humans are funny

Category: sex

  • Sex at the Salad Bar


    Thanks, friends, for your concerned emails and for looking at me with that signature head tilt as if I’m a Haitian orphan. It’s sweet. I get it. I sound lonely and pathetic. Two weeks ago I admitted to trolling the Craigslist Missed Connections and last week I wanted someone to hold my hand while I fell asleep. If I’d read this blog, I would have been barfing all over the place and then weeping for pathetic old me.

    Sigh.

    It’s true that I want to be in love. I said it last week, and I can’t take it back.
    But you know what’s worse than NOT being in love?
    Dating.
    It’s much, much worse.

    Dating has so much potential to be amazing– the excitement of this new person who could possibly end up playing a huge role in your life. But then there are the smiles that melt into pained grins. And the guys who arrive an hour late. And the same conversations about siblings and birthplaces and parents. And the fake offering to pay the check. And the men who let me. And the texting afterward.

    It’s all so gross.
    And although I do want to be in love, I don’t want to be a dater. In fact, I’d like to announce that I’m done dating. I’m out-dated. I’m a Dater Hater. I hereby declare that I am retiring from the dating scene until 2011. No more no more no more.

    This means, of course, that I should probably stop shopping at Whole Foods.

    Shopping at the Whole Foods in Venice beach is no ordinary grocery experience. This particular Whole Foods is a meat market. And it also sells meat.

    There are more single people in this place than produce. And the cornucopia of promiscuity is obvious with every squeeze of a cantaloupe. There are skinny girls in daisy dukes, tan yogi men in scarves, salty surfer boys, and hipsters in V-necks. They’re all dripping with sexual tension as they measure out the bulk flax seed. Scooping peas from the salad bar is the new porn. You can’t pick out a bok choy without someone complimenting your pink aura or saying, ‘You must be tired because you’ve been doing downward dog in my mind all night.’

    It’s just disgusting.

    And also really fucking exciting. Because there’s nothing like the hope that fills your whole being when you spot that man with the smoldering eyes in the freezer section.

    THAT is the best part of being single– the hope, the anticipation, the numbness, the excitement of walking into the cookie aisle and knowing that any one of the men eyeing the gluten-free chocolate chips could be the man you wake up to for the rest of your life (And the fact that you can eat two PBJs for dinner in complete silence while naked.).

    Was someone saying something about love? Maybe I prefer a lifetime of titillation at the salad bar. Now that I’m rethinking it, I can’t give it all up– the hope, the men, or the Kashi cereal. I think it’s about time I come out of retirement.

    Who wants to take me out to dinner? I promise to offer to pay and not really mean it.

  • WARNING: This post says ‘fuck’ and ‘pussies’


    Udaipur is beautiful. And full of color and tradition. It’s the India you imagine.
    You can have spiritual conversations with any store owner. You can watch handicrafts being crafted on every corner. You can see elephants gossiping and donkeys working.
    But there’s something sexual I can’t put my finger on.

    Again, I was accosted by several men on motorcycles who wanted to “show me around.” Of course I took it upon myself to dispel rumors, and I made them stop and listen to a tirade about how not every woman from the West wants to jump into bed with them and how many women like me are waiting for love and bla bla bla.

    Then I met Harmony. She’s a Swedish teacher who comes to India each summer to have sexual relations with men half her age.
    Oh.
    Maybe Western women are sluts! Or maybe India is this big sex tourism capital and nobody told me about it. This could explain why every man thinks that my smile means I want to see his penis.
    Hmmm….

    I was thinking about it all one day as I walked into my hotel lobby to find the owner waiting for me. He was maybe 70. Grey hair. I earlier dubbed him ‘the cutest old man.’ When I said hello, he told me I looked sexy this evening.

    “You mean I look Indian,” I corrected. I was wearing a full Punjabi suit.

    He grabbed my wrist and tried to pull me into him. When I resisted he pulled and pulled. And I pulled and pulled back. Then he said, “Please, just kiss me.”
    I just kept repeating ‘this is very weird’ over and over and pulling and pulling away from him until I freed myself and bolted to my room.

    REALLY? I mean, really? Come on, really?
    What ever happened to buying a girl a drink?

    In the spirit of my newfound realization that women should not travel alone in India (especially really hot ones like myself), I present to you this poem:

    I am Western, yes it’s true.
    I’ve had sex maybe one time or two.
    You are Indian, and sex is taboo
    But still sir, no. I won’t have sex with you.

    I know you think that for me sex is free.
    But, sir, I’m in my twenties and you are 83.
    Even if you say you’ll make me scream woo-eeee.
    Not a modicum of me wants to test and see.

    And you, sir, please, stop speaking to me French.
    And inching to me closer on the white garden bench.
    And telling me I’m sexy and that I look so good in red.
    Is this really the way you think you’ll get me into bed?

    Maybe you fucked a French chick last tourist season.
    And maybe that Russian lady blew you without a stinkin reason.
    Maybe the Swedish blonde took her clothes off in the lake.
    And maybe the American girl let you fondle both her fakes.

    So I see why you think we’re promiscuous and bold.
    Especially since Indian women guard their pussies like they’re gold.
    But this Western woman is not as easy as the next.
    So, please sirs, please… stop asking me for sex

  • Day 8: Boy scouts try to light my fire.

    Due to the pile of hate mail at my desk, I see that many of you are offended by my quoting of an Indian calling black people ‘blacks.’ Let me offer you solace by sharing that Indians are racist against everyone, including their own dark members. So stop sending letters (Just kidding. Nobody sends letters anymore, and I don’t have a desk.).

    Of course I would be racist by classifying an entire race as racist, so I shan’t do it. Even though I just did. I will just comment that it is much easier for parents to find a suitor for their fair-skinned daughters here in India. And as I write, I am also leafing through a magazine and finding ad after ad for Garnier Skin Lightener for men. One even comes with a skin spectrum that you hold against your face to chart the progress of your Michael Jackson-ifying. (Just kidding. How could I be leafing through a magazine and typing at the same time? But the skin spectrum chart and print ads do exist.)

    Despite the quest to be lighter, there is a lot of racism towards white people too, especially me, a woman traveling alone. Teenagers make jerking off motions when they pass me by. Men slow on their motorbikes to tell me about their balls. Kids have even thrown rocks at me. And hit me! Hard! It’s all because Western women are thought to be loose and devoid of morals (the same reason the Taliban wants us all to die.).

    My first overt experience occurred on Day 8:

    I meet some boy scout leaders. They take me to my first Hindu temple. They love singing and are super enthusiastic about showing me how they sing their favorite song. They offer me wonderful Indian hospitality and buy me an amazing lunch of samosas in sauce. Then, before we part, they buy me little gifts from the gift store. One is a Hindu swastika that wards off evils. Another is a keychain that says, “Love me less but love me long.” It puzzles me every time I think of it.

    I have a wonderful day, thrilled that I’ve eschewed my fear of talking to Indians. I am in India, and it is sort of necessary. Finally! The paranoia from Day 1 is forgotten like the art of chivalry. Just before we part ways, they giddily ask me one last question:
    “Before we go, Madame. Um… we were wondering if you could, um, give us sexual relations.”
    “Ummm…No. Not today.”
    “Well, isn’t sex free in your culture?”
    “Yes, but you still have to be attracted to the other person during sex.”
    “You don’t like us?”
    “What do you mean, us? You think I am just going to lay in a bed and have you come in one at a time? Are you serious?”
    “Ma’am, can you speak slower? My English is very bad.”
    “Forget it. NO SEXUAL RELATIONS!”

    I found it in my heart to still love those men. I mean, perhaps racism is just an innocent ignorance. They honestly think that Western women really have nothing to do in their countries but fuck all day long. Since they’ve only got porn to go by, I sort of see where they’re coming from. I let them off the hook and had sex with both of them. One at a time just like they suggested (Just kidding! Both at once.).

    Riiiiiiiight.

    How do you not love men who aren’t afraid to unbuckle their vocal chords?