chemistry, if nothing else, and trust me, he knew just where and how to use his mouth -- but we had very few actual conversations that didn't take place via email or in bed. And when I, of all people, pushed for sex and he backed off, well that was an elephant in the bedroom and I was wearing blinders. He sent me roses for Vday, a card all apologetic for what a pain he'd been and thanks for putting up with him � and a week later drove down to break up with me. At least he did it face to face, I suppose. Although at a park, on HIS side of town � so I had to drive a half-hour back to my apartment, blinded by tears, getting lost at least twice, thinking what an idiot I was. Sigh. Live and learn. Then a few months later there was the boy in library school with me who I KNEW liked me, and refused to make a move. Even when I leaned against his arm, got in a tickle fight in my living room floor, hugged him goodbye � nothing. But everyone who knew us both kept telling me he liked me. It's a mystery to me to this day. He was very Baptist, so maybe that was it. Or maybe he was gay, and confused. Or maybe he was just a clueless dork, I don't know. Still some regret there, I suppose, that I didn't push a little harder. And then no one, until a year later, home on winter break, in a bar with my sister Kitty on New Year's Eve 1996, I met Blue. And that�s another story, and shall be told another time. (Quick, name that book!) Not what I intended to write about this morning, but there you have it. The Cliff Notes on my early sex life. Is it any wonder I had baggage, sexual and emotional, by the time I met Blue? I had him so confused that I'm still amazed sometimes he kept coming back for more. We made out in his car for two hours the night of our first date. On our second, he gave me one of my first ever (and best, up to that point) Big O's, with just his nimble fingers, and I begged him not to stop. We were in my parent's living room, no less! And by the third date, after some rolling around on the floor of his bedroom, I decided perhaps I should tell him I was a virgin and not ready for anything beyond what we'd already done. Poor guy. He waited for me for two more years. Unheard of. Of course, he had his own baggage, as I discovered later. I remember at one point, sitting on his bed when I was home at spring break, trying to take in the fact that a)he had a child and b)he was in love with me (tip here, guys -- don't spring TWO big things like that on a girl on the same night please), anyway, I remember quoting him a line from "Rent." "Life's too short, babe, we've all got baggage, I'm just looking for baggage that goes with mine." But, as I said before, more on Blue and our relationship later. I supposed this could be considered Part Two of my anniversary entry, which I could snarkily entitled More of What Came (or in this case, didn't come) Before. More later, on stuff I actually intended to write about today. 11:51 a.m. - June 04, 2002 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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