Last week Berkely told me I needed to show my body more, “cause then they’ll know you actually fucked like that.”
She was referring to my books, but still, I resented the way she used “fucked” in past tense, as if my sex life was over…maybe I should have taken PeeWee’s advice and gone down to San Diego this weekend after all. It’s not like I got any other exciting offers. None. Zero. Not one phone call, text, or email inviting me to any labour day festivities. I tweeted: I think people are scared of me. Thinking that, made me feel better. I didn’t want to think about the alternative.
And then, Friday morning, a call from Coco “We’re going to an all night Burning Man party Saturday. DJs, freaks, and simulating the burning of the man. Wanna come?”
I love Coco, her and I have the best bitch sessions about our hubbies, and how we want to have sex with Jon Hamm, but honestly, I don’t get Burning Man. It sounds like Woodstock meets Halloween. But longer, and in the desert. And the music is more electronica than Bob Dylan. Oh yeah, and you have to pay hundreds of dollars to get in.
I decide I’m going to Malibu instead. Alone.
I quickly text hubbie: Just to be clear, if my new twitter GFs invite me to Vegas, I can go?
My blood starts pumping, with adrenaline. OMG! An adventure. In Vegas. With girls I’ve never met before. That is so up my alley. But then reality sets in. You have no money to go to Vegas right now. But I do have that credit card…NO! I must be responsible. Regardless, it’s good to know how hubbie feels about this. I believe it’s what set the tone for tonight’s conversation.
Hubbie calls, “What’s going on?”
“I’m wondering how long it would take, and how much it would cost, to get my massage certificate.”
He sighs, “you’re back to that again?”
“Jack is quitting framing because he made more in three days massaging, part time, than he did framing for ten days, full time. I could charge $100/hour for a basic massage, and if they wanted a rub-off at the end, my rate would jump to $500,” I say, enthusiastically.
“Ummm…we’re not going to be married if you decide to ‘rub’ people off for a living, how would you feel if some girl started rubbing me off?”
“Ummm…if some girl is going to give YOU money to rub YOU off, then you’re a god damn superstar in a very untapped market, and I would totally start pimping you out,” I say, very seriously.
He starts laughing. But I’m not joking. Sex is sex, and love is love, and the two don’t necessarily have to get intertwined. I’ve had plenty of sex, with guys that I knew I was not going to spend the rest of my life with or even go on a week’s worth of dates with. I got swept up in a moment, I wanted to have an experience, or I just plain wanted to get my rocks off. And there is nothing wrong with that. Yes, I know, a rub and tug operation is a little different, but still…
Sex is a basic human need, and unfortunately not all humans can come by it easily. Maybe they are shy, or uncomfortable with their bodies, or tired of playing “the game”. Yet the need for a connection, or release, doesn’t magically disappear. We buy time with therapists to work through emotional issues, so why can’t we buy time to work through…physical issues?
Of course I’m hedging my bets on the famous author thing working out for me instead. Just to be clear, Universe.
p.s. The above picture was taken right after I warmed up in the sun after pee-ing in the ocean. What an un-brilliant idea that was. The water was freezing. Like the coldest I’ve ever felt the Pacific Ocean. I later found out it was 59 degrees F. I am definitely more a pool girl.