Here's your place to come talk about sex and love whenever you feel like it.
I'm getting my sexual mojo back.
A friend of mine said my pitbull was kind of cockblocking me, and he's right in a way, but I wouldn't trade the unconditional love and joy my dog is giving me for all the best cock in the world.
I think I have that embroidered on a pillow somewhere.
One of my problems is that I will ignore things until they bubble up to the surface and make me feel like I'm about to go batshit insane. That's what happened to me in my sexual life recently. Because I am increasingly very, very picky about who I desire sexually or romantically, my options are severely limited. Sobriety and age will do that to a girl.
So recently, I realized that I hadn't experienced invigorating romantic contact with anyone in a month or so, and the sexiness of this hot humid cool crisp gorgeous spring Sex Weather has been making me fucking cray. To me this weather is the most erotic kind there is. It's the weather of possibility and joy and living right in the goddamn moment.
Because my sexual bottom line as someone who identifies as a sex addict (blergh, still so embarrassing for me to say that, but hey it helps me a lot, so I'll get it tattooed on my neck if need be) is to be with someone who I feel safe with -- this also cuts out the majority of people. It cuts out anyone who thinks they have the potential to turn me on by negging me or putting me down. That is a panty-putter-onner, dudes.
And yes, I've gotten shit for hooking up with a guy on Craigslist many months back because how could I know that I felt safe with that guy? Well, I've made a living my entire life on evaluating people within 5 minutes and deciding major courses of action. It's similar to the entertainment industry in a way. I once sold a TV show in the room which meant an investment of thousands of dollars on the network's part, just based on less than an hour's worth of time.
I'm a big Malcolm Gladwell "Blink" fan, and while sure, my gut has led me astray, the statistical likelihood of that happening -- especially since my gut is now clearer than it's ever been -- has led to more good than it has bad. Overthinking, fretting, worrying, overplanning, killing and crushing something with focus-grouping to all the voices in your head is to me the death knell of creativity and life.
And so, that is how I decided to hook up with the Craigslist bartender/writer who I fooled around with a few months back based on an hour's worth of conversation at a bar. I felt safe with him. I researched him online. I felt attracted to him. It was a joyful experience.
Not a soulmate. Not a candidate for the secret husband list. But a delightful sweaty sexy night that made me feel alive, satisfied, titillated and safe at the same time. For me, that feeling of safety comes from what kind of a heart someone has and I suppose what kind of a brain, too.
I'm rarely attracted to physicality anymore. Sure, a cute face and bod is hot, but it's more the CONFIDENCE, kindness, intellect, wit, quickness and joy that provides that magical elixir of seduction and desire for me.
I had a great date with the social media entrepreneur I wrote about yesterday, which was ah-fucking-mazing because he could actually kiss -- hungry and strong and gentle -- and that is rare. Kissing is such a difficult thing. It's almost like it begins with this intimate knowledge of the self and an ability to relax and go with the other person and explore and play but not be too eager or sloppy or gross.
The next day -- totally refreshed from that date -- as I was walking home to walk my dog mid-day I caught the eye of a long-haired guy walking his dog, and we both stopped in our tracks. I will call him "Razor" as he goes by his street name, but that is not it.
"Hey!" I said, smiling and immediately turned on by the memory of making out with him a single time years ago. I had met him in Bushwick in like 2010. We were both riding the L, and I gave him very distinct fuck-me eyes across the train. I exited the train, and he approached me. "Hey, what's up, are you a model or something?"
"No," I said, "I work at The new York Post."
He grinned. "Now that's what's up," he said.
"I feel like getting high," I said. "Do you have any weed?"
"I actually sell it," he said. "I can take you back to my rehearsal space where I've got the product."
He took me to an abandoned warehouse ("Safe," my friend Sam Lansky nodded sagely today as I recounted the story of meeting Razor), and proceeded to play guitar for me. "You look like this really hot Norwegian Puerto Rican Cuban dude I've been hanging out with," I said.
He chuckled at my racially fetishizing ignorant ass.
"So you got that white-girl jungle fever," he smirked. Then he smoked me out.
As we walked down the stairs of the warehouse, he intertwined his arm in mine like an old-fashioned gentleman caller might. "I have to go make deliveries," he said. "But let's walk back to the L train."
We strode slowly, with no words, through dusty alleys, like the prom king and queen of Bushwick.
As we walked back silently, his arm intertwined in mine for a full 15 minutes, my whole body tingled (OK, partly because of the weed, but still). It was perhaps the most erotic experience of my life. Or one of them. Holy fucking shit tension do I love it. Another terrific experience like this: The guy who made me come simply by tracing the inside of my legs with his finger, teasing me to the point of ecstasy. (Note to readers: Sorry for just writing "teasing me to the point of ecstasy").
Then, as we reached the Montrose stop in Bushwick, Razor reached in and kissed me goodbye for the first time and it was a long slow sexy, sensual, hungry kiss.
Nothing buzzes me like an amazing kiss.
Soon after Razor got a girlfriend and told me so, saying he was trying to be serious about it so couldn't see me. Endearing. Soon after that, he broke up with her and texted me the very subtle: "Hey, I'm single again so if you want to fuck until the cows come home hit me up."
I laughed out loud. I was seeing someone then so I passed on the cow offer, but I did want to get high again so I had him meet me outside The Post with a delivery. He was wearing a long ripped trenchcoat filled with many weed-delivery pockets.
He smiled as he met me.
"Missed me?" he said. Then I saw out of the corner of my eye, one of the higher-ups at The Post starting to come up to me with a smile.
"Oh shit, one of the managing editors is coming by. Razor -- quick, just, let's pretend -- you went to college with me, OK?"
"Yeah," Razor said with a smile. "We went to law school and shit."
I fucking love this guy.
So yesterday when I ran into Razor, he told me that he had left the weed delivery business and was now a dog walker. "I have a dog!" I said, not having any plans to have him walk my dog. "Maybe you could walk my dog!"
We walked back to my place. My dog Sam loved him. "Your dog is a looker," he said.
"Thanks," I said, smiling. "So are you up for fooling around some time?"
"Yeah, definitely," he said. And then on the street in front of my Chelsea apartment, in front of all the construction workers on my block, the weirdly tall blonde girl with the uptight Kate Spade bag and the dude with the long ponytail and the spike-studded leather jacket kissed as my leash intertwined around him.
I love this weather.
Find Mandy long-form at http://tinyurl.com/stadtmiller.